Godey's Magazine 1890-01: Vol 120 Iss 715

Page 1

Asoo i Vout. CXX. No. 715. (,ODEYS ]|_ADYS BOOK. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1890. Miss Bepsibah’s Charge. A NEW YEAR’S STORY. BY ELSIE SNOWE. one of those women about whose good looks there could be no two opinions—she was undeniably hand- some, and her pres- ent biographer does not know of anyone who even wishes to deny that agreeable circumstance. There are pretty women, handsome women, even beauti- ful women about w hose beauty there are conflicting opinions; some are too pale, some are too rosy, someare toothin, some are too stout—Hepzibah combined all these varying qualities in precisely the right proportion, and when Jake Mariner declared that she was the handsomest woman in Freeport, the point was conce- ded with the most cheerful unanimity without even a dissenting voice. Even Hepzibah herself only laughed, and tossed her head as she answered, ‘‘ Now, Jake, really it isn’t manners you know, to flatter folk so to their face!” ‘*But you know it, my beauty, now don’t ye, an’ ye can’t deny it,”’ said Jake triumphantly. ‘¢ And don’t want to! said Hepzibah,”’ and as to knowin’ it, where do you think my eyes be when I look in the glass? Not glancing back over my shoulder Jake, even when you are behind me;’’ and as that just happened to be what Hepzibah was doing at that moment—for Jake had been called in to help hang up a bit of a mirror in a little room known as Miss Hepzibah’s parlor—her admirer made so bold as just to touch the glossy coil of her rippling ruddy brown hair, having done which he was almost paralyzed at his own audacity, and between them they nearly broke the mirror, which prevented her ‘** boxing his ears for his impudence,’’ as she declared herself disposed to do, and then they both looked very warm and un- comfortable for a few minutes, and gave their entire attention to the mirror which was, at last, happily adjusted without any serious mishap. ‘¢ And mighty lucky it wasn’t broken,’”” said Hepzibah, ‘‘for that would have been seven years bad luck to both of us, and a pretty morning’s wok that would have been, I must say !”’ ‘¢ But not having had bad luck, Hepzy, dear, let us make it good luck now, be- fore we part. You know my ship sails to-morrow, and if you don’t promise to marry me when I come back this time, blessed if I care a continental cent if I ever come back or not—the Rooshians or the Prooshians may have me if they please; for I don’t care if I ever see Bus- ton Harbor again.” ‘Oh, lordy, Jake! Don’t talk so awful,’’ exclaimed Hepzibah, rather taken aback, for though Jake had been courting her, off and on, with very little encour- agement for about five years past, he had never been quite so desperate about it be- fore ; and for the first time Hepzibah felt a strange fluttering somewhere in the re- gion of her heart, and really felt that she would rather the ‘‘Rooshians’’ nor the

Page 2

19 MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. **Prooshians’’ should have possession of her Jake. Jake was quick enough to see that his words had made an im- pression, and before they parted Hepzi- bah had promised—if nothing happened in the meantime to prevent—that she would marry Jake within the year if he came back to claim her, and he came back, promptly and in good time, but very many things had happened in the interval which Hepzibah made haste to tell him as soon as she recovered her breath after the surprise of his sudden ap- pearance. But she was glad to see him—of that he could have no doubt, and her welcome was of the most encour aging kind; and while she ar- = sa sewed a button on his jacket — sailor-fashion using his horny palm for a wy iy RY i 3 ! ‘‘AND JAKE SEWED A BU17TON ON ATS JACKET.” ranged a row of plants she had got the gardener to pot for her, and Jake thimble—the lovers discussed their future plans and Hepzibah explained why she

Page 3

MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. It could not give up her mind to the imme- diate thought ot bridal preparations on her own account. ‘* You know, Jake, dear,”’ she said, ‘‘although I have only been housekeeper here all these years, I have been just like one of the family, in a way; the two young ladies have loved me next to their own mother, and now that the dreadful railway accident I wrote you about has taken away both of their parents, I feel myself bound, as I may say, to be father and mother to both of them,—and in fact I promised Squire and Mrs. Ellerton never to forsake those two children, —for they ain’t any more—and that promise left a smile and a look of content on the two dead faces that was a comfort to me when I placed roses and violets about them, and that gave me courage to meet those orphan children when they came to their sad home.”’ ‘‘ But, Hepzy !’’ cried Jake in dismay, and the needle he had been trying to thread, fell helplessly from his trembling fingers, ‘‘ you’ve never been an’ promised not to marry me? I had your promise first, my girl, an’ first come, first served is fair as well as polite.’’ Hepzibah stooped leisurely and picked up the needle before Jake quite knew he had dropped it. She jerked the thread from his hand with good-natured violence and proceeded to sew on the button with her own deft and well-shaped fingers,— and as this brought her quite closeto Jake he did not fail to make use of his opppor- tunity, and Hepzibah only became hand- somer by the deepening of the damask roses in her comely cheeks. ‘‘ No, stu- pid,’’ she answered, ‘‘I said nothing at all about you—at that moment I don’t think I remembered your existence, Jake, but I just promised to be mother an’ father both to those girls tillsome one ar- rived to take my place, and relieve me of all further responsibility, and I mean to keep my word you may bet ail you’re worth, Jake Mariner! ’’ ‘Does that mean you won’t marry me, Hepzy, till you’ve married off them two young ladies first ?”’ ‘*Just about that, Jake,’’ answered Hepzibah, with an irrepressible laugh at the tone and look of despair that had ac- companied his words. ‘‘ But don’t be cast down, Jake—we won’t either of us VoL, CXX—No. 2, have to wait long I’m thinking, forif one of them children ain’t already in love then I don’t know the signs; and the other one will be, the very first good-look- ing fellow she sees, for they run in coup- les, Miss Lilian and Miss Bessie. Off and on I’ve known them ever since they were born, and Miss Bessie has followed Miss Lil in everything, from measles, whoopin’-cough, scarlatina, to French, music an’ German, an’ if she don’t fall in love with some one just to keep it up, I’m no prophetess, you mark my words.’” Jake shrugged his shoulders incredulously, and it must be added discontentedly, too, as he answered, ‘‘ But even if that’s so, Hepzy, there’s no one in Freeport for a pretty girl to fall in love with ’’—*‘ Not much choice, I must own,” rejoined Miss Hepzibah, demurely, ‘‘ or I’d never ha’ taken up with you, Jake—but Miss Bess will find some one, you may be sure. When a girl’s bent on fallin’ in love, most any one will do, an’ Miss Bessie is very enterprisin’. And what interests me in it all, Jake—there’s a mystery, an’ I just love a mystery.” ¢ ‘<I bet you do,”’ interrupted Jake, ‘‘ or you wouldn’t be a woman—Now I just hate a mystery, but tell us all about this one—”’ ‘¢T mean to, if you’ll stop interrupting —at least all I know about it; but if I knew it all, in this short while, there wouldn’t be much of a mystery. After they received the news of their father’s death, my ladies came home on the first steamer that left France. You know they had been away at school for more than five years, and I used to fear they’d have most forgot how to speak English, and it stands to reason that children get weaned away from their parents when they’re sep- arated from them by time as well as dis- tance. But forall that,thesetwo poor things were just broken-hearted when they came home, and found everything so changed and sad. But that doesn’t account for Miss Lil’s looks, and the kind of awful depres- sion that seems to be on her spirit. The grief for the loss of her father and mother has gradually lessened and worn away in the six months they have been here, as is natural and to be expected; and Miss Bessie is sometimes as gay as a lark, full of fun and bursting out into song and

Page 4

12 MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. laughter, but always checking herself at sight of her sister’s sad face, to fling her arms about Miss Lil and beg of her to for- give her. ‘‘Now, why should Miss Lil beso heart-broken and in such a different way from Miss Bessie? ‘They were both chil- dren when they went away, and Miss Lilian is naturally as gay and light-hearted as her sister ; and death—even when it is sudden and terrible--doesn’t change young people like that ; for to them life is allinthe present and the future, unless ‘‘ Unless what?’ asked Jake, when he had waited at least a minute for Hepzibah to go on, for she had come to a sudden and complete pause, which continued so long that he began to fear she was never going to speak again. ‘¢Unless,’’ said Hepzibah at last, with a long-drawn sigh, ‘‘ unless there has been something in her own personal experience to cause the change.”’ ‘‘ Land sake! Hepzy, dear, ain’t you inventin’ a romance!’’ exclaimed Jake. What can Miss Lilian ha’ done? She ain’t killed anybody ? ® ‘*No, stupid—there needn’t be any killin’ about it—leastways not by her ; but someone else may have killed someone, or something else! Killin’ folk is not the only sort o’ tragedy in life, and whatever it is, she is affected by it just the same as if she had done it, or was responsible for it herself re ‘¢Then you mean she’s in love with some young fellow, Hepzy, dear, an’ he’s ina fix about something, an’ she’s a breakin’ her heart about his misfortune,”’ exclaimed Jake, expressing his thought in sudden jerks, according as it looked it- self, and from his own amatory frame of mind inclined to sympathize with all other lovers, happy or otherwise. ‘* Yes, Jake, that’s just about what I mean.”’ ‘But I don’t see how that’s goin’ to help us, Hepzy—if she has an unhappy love affair on her mind, she may ever get married, and as you’ve always said Miss Bessie follows her sister in everything she’ll be an old maid too, and you'll re- main an old maid to take care of ’em.”’ Hepzibah laughed heartily, and she an- swered : “«¢ And so we’ll be asociety of old maids, Jake—but no! That’s not the way I’m going tofix it. I mean to find out all about this thing—to pluck out the heart of the mystery—I saw that in one o’ them play-books Miss Lilian’s always reading —and then when I do know all about it, I’m going to fix things so as their course of true love may run smooth. That’s from another one o’ them blessed books, all writ by afellownamed Shake—something, and Miss Lilian’s fairly wraptup in them. The only thing she takes any real interest in since she came home, is them play- books. But I'll change all that, and when I’ve found out who her sweetheart is, and brought them together, it will only be to wait a little till Miss Bessie follows her example, and when I’ve married them off, and fulfilled my promise to their mother and father, then Jake, dear— why then —-”’ and Hepzy blushed beautifully, while Jake caught her in his arms, and with his native, good, common-sense, made her promise then and there, that ”othing, ab- solutely zothing should any longer delay their wedding—that of her young ladies being successfully accomplished. Hepzibah promised readily enough, and Jake, knowing that further argument on the subject would be useless, decided that since he could not change her plans, he would bend all his energies toward helping them on toward the desired end; and Hepzibah’s gratitude was of a kind to give additional ardor to Jake’s good intentions. While this exchange of sen- timents was taking place the front door bell rang loudly, and Hepzibah exclaimed: “Now, Jake, you must leave me for to- day. Come to-morrow evening early. That ring at the bell is to announce Mr. Fitzherbert, the legal guardian of my young ladies. He’s half an Englishman, but his mother was an American, and a cousin of my late master. He wastravel- ing in foreign countries when Mr. Eller- ton died, and the news was a long time reaching him, for no one knew his ad- dress, because he was going about from place to place, and that accounts for his delay in getting here. Miss Lilian had a telegram yesterday, announcing his arri- val in New York, and adding that he would be here to-day. I must go and prepare my ladies.”

Page 5

aids, y I’m it all heart them ding ut it, ourse from , all hing, hem. terest play- when and be to s her a off, other then while with e her ~ ab- lelay adies ugh, ment ided lans, ward end ; kind good sen- door ned: ir to- arly. Mr. ee man, nda avel- iller- time 5 ad- from r his ad a arri- t he and Hepzibah soon knew that her surmise was correct, for as she passed the dra wing- room, a glance into it showed her a tall, distinguished looking man at the farther end of it. He was standing before the picture of a beautiful girl, which formed the sole adornment of the wall at that side of the room; and he was still regarding this work of art when he was suddenly conscious of a presence, and a very low, sweet voice expressing its owner’s pleasure in welcoming him. Fitzherbert turned, with an almost im- perceptible start, expecting to see the original of the picture before him ; but even his well-trained nerves, and perfect self possession, were not proof against the surprise of this meeting, and he couid not quite suppress the cry of astonishment, mingled with pain that broke from his lips. Pilian Ellerton uttered not a sound; her heart seemed frozen; her pulses stopped, and not even a sigh escaped her pallid lips,as she fell forward so suddenly that Fitzherbert had but time to catch her in his outstretched, pitying arms. His first act wasto carry her to a lounge, on which he laid her with the tenderest care, and then to place beneath her head, two or three of the dainty silken pillows, that were strewn about with the profusion characteristic of modern drawing-rooms, He then gently clasped her hands, appar- ently unwilling to call for help, in the hope that she might regain consciousness without assistance. But having waited some minutes in anxious expectation. while Lilian only seemed to grow paler and colder, he turned away and had just put out his hand toward the bell, when a young girl—the very counterpart of the charming picture he had been admiring —came bounding into the room, and rushing toward him, seized his hands and held them fast within her own. “Oh, Cousin Herbert !’’ she cried joy- ously, “‘Iam so glad to see you! Of course you don’t know me, but you might guess, since Lilian is here already. Iam Bessie—and you are very, very welcome. We are glad to see anybody here, for of all the dead-and-alive places on the face of the globe, I do think that Freeport must be the deadest.”’ ‘‘Mr. Fitzherbert laughed pleasantly, MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. 13 and declared he was glad to be welcomed even on such questionable grounds; then raising the two little hands so frankly placed in his he kissed them, and hoped he might be able to impart a touch of vivacity to the dull life of Freeport.”’ ‘‘But where is Lilian?” Miss Bessie continued.‘* She left me to come to meet you. I thought she was here.”’ «« She is,”’ said her companion gently, as he moved so that Bessie could see the lounge before which he had been standing. ‘¢ Pray don’t let me alarm you—l’m sure it is nothing serious—but your sister has fainted !’”’ Notwithstanding his caution, however, Bessie had uttered a loud exclamation of alarm; and the next moment she was kneeling by the lounge, holding her sis- ter’s hand, and imploring her to speak. ‘‘Pray—pray, dear Miss Bessie, be calm—be quiet! I am quite sure your sister would not wish anyone to know—”’ ‘“‘To know what? That she has fainted?—is there anything wrong in that? Really, Mr. Fitzherbert, you are too mysterious—and for a stranger !— but—and she suddenly started to her feet, and confronted him with the expression of an avenging fury, ‘‘ perhaps you are not a stranger. Have you ever met my sister before ?’’ ‘Only once—and believe me if I have caused her to faint Iam quite innocent of any intention to give her even a mo- ment’s alarm.”’ ‘©Of course! ’’ exclaimed Bessie, ‘‘ I beg your pardon—you must think me very silly, but I am so frightened.”’ ‘‘T think there is no need—if you will only bring some strong-smelling salts, or something of that sort—”’ Bessie instantly caught at the sugges- tion, and was back again with restora- tives so quickly she hardly seemed to have left the room; and under the influence of some powerful lavender salts Lilian speedily revived. But to Bessie’s intense disappointment her first words were a request to Mr. Fitzherbert to leave them for the present— ‘¢ Come again to-morrow if you will—— pray don’t think me rude or ungrateful. I owe you a debt of gratitude already— but you will understand that I must have alittle time to accustom myself to this—

Page 6

MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. this surprise—to find that of all men on earth you should be my guardian—oh!” She became so pale that Bessie hastened to put her arm about her; fearful that she was about to faint again. ‘‘ Of course I understand—pray don’t \ distress yourself. I will come again to- morrow—au revoir.” He was gone, and Bessie assisted her mm sister from the room, and though on fire with curiosity she never opened her lips to ask a question, waiting with exemplary patience till Lilian chose to speak and ex- plain. But hours passed, and Lilian either paced her room to and fro, or sat * by the window looking vacantly out upon ae the chill December landscape over which the first snow of the season was slowly falling, till everything she gazed on was a blurred and shapeless mass of confusion, and then with a shiver she turned away and drewthe curtains. Bessie rang for lights, and bade the servant pile on fresh logs ‘*] SUPPOSE YOU GUESS WHO THAT MAN ISs?”’ ~~ A Toe ee ete OO ee FS

Page 7

till a cheerful blaze illumined the room ; and when Hepzibah came up with a dainty little supper—for neither of the sisters had tasted dinner—she thanked her sweetly, promised that Lilian should eat, and then with a fervent embrace be- stowed on the handsome housekeeper, led her out in the hall, and the door between them locked as cleverly as the most ma- ture woman of the world could have done it. ‘¢ That child that I have rocked in my arms,’’ said Hepzibah indignantly, as she told it to Jake next day, ‘‘ and we are dying to know what has happened, for, say what you like, Jake, there zs a mystery, and it deepens!’’ Bessie hastily changed her afternoon dress for a wrapper; unbound her glitter- ing golden hair, and seated herself on a low stool before the fire. Lilian had already changed her costume for a dress- ing gown, and as she now leaned against the mantlepiece, her long dark hair fall- ing like a cloud over her white dress the sisters were a striking contrast—Lilian dark and bright and beautiful, Bessie, fair and sweet and reliant. ‘‘T suppose you guess who that man is ?’’ said Lilian at last. ‘¢What man? oh, Mr. Fitzherbert? yes, he’s our guardian,’’ Bessie returned nonchalantly, for she was somewhat pro- voked at being kept waiting so long. ‘‘Qur guardian—yes—-and the man who saved me and brought me back to Paris when I had run away with a stroll- ing player believing myself to be his wife, only to learn, as we landed at Dover, that he was already a married man, and claimed there by his lawful wife, while I still clung to his arm believing him to be my husband—can I ever forget it ? what an escape !—I ought to be grateful to that woman for claiming him then and there, and yet I’m not—I wish I had never seen her—I wish I had never known—I wish I had gone with him to the end of the world, for, oh, Bessie, I love him! I love him now! and I must love him forever.” This part of the story Bessie had heard already, on that dreadful day, more than a year ago, when Lilian had disappeared, to return the same night, a grief-stricken creature looking years older than the bright girl of only the day before. No

MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. 15 one but Bessie and the Superior of the Convent had ever been told the story of that day, and Bessie even discouraged all reference to the subject because it had such a painful effect on her unhappy sis- ter. But the appearance of Mr. Fitz- herbert as a part of the drama brouzht a new element of interest into it, and the young girl could not but wish that her sister might enter into a fuller explanation than she had ever done before. ‘‘And was Cousin Fitz,’’ he was hardly cousin by courtesy, so distant was the relation- ship, but from the first Bessie chose to call her guardian cousin,’’ ‘* was he very nice to you, Lil, dear?”’ ‘©Q, Mr. Fitzherbert’s behavior was quite perfect,” Lilian answered care- lessly. ‘‘ From the first moment I saw him I turned to him for help as naturally as if he had been my brother. When that dreadful woman came forward and claimed my Jack for her husband I felt only surprised at first, and but for Jack’s white face, convulsed with agony, I would have laughed at her. I asked only one question— ‘¢ Ts that woman your wife?” ‘¢T did not know—Lil, listen to me, I can explain!’ stammered Jack ; I merely repeated my words, ‘« Ts that woman your wife? ”’ ‘<Yes, God heip me, she is!” he answered. I don’t know how I got away from him, but the next moment I was speaking to the gentleman who turns out to be our guardian. I don’t know what I said— something about returning to Paris, and the convent where I had been at school. Then Jack was again beside me—he called me ‘Lilian, his love, his wife,’’ and caught me in his arms. But Mr. Fitzherbert drew me from his grasp, and placed himself between us. ‘« This lady is in my care, Sir, and you will do well to remember that the laws of this country permit a man to have only one wife at a time—Retire, or you will force me to call for the assistance of the police.” At the same moment that wretched woman seized Jack again, and for my sake he allowed himself to be dragged away. The boat which had brought us to Dover returned again in an hour, and it was already dark when we.

Page 8

16 MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. landed in Calais. I was aware, as we are in dreams, that my unknown friend still took charge of me, and never left me till he had placed me in the hands of the Mother Superior late that night; but as you know, dear, it was days and even weeks before I recovered sufficiently to wonder at, and feel grateful for that stranger's kindness. But I know now—I am sure of it—that Jack was not toblame. If I would have listened he would have explained everything; but of course I doubted him at first—the shock was too great. Of course he tried to see me—of course he wrote to me—poor fellow! a hundred times, but the Mother Superior was not to be deceived a second time, and my poor Jack! He was forced togive me up at last. Ishall never hear of him again—no doubt he has forgotten me.”’ ‘¢ No, no, Lil, dear, no one could for- get you,”’ Bessie said in her most soothing tones, for she saw that Lilian was much agitated under a forced composure. ‘‘ Talk no more of it to-night, but come to bed and dream of him.’’ When their guardian came on the following day he was cordially received by his two wards, and was very soon a constant visitor. ‘« He stays at the hotel,’’ said Hepzi- bah ‘‘ but he lives here, Jake; and Miss Bessie counts the hours between his calls. Well, it will be a good match, tho’ he’s ten years older than the child, but he’s just the husband she needs.” ‘«Exactly—if he thinks so; but does he, Hepzy? Miss Bessie has her doubts or why does she watch him like a cat watching a mouse when he’s with her sis- ter?” ‘¢ That’s so, Jake, and I’m a bit puz- zled myself about Mr. Fitzherbert, but if he’s in love with Miss Lilian he’s nursing a heart-ache for himself, for he’s not the one.” ‘<But who zs the one, Hepzy ?” ‘‘ Ah—that’s the mystery, but I’ve a clue to it, Jake, and I want you to help me follow it up. I’ve told you of Miss Lil’s craze for play-books ?—well, I hap- pen to know that she’s going to a play New Year’s Eve, and she not out of her first year’s mourning—and she’s going dis- guised, and with her guardian. Now, Jake, you can take me to the play that night, but I shan’tlook at the acters—what I want to see is Miss Lilian while she watches Mr. Jack Marlowe playing Ham- let.” Mr. Mariner gave an admiring glance at his sweetheart. ‘¢ By thunder! Hepzy, you should ha’ been on the detective service.”’ At that very moment Fitzherbert closed a volume in which he and Lilian had been looking for a quotation. They were in the conservatory, and as she sat close be- side him, her hand clasped on the arm of his chair, any one looking on might easily have thought them lovers. Some one who was looking on, concealed by a huge palm at the back of the conservatory, certainly thought so; and it would have been diffi- cult to recognize in that death-like, drawn and haggard face, the lovely, blooming countenance of Bessie. How she hated herself for being there—how she longed to get away—but there was only one exit, and she had taken such pains to conceal herself that she might listen to words it almost killed her to hear! Would they never go? Perhaps they would stay there all afternoon and read and make love! And this was Lilian whom she had sorrowed over! Lilian, who had pre- tended to love another man—oh! oh! she feared now she would hate them more than she had ever loved them! Fitzherbert rose, and Lilian also stood up beside him—‘ I must leave you now,” he said, ‘‘ but you have my promise, Lil- ian, and you know I will keep it. The desire to insure your happiness is very near my heart, and there is nothing I would not attempt in the hope of helping you, because—”’ ‘* Because you are in love with my sis- ter,’’ said Lilian, filling up the pause,and half-laughing. ‘¢ Why should I not admit it, Lil? Be- cause I love Bessie, Yes, but I will never tell her so while you remain unhappy.”’ They passed from the room and Bessie glided out from her hiding place, and what a radiant Bessie she looked now ! ‘*He loves me!’? she murmured, ‘“‘me / O, what a wretch I am—lI can never dare look either of them in the face again.” x Ke eK K K KK K OK KK The curtain had fallen on the play, and half the women in the house declared

mes

Page 9

MISS HEPZIBAH’S CHARGE. 17 themselves in love with the Prince of He’s just buried his wife—its a roman- Denmark. But Hepzibah had not seen tic story—She was a beauty once, but she Hamlet—her gaze had been fixedon Lilian. took to rum, and went mad. Her friends ‘Yes, Jake,” she whispered, ‘‘He’s pretended she was dead, and put her in a ¢- tof Win, = Pr yyw = Se ee 7! Wy), 5 hy hi Y i i] Y W/j, // If Hi Wy | vi if h me 7M NY / iy Hy A jj f Ae i! Mit) 4049 y Y, SSS a Z (eff a iy i) ur NS 4 ) ‘ANY ONE LOOKING ON MIGHT EASILY HAVE THOUGHT THEM LOVERS.” the one—Miss Lilian lovesthat actor-man, madhouse, but she escaped and followed and I have unravelled the mystery. I’ve him about—he fell in love with a girl in been inquiring into his affairs. a convent school and ran away with her

Page 10

18 HER ANSWER, —then the dead woman came to life. It’s all as clear as the stars on a frosty night— Jake, dcn’t you smell fire? Where's that smoke coming from? Oh!—Miss Lilian !”’ At that moment Lilian, who was the first to see the flames, uttered a sharp cry and darted through the crowd; in an instant she had leaped on a chair, from that to the stage; and Fitzherbert saw her disappear behind the curtain before he realized that she had left him, For some moments there was a panic, accom- panied by the usual shrieking and push- ing ; but calm was speedily restored, as the curtain rolled up again, and showed the charred remains of a bit of scenery which had ignited by the side-lights, and was already safely quenched. Fitzherbert had followed Lilian as soon as he comprehended her flight, and when he found her she was already in Jack Marlowe’s arms; and even that brief time had sufficed for satis‘actory explana- tions. Jake and Hepzibah were the first to ar- rive at home, but Fitzherbert was close after them. Bessie did not start upon the order of her woving, but said ‘‘ Yes”’ at once, while she laughingly ordered her slave to help her prepare a New Year’s welcome for Lilian and her lover; and when they all pledged each other, Jake and his sweetheart were not forgotten, and in all Freeport or anywhere else, there were no more sincere or hearty wishes all round for a ‘‘Happy New Year.” fer Answer. L. R. BAKER. G) OICES of winter, were ye neverso silent? )) The snow-flakes come fluttering over the town, Down in the dip where the mill wheel’s fast frozen, Up on the steeple-top, dreary and brown. Were ye never so silent, O voices of winter ? The old smithy’s anvil is clanging its song Out to the chilly winds out there to whistle, Searchirg the quaint streets along and along. Leaning and listening, O dreamy-eyed maiden! Ye stars have ye chased all the snow-flakes away That ye, too, may peep on her smiles and her dimples, And glint your pale light on her face as ye may? Are her dreams of a whisper let fall ’neath the holly ; Are her thoughts, O I wonder, light-hearted and free! For this night, and I know it, the bells will be ringing, And the New Year is bringing her answer tome. Voices of winter, were you never so silent ? Hark! from the steeple-top misty and white Solemnly, slowly the town-bells are tolling, For the trusty Old Year, he is dying to- night. She hears the sad notes and the window is lifted. He was loyal and kind to her, noble and gay, She holds up her fingers, each dear gift to num- ber, And softly her laughter rings over the way. O, the white world in the cold, yellow starlight ! The tolling of town-bells, the hush in the air! Then a burst of wild gladness, a glorious pealing And lo! in the midnight the New Year is there The fair face is hid in the arms on the window, Not even the stars may her bright tear-drops see, She hears not the gay bells, the glorious gladness, And I know she is sending her answer to me, “67 | Whe not so?’ “cc ¢ It is and Tau by : is u coc and hin bro kn an sto tle it the

Page 11

ir’s ind ike en, ise, rty ew aM. LEWELLYN left Mr. Eyre very much excited. He loved Antoin- ette and she was in all probability going to marry Taun- ton. «¢ She shall not do it !’’ he said fiercely ; «‘T will expose him to her at any cost. Whether she cares for me or not, I will not suffer her to marry that rascal!”’ The idea enraged him. ‘Why is it that Mr. Eyre fears Taunton so?’’ he asked himself over and over again. ‘‘ There is something back of it, I know. It is not his nature to play the sycophant, and he must know what kind of a man Taunton is! Yet he is willing to stand by and see his daughter marry a man who is utterly devoid of principle. I confess I can’t understand it.”’ He walked on turning the problem over and over in his mind. ‘*T went to Taunton and bought through him because I thought that if I were brought more closely in contact with him, I might find out something I wanted to know, but % ‘« Evening Telegram, sir! ’’ shouted a small boy at his heels, and then Llewellyn remembered that he had something else to worry about beside his love affairs. He bought a paper, on the first page of which he caught sight of the head-lines: ‘‘WaLL STREET WILD —A Furry 1n STOCKS. Y. & C. Drops To 22.” ‘‘Hum!” he said, grimly. ‘I shall hear from Taunton to-night. If this in- satiable demand for margin keeps up much longer, it will eat me out of house and home.” He crushed the paper into his pocket and started on, but directly in his path stood the newsboy and an elderly gen- tleman who had been buying a paper and was raging against the newsboy because it wasn’t the last edition. ’*Tain’t out yit, boss, I tell you!’ said the little fellow, stoutly. ‘* Don’t lie to me!’’ retorted the irate party bringing down his cane on the pave- $5,000 For A WIFE. By the Author of « Wedded to Misery.” 19 ment with fierce emphasis. ‘‘I know— | a He stopped suddenly, and over his face swept that wave of blue and red, while from his lips came the strange cry which presages an epileptiform seizure. Llewellyn started forward just in time to catch him. A crowd gathered in a moment, but Llewellyn bade them lift the old man and carry him up to his rooms which were just around the corner. In half an hour the epileptic was lying on a couch talking volubly of his mishap. ‘¢ You caught me, didn’t you?”’ he said to Llewellyn. ‘‘ Well, if it hadn’t been for that brat of a boy, it wouldn’t have happened. But I suppose I'll die in one of these fits some day.” ‘¢T think you ought to be very careful,” said Llewellyn who was at loss for a reply. «« Careful !’’ echoed the old gentleman, savagely. ‘‘Lord! MHaven’tI? These confounded doctors have been tinkering at me ever since I fell on the ice and cracked my head open. I can’t do this, and I can’t do that, and the result is I don’t do anything. I can’t even go on ’Change any more. It’s as much as they’ll let me do to read the papers.” ‘¢ Well, Ishouldn’t think that going on *Change was the -best thing for you,”’ said Llewellyn, smiling. «¢ Ever been there ?”’ ‘«Oh, yes! I dropped in this morning.”’ ‘« Take a flyer?’’ asked the old gentle- man with interest. ‘¢ T have ten thousand shares of Y.& C.’, ‘« Long or short ?”’ “« Long.” ‘¢ The Devil /’’ the old man sat up- right and stared at him. ‘‘ You are crazy.” ‘*No, I am not. If I had more mar- gin, I'd make it twenty thousand.” ‘¢Then you must have more points than are on the market,”’ he said, lying down again. Llewellyn smiled grimly. His guest lay quiet for sometime.

Page 12

20 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. ‘*Do you think you feel able to be moved now?” Llewellyn asked. ‘If you like, I'll ring for a coupé, and take you around tothe Hoffman.’’ ‘¢] don’t want to go just yet,’’ said the old man shortly. ‘‘I’m very comfortable. Why can’t I lie here for awhile ?”’ ‘* You can, if you like.” There was another silence, and then the old fellow said suddenly: ‘*Young man! You ought not to spec- ulate. It will be your ruin.”’ ‘So T have heard,’’ Llewellyn answered coolly; ‘‘ but the difference between hav- ing one dollar and having none, is so trifling that I can’t see that it matters much. Besides, I think I heard you fret- ting a moment ago because you were debarred from the excitement of going on ’Change.”’ The old man was drawing patterns on the carpet with his cane. ‘¢My name is Blount,’’ he said, fumb- ling after his card. ‘‘ Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”’ ‘¢Oh, yes!’’ cried Llewellyn looking up in surprise. ‘Often.’ ‘¢ Well!” said Mr. Blount, taking out his handkerchief to polish his glasses. ‘¢ Suppose you give me your points on Y. & C., and—if they’re good for anything, I’ll put up some margin and go halves with you.”’ ‘Good !’’ said Llewellyn. ‘It is a bargain. ‘There is not much to tell only —the Transatlantic has bought the Y. & C. outright. The sale was consummated on the r9th—a Jona fide sale.” ‘How do you know?” cried the old man in amazement. ‘‘Good gracious! If that is true - ‘‘T saw the agreement by the merest accident, when I was riding in a Pullman a couple of weeks ago. The whole thing will come out in a few days.”’ ‘* The stock will go up like a rocket !’’ cried Mr. Blount enthusiastically. ‘It is as good asstriking a gold mine. The very bottom is falling out of the old thing now ; it has gone into the hands of a re- ceiver, you know.”’ ‘* Yes; but a fortnight hence there won’t be a better selling stock on the market.” ‘¢ Draw up an agreement !’’ said Mr. Blount with growing interest. ‘I'll back you for twenty thousand shares.”’ Llewellyn was not slow to avail himself of this offer. That afternoon he tele- graphed Taunton to buy twenty thousand more shares of Y. &. C. ‘‘ Where in the deuce is he getting this money ?’’ Taunton queried. ‘It is begged, borrowed or stolen somehow. I’d wager my head Llewellyn hasn't five thousand dollars to his name.’’ Y. & C. was still feverish. It dropped a quarter, then a half, rose one and fell two, closing at 20. Taunton was jubi- lant. V. The residence of Mr. Israel Blount was in the suburbs of the city—a splendid estate just this side of Bonnybrae, Mr. Eyre’s old property and at present owned by Geoffrey Taunton, Esq. Mr. Blount had recovered promptly from the attack which had led to his acquaintance with Llewellyn, and was now at home, as well as he ever had been since the beginning of his epileptic seizures. Mr. Blount was a bachelor, but enthu- siastic advocates of the conjugal state would have been chagrined if they had sought to find in him an example of sol- itary misery. To have seen Mr. Blount at dinner on a certain evening, when his charming housekeeper was doing the honors over a brass coffee-biggin and the daintiest of after-dinner cups, one would hardly have considered him an object of pity. Mrs. Tremaine had been at Tally-ho only a short time, but she was already quite at home in Mr. Blount’s house and on excellent terms with the master. She was there through the influence of Mr. Geoffrey Taunton, Mr. Blount’s neighbor. ‘Not that I would trust Taunton in most things,’’ the old gentleman said to himself more than once, ‘‘ but I certainly owe him a debt of gratitude in this mat- ter.’ But on the occasion in question, Mr. Blount’s satisfaction and serenity were clouded by the influence of an unusual circumstance. ‘In a weak moment he had given his consent to have an ice carnival on the grounds at Tally-ho, and he had long since repented his indulgence. ‘¢ When do you expect those people?” he said discontentedly. ‘¢ From eight to nine,”” Mrs. Tremaine

Page 13

himself » tele. ousand 1g this ‘It is ehow. hasn’t opped id fell jubi- it was endid . Mr, wned nptly > his snow since S. ithu- state had -sol- r on ning era t of lave y-ho ady and She Mr. or. in to nly lat- Mr. ere ual ad val ad s ” ne

replied, pushing her cup aside with a glance at the clock. ‘‘ Won’t you want to dress ?”’ ‘¢ Dress—-thunder !’’ said the old gen- tleman forcibly. ‘*Not much! I shall put on my top-coat and cap, and there’s an end of it. You don’t suppose for one minute that I am going to stand out there on the ice and get my death a-cold? No, madame! I’m going to bed early and get some sleep, if this confounded music don’t hinder me.”’ Mrs. Tremaine smiled and rose from the table. ‘¢You need not bother, at: all events,”’ she said sweetly. ‘‘I will look after everything.” Mr. Blount had no idea of bothering. He smoked his cigars and read his papers till the crunching of carriage-wheels on the snow-packed drive routed him out of his half-dozing reveries. ‘¢Well!’’ he said resignedly. ‘<I sup- pose I must make my appearance any- how !’’ In this dubious state of mind, he emerged from his den, and, after carefully protecting himself from the cold, he stepped out on the piazza. Mrs. Tremaine was just escorting some newly-arrived guests to the scene of the Carnival, and Mr. Blount was promptly presented to a young girl whose bright and beautiful face struck his fancy from the first. ‘¢ Well! ’’ hesaid sharply in his brusque. way. ‘This is Miss Eyre, is it? My old neighbor! I suppose people would say I had poor taste not to know you be- fore—eh ?”’ ‘‘T am very sorry you never came to Bonnybrae, while we were there,’’ said Antoinette with a conscious flush which made her look still prettier in her jaunty suit of white corduroy with its soft down trimmings. ‘¢ Well, I don’t know how it was,”’ said Mr. Blount, looking at her over his gold- rimmed glasses.’ Never was inside of the house then—was I? But since Taun- ton had it—I swear Taunton beats any- thing I ever saw. He’s had me there twice to dine, and he has taken me by the horns, so to speak, and pulled me out of my stable.”’ ‘‘ That is taking the bull by the horns,

$5,000 FOR A WIFE. 21 I suppose,’’ said Antoinette, who knew of Mr. Blount as a great speculator. ‘Bless me!” he said laughing. “ What do you know about bulls and bears, child? You look like a little bit of a—”’ ‘* Snow-bird !’’ said Antoinette, nod- ding her head. ‘‘ That is my character for the evening. Now, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have known it. That is what Papa said.”’ ‘‘Well!”’ said Mr. Blount, looking first under and then over his glasses again, ‘‘T’m not much for fallals and fixings, but—’’ he eyed her again—I guess you'll do.”’ Do! What did the old man want? Antoinette looked lovely in her white feather cap and the soft down trimmings that drifted about her like snow. White wings ornamented her short skirt and the full sleeves that were so becoming. She wore a bunch of white chrysanthemums in her corsage, and over her dress was spread a film of fine silver tracery that might have passed for Jack Frost’s etch- ing or bits of frozen cobweb. ‘¢ Everybody looks nice to-night,’’ said Antoinette, glancing across the scene of the prevailing festivities. ‘¢Well!’’ Mr. Blount replied with his usual frankness. ‘‘I think most of them look like a parcel of idiots—if you want to know my candid opinion. You know this is Taunton’s doing—Taunton and Mrs. Tremaine. Between them—bless me! I'll make a fool of myself yet.” ‘¢ Why, everybody says it is so nice of you to give this ice-party. The costumes are so pretty, and your grounds are mag- nificent. Just look at the Lake! Isn’t it like a scene from a fairy tale!” ‘<Oh!”’ responded the bluff old gen- tleman. ‘‘The lake is well enough, though I expect those Chinese lanterns will all catch fire before the evening’s over, and half of you will be down with influenza to-morrow.” Antoinette laughed. Taunton was just coming up, and his eyes rested admiringly on her riante face. ‘¢Won’t you persuade Mr. Blount to come and join us?’’ she cried as she held out her hand to Taunton. ‘¢My dear Miss Eyre!’’ Mr. Blount interposed. ‘‘ Taunton is irresistible, I

Page 14

22 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. admit, but—I haven’t had influenza for nothing. No, indeed! Enjoy yourself, if you like. I shall be in the library till ten, and then I am going to bed.”’ ‘‘Mr. Blount does not skate, you know,”’ said Taunton, smiling. ‘So far as I can see, there are not very many skaters!’’ said Mr. Blount as he moved away. ‘‘ Most of the girls skate like the—ahem! I beg pardon, Miss Eyre! I hope you have a pleasant even- ing ! ” Taunton shrugged his shoulders as the old man went away. ‘<You mustn’t mind him,” he said, apologetically. ‘¢Oh, I don’t in the least!’’ was An- toinette’s cheerful response. ‘*He is soeccentric! and as rich as he is queer,” he added. ‘* What a pity there is no one to get all his money,’’ said Antoinette, idly. ‘‘He seems so utterly alone.”’ ‘‘If Iam not mistaken, Mrs. Tremaine will have a slice of it,’’ said Taunton, glancing towards the house where a lady wrapped in furs had stopped on the steps to talk to Mr. Blount. ‘<The housekeeper!’’ Antoinette ex- claimed in surprise. ‘«She is barely thirty,’? Taunton re- plied. ‘‘Stranger things have happened. ” ‘« Well,” said Antoinette, “‘ atter all, I do not see why—”’ ‘« Daughter! ’’ Mrs. Eyre was calling. ‘*] have been hunting you everywhere. I was afraid you were sitting down some- where and would catch your death. Have you had coffee? They are serving the most delicious coffee and genuine Rus- sian tea in the booth.” “«T was just going to a:k Miss Eyre,” Taunton interposed. ‘Let us go,’’ Antoinette suggested. ‘«Mamma, have you seen Mr. Llewellyn skate? There he is—see! He is doing the Russian pirouette.” ‘*Oh!” said Mrs. Eyre, slightingly. ‘« That is not so difficult. They tell me any lady can do that. Count Tolestoff taught the Boyntons last winter, you know.” ‘‘Shall I bring your coffee here?”’ Taunton asked, ‘‘ or will you go a'l the way down to the Pavilion?’”’ ‘¢Oh, let us have it here! ’’ Mrs. Eyre ? suggested, ‘‘one has such a charming view of the lake. The bonfires show so finely—it is quite like a spectacle.” Antoinette looked annoyed, but Taun- ton was gone ina moment. Her mother turned to her rather hastily. CHAPTER VI. ‘«’Toinette,’’ Mrs. Eyre said decidedly, **I do not want you to have anything to do with that Mr. Llewellyn. He—he has been out with the Ice Boat Club, and Mrs. Stewart says they have all had too much champagne.” ‘*Oh, mamma! Mr. Llewellyn never does anything like that.’’ ‘* Nonsense ! you don’t know anything about him. Look at him, now! He is skating with that Crawford girl. You know what a fast piece she is. Upon my soul, he almost has his arm around her waist.”” Antoinette looked the other way. It was not like Llewellyn to make such a show of himself. Could it be possible he had been drinking too much ? Taunton brought the coffee in a mo- ment—delicious Mocha cooled with fro- zen cream. ‘* You will take a turn with me, now— won’t you?’’ he asked when the little Sévres cups were emptied. ‘‘ Hark! The musicians are playing that divine waltz of Chopin’s. Allow me!” Mrs. Eyre smiled approvingly as Taun- _ton knelt down and put on Antoineite’s skates. In a moment more, they were skimming over the ice together, for nei- ther of them merited Mr. Blount’s asper- sion. They were both good skaters. ‘* How delightful this 1s !’’ Antoinette cried, breathlessly, as they circled over the ice to the strains of entrancing music. Taunton pressed the little hand which he held, and smiled down into her lovely, flushed face. “« She zs a ‘*By Jove!” he thought. pretty girl—if she only had a little diad/e- ze. Now, at her age, Nana—’”’ Antoinette gave a sudden cry. ” ‘“<Take care,’’ she exclaimed, but it was too late. A gentleman who was skating rapidly backward came in direct collision with Taunton, who was knocked down and whirled some distance over the ice.

Page 15

rming OW So Taun- other ledly, ing to e—he ), and d too never thing He is You n my | her be ich a le he | mo- 1 fro- ow— little ark ! ivine ‘aun- ite’s were nei- sper- 1ette over usic. hich rely, isa tble- it it was rect *ked the

‘«T beg your pardon,’’ cried the skater, who had somehow managed to keep his balance through it all. «¢ Confound you, Llewellyn,’’ grumbled Taunton as he scrambled up, feeling mad and sore. ‘‘If you wouldn’t try so much fancy business on the ice, it would be more sensible.’’ ‘I’m very sorry,” honestly. ‘‘Well, you’ve managed to break my skate for me,’’ said Taunton, crossly. ‘‘Let me fix it for you,” Llewellyn offered. ‘‘Let it alone, please; I’ll fix it my- self, Miss Eyre, if you will excuse me.”’ He scrambled ashore as best he could, refusing all assistance, while Llewellyn stood there in great discomfiture. ‘‘It is too bad,’’ he said; ‘‘i am really very sorry, but I didn’t see you at all.’’ ‘‘T don’t think it is wise to atter-pt skating backward on such a crowded pond,” Antoinette replied, coldly. ‘¢ Perhaps not,”’ said Llewellyn, with a flush. ‘‘But I am so fond of the ice. The music carried me away. I feel like cutting up all kinds of pranks. Where have you been? I have been looking for you all evening.” ‘“*T came late.” ‘Will you not take a turn with me on the ice ?”’ ‘¢T am with Mr. Taunton.” ‘‘But Taunton will be some time in fixing his skate.’’ ‘I could not be so rude as not to wait for him.”’ ‘‘Ah, I see!’’ said Llewllyn bitterly. “It is a fine thing to bea favorite. But,” he added with rising anger, ‘‘we used to be good friends, Antoinette. Because you prefer Mr. Taunton, is no reason why you should treat me as youdo. It is unkind and ill-bred. I expected some- thing else from you.” ‘‘Tam not accustomed to lectures on etiquette from gentlemen,”’ she said with pique; ‘‘and I am afraid I do not appre- ciate them—dquite.”’ ‘‘Antoinette !’’ he cried hotly, ‘‘some- thing has changed you. You are not like you used to be. Tell mic, are you engaged to Geoffrey Taunton ?” ‘‘T will not answer such a question,” Llewellyn said,

$5,000 FOR A WIFE. 23 ‘‘You have no right to ask it. When I am ready to announce my engagement, I will do so publicly.” ‘¢You seem to forget some things,’’ said Llewellyn bitterly. ‘* You know how she replied. much I care for you. You are cruel to me, Antoinette !’’ ‘For pity’s sake,’’ she said pettishly, ‘‘do not make a scene out here; you forget yourself.’’ ‘I forget nothing! It is you who for- get. What is this man Taunton, that he seems to have such a power over you all? Your father is his abject slave, and you— ‘<I decline to discuss our family affairs with you,” she said, haughtily. Llewellyn whirled himself around. ‘‘T shall leave you to yourself,” he said, gliding away. ‘‘ Your model cava- lier is coming.” Taunton joined her ina minute. She was flushed and angry, and yet, woman- like, it made her furious when Llewellyn flitted by her with the ultra Miss Craw- ford. ‘‘He is certainly intoxicated,’ she said to herself. ‘‘He would not have acted so if he werenot. ‘‘ Mr. Taunton,”’ she said aloud, turning to her escort with an over-sweet smile. ‘‘You said you would teach me to cut astar.”’ ‘¢ But you have to fall down to see it,”’ said Taunton, flippantly. ‘<I think you can show me how to do that, too,’’ said Antoinette, laughing. Taunton struck out with a flourish, and Antoinette followed his movements as nearly as she could. ‘¢ Why, that doesn’t look anything like a star!’’ she said, as she glided off to imitate him. ‘* Well, you see,’’ he said, ‘‘ you have to hit your head on the ice as a finishing touch—put a period to it, as it were.” Antoinette laughed, but the sound had hardly died from her lips ere it was fol- lowed by a scream. ‘There was a crack- ling, ominous sound over the ice, and then Antoinette disappeared in the ugly chasm that opened under her feet. The terror of that moment is better fancied than described. Antoinette felt the icy waters gurgling around her. She gasped and tried to scream, but the chil- ly element bereft her of every sense, save that of feeling. Taunton shouted. There

Page 16

24 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. was a rush and suddenly the orchestra stopped with a crash. In Antoinette’s fingers the bits of ice for which she clutched broke away like spun glass. The festive scene assumed the aspect of a hid- eous nightmare. Death seemed to reach up his bony hand from beneath those cold waters and drag her down. Happily for Antoinette, her own abject terror brought with it unconsciousness. As she sank through the ice she fainted. She heard and saw nothing till she felt a pair of strong arms about her, and she heard someone say : ‘¢Give her tome, Llewellyn. You must be exhausted.” ‘‘Thank you, no!’’ said Llewellyn, tightening his arms about his burden. ‘*I can carry her up to the house. The exercise will keep me warm.”’ Antoinette opened her eyes. Her head was resting on Leigh Llewellyn’s shoulder. His face was bent over her anxiously. ‘¢ Thank God, I was there in time!’’ he murmured. ‘Don’t be frightened. You are safe with me.”’ Antoinette closed her eyes again. She was wet and dripping, but they had wrapped her in a fur cloak and she was not uncomfortable. A sense of safety and content came over her. Surely Leigh Llewellyn could not admire a girl like Belle Crawford, she thought, and she felt Leigh’s arms quite tightly folded about her. Mr. Blount had gone to bed, but Mrs. Tremaine had a room ready to receive Antoinette, and as Mrs. Eyre was quite overcome by the accident, the two ladies were accommodated for the night. Llew- ellyn got on some dry clothing and went home. This accident rather broke up the ice party. ‘There wasa feeble attempt to re- new the festivities, but one by one the skaters withdrew till Mrs. Tremaine was left alone in the library, /ée-d-té¢e, as chance would have it, with Geoffrey Taunton. ‘*Why on earth didn’t you fish your Dulcinea out of the water ?”’ she said with aslight curl of her thin red lips. ‘‘ That was an awful blunder.” Taunton shrugged his shoulders. ‘*T always did hate a cold plunge,”’ he said, pinching a cigarette into shape. ‘* Besides, it was too precarious.” ‘¢Bah !”’ she said, perching her toes on the brass fender. ‘‘ What a coward you are, Geoffrey! You are not in love, then?” She eyed him curiously from under her heavy brows, and Taunton looked down. ‘¢ Love ?”’ he said slowly. ‘‘ As to that, I — can never love any one but you, Nana.”’ She burst out laughing. ‘‘Oh, no!’ she said, shaking her handsome head. ‘‘ That farce was played long ago. But upon my soul, I wonder at you. If you are not in love, what is it? Miss Eyre is quite poor—isn’t she ?” ‘¢QOh, well! I’m not such a beggar as I used to be, Nana, in the old London days, when fi ‘‘ Hush! she cried warningly. ‘‘ What a fool you are, Geoffrey! Why don’t you go home? What are you hanging about here for ?”’ ‘¢You are so irresistible,’’ said he coolly as he struck a match and lit his cigarette. ‘‘ ButI am going now. Good- night, Mrs Tremaine. When am I to have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Biount?” She shrugged her shoulders and got up impatiently. ‘« For Heaven’s sake, go!”’ she said, with obvious annoyance. Taunton laughed impertinently, and taking h's hat, he sauntered away. CHAPTER VII. Ten days after the much-talked-of ice party at Tally-ho, Mr. Blount was break- tasting /é¢e-a-té¢e with his house-keeper. «* Well,’’ he said, stirring his coffee with great glee as he threw down the morning paper. ‘‘Llewellyn has sold his Y. & C., and has cleared fifty thousand.” Mrs. Tremaine dropped her napkin with a start. «¢ Has he been speculating ?’’ she asxed quickly. ‘¢T should sayso! And a nice little deal he has made of it. They say on ‘Change that Taunton’s on the other side of the fence and has lost heavily. But he’s not a fellow to squeal. You'll never hear a word of it from Taunton.”’ Mrs. Tremaine’s eyes lighted strangely. ‘¢ How much do you think he has lost ?” she asked.

Page 17

eS ON 1 you love, under o0ked that, you, layed onder hat is she ?” yar as yndon What don’t nging d he it his 700d- I to int ?”’ ot up said, and side But ver $5,000 FOR A WIFE. 25 “ Oh, I don’t know. Jefferies says he’s lost everything, but youcan’t rely on what you hear in the street. Taunton’s not fool enough to let himself in that deep.” Mrs. Tremaine made noreply. The door opened, and Antoinette Eyre, pale and languid from a recent illness, came in. ‘¢ Well, young lady! ’’ said Mr. Blount cordially. ‘* How do you find yourself this morning ?”’ ‘¢ Quite well, I thank you. as well as I ever was.” ‘¢ Mrs. Tremaine tells me you are going to leave Tally-hoto-day. Well, I suppose you are tired of us.’ ‘¢ Not at all!’’ Antoinette said hastily. ‘¢ You have been so good to me!”’ ‘¢ Notso good assomebody else, though eh, Mrs. Tremaine?”’ He glanced over tothe buffet on which there was standing a basket of hot-house grapes surmounted by a bunch of Jacque roses bearing Geoffrey Taunton’s card. ‘«Those came for you this morning,” said Mrs. Tremaine carelessly. ‘* Would you like some of the grapes for your breakfast ? ’’ ‘It is very kind of Mr. Taunton!” Antoinette said gathering up theroses and burying her nose in their dewy depths. Taunton had sent her something every morning since she had been ill; but that morning for the first time, she had heard from Llewellyn. He had asked for her, but that wasall. Now his card came in before she was through breakfast. ‘¢ Heavens!’’ said Mrs. Tremaine, shrugging hershoulders. “‘ What does the man mean by coming before breakfast ?”’ “ Tt is after ten,’”’ Antoinette remarked. ‘Will you see him, Mr. Blount?” ‘¢ Yes,” said the old gentleman, rising eagerly. ‘I'd like very much ‘a ‘¢]’m afraid you will be de frog, Mr. Blount,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine with a short laugh. ‘* You would better come out on the terrace with me, and have a cigar.”’ Antoinette started to say something, but Mrs. Tremaine shook her finger at her. “Oh, you young girls!” she cried. ‘*You are quite bewildering with your love affairs.”’ Mr. Blount sat down again. ‘* Confound it, madam,’’ he said testily, I am just ‘A woman can’t marry ‘more than one man at once.”’ “Indeed, Mr. Blount—’”’ Antoinette began. ‘Don’t keep him waiting,’’ he said per- emptorily. ‘‘Go and see him—go on!” Mrs. Tremaine laughed again, though Antoinette was vexed. Llewellyn, how- ever was glad enough to see Antoinette alone. «¢ You sent for me!’’ he said by way of salutation. ‘Yes! Ihave not seen you since— since that awful night,’ Antoinette re- plied. ‘‘ I have never even thanked you, and they tell me that you risked your life to save mine.” ‘¢ As to that,’’ Llewellyn answered un- easily, “‘I hope you will not embarrass me with gratitude. It wasmere humanity. I could not see youdrown without raising a hand to help you.’’ ‘« Nobody else seemed to feel the same humane obligation,’’ Antoinette said gently. ‘‘I know that I owe you my life, and you must at least let me thank you.’’ Llewellyn bowed. «‘Are you quite well again ?”’ he asked. ‘*Quite well—oh, yes! But—’’ she hesitated—‘‘ there is something else that I want to say to you. I—I am afraid I was rude to you on the/night of the ice-party. The fact is, Leigh,—I—I did you an in- justice. Some one told me you had been drinking, and—”’ ‘¢Who told you that ?’’ he demanded, turning upon her fiercely. ‘‘ Was it Taunton ?”’ ‘¢ No—oh, no! But you must not ask me. Only—they told me that, and— and—”’ ‘« You believed it! ’’ he said scornfully. ‘¢ What an opinion you have of me! ”’ ‘¢T did not want to believe it,’”’ she urged, ‘*but you know how it is when some one who ought to know insists upon a thing and you cannot contradict it. Be- sides, you dd act strangely—that is, so differently from what you used to, that— that—”’ Llewellyn had grown very white. He did not attempt to clear himself, but An- toinette added quickly : ‘‘T found out afterwards that I had wronged you, and—and—I am very sorry.”’

Page 18

i Se errno em en 26 AFFINITY—TOO LATE. Llewellyn was still silent. *¢ Will you forgive me?” she asked timidly. «¢QOh, certainly ! ”’ ‘¢ Will you forget it? ’’ she persisted. ‘¢ It is not easy to forget such things-— coming from you.” ‘¢ ] wish you would try—-for my sake,”’ she said softly. Llewellyn walked to the window and looked out. What did she mean by that gentle, ailuring manner? Was her co- quetry deeper than he had supposed ? ‘¢ There is one thing more,’’ she added. «« You asked me that night whether I was engaged to Mr. Taunton, and I refused to tell you. I don’t know why I did that, for he has never even asked me to marry him.”’ Llewellyn turned around and looked at her long and steadily. «¢ Antoinette,’’ he said in a low, tense tone, ‘‘tell me something more. Has Mr. Blount—-has anyone told you of what has happened to me? ”’ ‘¢ About your speculations? ’’ she asked quite innocently. “Yes! Mr. Blount told me yesterday. I am very glad. I congratulate you.” His lip curled disdainfully, but he was silent. Antoinette was so guiltless of the base purpose of which he suspected her, that she never dreamed of what he was thinking. «¢ You deserve success, Leigh,’’ she said kindly. ‘‘ I amglad it has come to you so soon.”’ ‘« Thank you!’’ was his dry response. ‘¢Success is a relative term, however. There are some grasping creatures in this werld who ask for something better than money, and, when money comes to them without anything else, it seems of very little value.”’ ‘*f am sure you will be happy some day,” she said hopefully, but Llewellyn had nothing to answer. Mr. Blount came in presently. He could not stand the restriction put upon him by Mrs. Tremaine, and he came in to congratulate Llewellyn. Antoinette had no chance to say anything else to him in private. He left early and she saw him start down the driveway en route for Taunton’s office with a sinking heart. She had left something unsaid which she had meant to say. Just what it was she could not have told ; but, as she looked after Llewellyn’s retreating form, she felt that she had lost an opportunity. (TO BE CONTINUED. ) Afhnity. E, E. F, What meanings in their verses flow : 7 ee do not always know 2 Or A sculptor carves from senseless stone, A face some other one has known ; And often does another’s thought Effect the same our own has wrought— This thread of kinship in the woof, To me affords sufficient proof, That God, in working out his plan, Has mirrored oft his thought in man. Coo Late. BY COUNT A, G. LEWIS. HE past can now be n’er redeemed, Tis too late to atone, For love doth soon despair and die, Where honor is unknown. Yet memory like a monarch reigns, Supreme unto the end, And knows no rival, until death Robs sorrow of its friend. im sto ple ing in, utt

Page 19

vas aid Ou er, his alt

Ralph of Ashmead. A TALE OF VIRGINIA. BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. PART II. SWALD called cheerfully for the ghost, and lifted Ralph’s blue cloak from the ground. Ralph claimed it quietly. He felt Roger Templeton was watching him even in the uncertain flare of the torches. ‘‘Some one has been here recently,” cried Oswaid, in triumph; ‘‘someone else hath our secret, Ralph. See, a fire has been laid. No wonder the darkeys say Master Ashmead keeps a ghost.”’ ‘No ghost built that fire,’’ quoth Roger Templeton, pointing to the scattered embers; ‘‘let us return at once and in- form Allyn Ashmead his grounds are made a lurking place for thieves or traitors. By your leave, young gentles, I will see ye ail leave this cell before I go.”’ He spoke so sternly, and pointed back along the passage as he did so, that the motley group in gay tinsel and silk sank away before him. Albeit Roger was a small man, his moments of dignity were impressive. But Ralph stood motionless. He had sought Lille once more, and she stood close at his side. ‘¢ Take off the lady’s mask,”’ said Tem- pleton, coldly. Lille did so herself, casting an appeal- ing glance at Ralph. ‘* Follow the others.”’ And in silence they obeyed him, walk- ing side by side through that dim pas- sage, feeling Roger Templeton too near to utter one word of hope or despair. But as they came into the brilliant hall once more, Ralph drew the girl to him, and walked to where his father sat, with Roland at his side. ‘¢Father,”” he said, in a clear, high tone, ‘dost thou not remember the little maiden with whom I played when a lad, Lille of the Mill, we called her. She now seeks thy protection. To thy hands I commend her, and charge thee to forget all save her loneliness, and the sad fate that hath overcome her people. Do this if in thy heart there yet remains love for thy younger son.”’ Allyn Ashmead arose in surprise, and would have spoken kindly to the shrink- VoL. CXX—No, 3. ing girl, when Roger Templeton dropped a heavy hand on Ralph’s shoulder, and whirling the young couple apart, said in a voice of thunder: ‘‘And J charge thee, Allyn Ashmead, that thou harbor no traitor. Yonder is Thomas Hansford’s sister, and I arrest thee, Ralph of Ashmead, in the name of theking. If thou doubtest me—behold !”’ He held up a white cross, dashed with scarlet, and while Ralph grew white and twisted his shoulder from the iron grip of Roger’s hand, he was but in time to catch the fainting form of Lille Hans- ford, as blessed unconsciousness darkened her sight, blotting out the awful fate that seemed hanging over them. III. But as Ralph had said, the Governor of Virginia waged no war on women. Roger Templeton’s ire was for the youthful rebel, who then and there proudly re- claimed the badge of his apostasy, and with uplifted head awaited his sentence. Only a quiver of the eyelid betrayed his agitation, as the women lifted Lille from his arms and bore her away. He looked his father in the eyes steadi- ly, and put up a warning hand when Ro- land cried out some mistake had been made. His brother was no traitor. ‘¢ Speak! if you have aught to say,’’ broke forth Allyn Ashmead, anger and grief struggling within him. ‘«« Except to clear my father and brother of suspicion, I have naught to say.’’ ‘¢ Thou—thou, traitor to thy king? *Tis madness, Ralph, what folly hath lead thee ‘* No folly, but an eye that sees, and a heart that judges, and while it is full of love and life, throbs for friends laid low by treachery. Oh! my father, forgive me, that I cause thee this shame and woe, but for thee Icare not what becomes of me.”’ Allyn Ashmead turned a stern white face away from the beseeching misery of his youngest born. ‘¢ Do thy duty, Templeton. No hand of mine shall be lifted to save him.”

TR TDL oh RY < ato Ree IN i MRT Se are Nt

Page 20

28 RALPH OF ASHMEAD. ‘¢Father!’’ It was Roland who spoke. He knew so well how many young hearts were in sympathy with Ralph since Thomas Hansford’s ruthless fate. He also knew too well the cruel rage of the old Governor. But Allyn Ashmead mo- tioned him to silence. ‘¢ Henceforth he is no child of mine. I have no younger son; in his place I have a traitor,”’ Ralph still knelt where he had sunk when making his one appeal to his father. Templeton called to him two servants, and bade Ralph rise, while they bound a leather thong about his arms, pinioning them firmly. The guests, awed and fright- ened, were huddled at one end of the room, but Oswald rushed impetuously forward. ‘‘Ralph, ’twas Z betrayed thee—for- give me,”’ he cried. Ralph smiled a lit- tle mournfully and shook his head, and whispered one word softly to his cousin. «« Lille!’ was all he said. ‘¢ And now,”’ quoth Roger Templeton, with a satisfied air. ‘* Now good young Master Ashmead, where lyeth Drummond concealed ? ”’ Ralph started; a quiver ran through his frame, and his eye flashed. Then he was to be but the tool to bring forth that worthier rebel, Lille’s kinsman, from whose hand he had that day received his fair lady. Not a word replied Ralph of Ashmead. ‘¢ You refuse to tell us where we may find this arch-traitor? Roland Ashmead, thou see’st what a viper hath been nour- ished in our midst. He knows, but will not speak. So, so, my brave youth, the Governor hath medicine for such minds. We'll rack thee, ere we hang thee.” A keen defiance shot from Ralph Ash- mead’s eyes. He had met his brother’s troubled glance; he knew there was no hope of rescue; but he felt no quailing fears. Templeton turned to his host. ‘« Most grieved am I, good Sir, to des- poil so fair a scene, but I have long sus- pected thy son. When he relinquishes his knowledge to serve the Governor and King, thou mayst see him again. But un- til then, bid him farewell. Believe me, thy house and kin are exempt from any suspicion of complicity with his evil ways.” ‘«Go thy way,’’ said Allyn Ashmead proudly, turning no glance upon his son, ‘‘Both King and Governor know the heart of Allyn Ashmead. As readily as either of my sons are given to his service, do I condemn this one to die, as is fitting his offence. Go! I would not look upon his face again!” And forth from the room; from the warm light of welcome, amidst sobs from the maidens, and sullen glances of remon- strance from the youths, walked Ralph Ashmead, with a firm step, to meet his doom. Roland Ashmead understood better than anyone present the nature of all that had occurred. His blood boiled when he knew to what an end Roger Templeton had used his friendship, for Roland had long known and guarded Ralph’s tenden- cies, hoping like a clever diplomat, that affairs would turn in a manner to lead Ralph gracefully from rebellion, to glad submission. He had trusted Roger to overlook in Ralph’s youth, what he knew well was the sentiment of many others in the little court of Goverhor Berkeley. More than all else Roland knew that Ralph had been shaken by the execution of Thomas Hansford. Under that Spartan exterior, the eldest son felt his father’s heart was breaking ; and how’could he ever meet that sweet sister’s glance, when next they met, if he failed to succor Ralph in this sad hour. Heeding little his wife’s indignant words, he strove to find Lille Hansford. He too remembered when this girl and her brother had been Ralph’s fond mates. Lille of the Mill, the wildest, merriest girl, full of jests, and daring as a boy. She must know also something of this William Drummond. Could Roland but secure this man, he felt he would over- reach Roger Templeton, and perhaps bar- gain for Ralph’s release. At any other time Roland Ashmead would have shrunk from delivering any man to the uncon- querable fury of the Governor. Royalist he had ever been, but he’also had been disgusted and moved by the cruelty dis- played toward the brave men, who, in following Bacon, had but upheld what seemed to them the right cause. Least of all did Roland Ashmead desire to cap- ture William Drummond. Kinsman of the of | wo! thr bre mu er! Sh lyi pl thi thy sh br co rt} Th Oe wm ee a a

Page 21

mead $ SON, y the ily as vice, itting upon n the from mon- .alph *t his etter | that 2n he leton | had 1den- that lead glad er to knew Ts in eley. that ution Idest ing ; weet if he ur. nant ford. and ates. Tiest boy. this 1 but ver- bar- ther runk con- alist been dis- , in what ast cap-

the woman now beneath his roof, friend of his boyhood, a man beyond all others worthy of respect, Roland Ashmead thrust these thoughts resolutely aside. If he would strive to deliver his foolish brother from his impending danger, he must forget all save the ties of blood. He knew Governor Berkeley would give much to hang this last rebel of the gov- ernment. Lille started up at sight of Roland. She had recovered consciousness, and was lying in Sylvia’s arms, while the latter, weeping copiously, begged her not to die. ‘‘Ralph!”’ cried the girl, raising im- ploring hands to the stern-browed brother. ‘*Lille, I little thought to greet thee thus. Thou hast wrought evil as usual with thy recklessness. ‘Tell me, where is thy kinsman, William Drummond ?’”’ ‘*Oh, Roland, what wouldst thou,’’ she cried. ‘‘ Now that my presence hath brought ruin to Ralph, wouldst have me betray another to death? Oh! coward, coward, that I have been.”’ ‘Tell me, will Drummond expect Ralph’s aid in an escape?’’ asked Roland eagerly. “‘T tell thee nothing,”’ cried the girl firmly. ‘‘ Beat me if thou wilt! Send me to Governor Berkeley. I pray thee let me share the fate of those who love not the king; but ask me no more ques- tions, Koland Ashmead.’’ ‘‘Dost think thou servest Ralph by silence? I tell thee I cannot move hand or foot until I know if he screens Drum- mond. Speak, then, I charge thee. Where lurks this man? Must my blood be sac- rificed to preserve thine?’”’ Lille turned a pale, resolute counte- nance upon him. Her eyes glowed fiercely ; but she uttered not a word. Sylvia had walked to some distance, and Roland’s eye now fell on her. ‘“<Come hither,’’ he said. ‘‘ Tell me what thou knowest. Out with it, girl, or I will have thee whipped. Disgrace hath fallen on thy master; possibly death may be his portion—answer me if thou know- est where he hath hidden another fugitive. Sylvia, dost heed me?”’ He shook the girl as he spoke, but in a moment Sylvia was whirled the length of the room, and Lille stood under his hand, her angry glance meeting his in rebuke. RALPH OF ASHMEAD. 29

‘¢For shame, Roland, to threaten a woman—Sylvia knows no answer to thy | threat. She knows nothing save her | master’s sore need. I alone can help thee | —and I—must be silent.”’ | ‘« By Heaven, thou shalt live to repent it then,’”’ cried Roland, and flung himself from the room, sore perplexed, until he bethought him of his brother’s other ser- vant. Sambo was called and impressed with the idea he could render his mas- ter’s safety by confessing all he knew. It was little enough, for Ralph had used much caution during his interview with Drummond. But Roland thought he held a clue, and mounting, rode away with Sambo, while Lille Hansford paced the room allotted her, and watched with envy the tears that fell so readily from Sylvia’s eyes. Oh! that she too might weep and find relief. But only action could bring rest from the fears crowding upon her. * * * * * * That night when Ralph Ashmead drove / his dagger to the heart of the man who } would have betrayed him; William if Drummond felt no greater proof was { needed of Ralph’s utter fidelity. He there- fore broken in spirit, and glad of a younger shoulder to lean upon, accepted Ralph’s suggestion, and with his two fol- lowers, skirted the Ashmead estate, and found the deserted hut. There, wrapped in gloomy thought, he awaited the dawn,. and cared little what came. One by one he had seen his comrades overtaken and promptly executed. Hope had deserted him. There seemed nothing left to live for, now that Ralph had borne from his side the girl for whom he had promised protection. Perhaps his conscience woke somewhat in those silent hours, and be recognized that he and Lawrence had not been so purely unselfish in the cause as their no- ble generous leader, Nathaniel Bacon. As it was, the dawn found him sunk in an exhausted slumber, from which he awoke to hear without the hut, a voice de- manding admittance. ‘¢Itis Ashmead,”’ said one of the fol- lowers, rising to admit the new-comer. But Drummond withheld him. A strange light broke over his face, a softened ex- pression. Again the voice without de- manded entrance. ee ee

Page 22

30 RALPH OF Drummond rose slowly. *¢ Bid him enter,’’ he said, and stood with folded arms, and head erect, to con- front not Ralph’s youthful gaze, but the severe countenance of Roland Ashmead. The men looked at each other, long. Then Drummond, with still that gentle expression, said : ‘¢ Thou, Roland, hath won. Enxult in thy victory. Iam thy prisoner.’’ Roland Ashmead turned aside, with a deep sigh. ‘¢ Thou hast made me thy fate. Will Drummond, I wish thou hadst died the day I lifted thee from the stream, rather than lived to cross my path again. Know ’tis a brother’s life hangs on thy capture, nor think I can falter now, in giving thee over to thy doom ?”’ «¢ What sayest thou? Ralph, who hat! betrayed the boy! What? have / caused the house of Ashmead deeper.woe? Ro- land, I knew thy voice, and felt how keen would be thy grief, to find my life in thy hand. But now—’”’ ‘“‘As thou art the man I once loved with all my soul—”’ began Roland. ‘‘And love yet, oh, Roland,’’ cried the other, in a broken tone, ‘‘ love so well, thou shalt still find me worthy thy regard. Bind my hands, do with me as thou wilt. Teach me how to save thy brother.” ‘« There is but one way, Zhow art his ransom. For thee and thine he suffers disgrace—”’ ‘‘And for him, I wilisuffer death. Lead the way, Roland Ashmead. I follow thee.”’ And side by side the men rode back to Ashmead, the prisoner with a calm, up- lifted face; while Roland Ashmead’s was sunk upon his breast, in sorrow for his once dear friend. But there was no time for sorrow now, for even should Roland’s desire to place Drummond in Ralph’s stead prove effect- ual, Ralph stood in much danger. Roland must push his already spent horses to reach Ashmead and make thc twenty-five mile journey to Jamestown. But, on reaching Ashmead, fresh difficul- ties awaited him. The Ashmead stables afforded but a meagre supply of horses, since Allyn Ashmead, in his zeal, had fur- nished the Governor with many a mount for his officers, during the late rebellion. ASHMEAD. To Roland’s dismay, no horse seemed in condition for the long journey to James- town and beyond to ‘‘ Green Spring,’’ the Governor’s residence. Night was once more approaching. In order to disturb as little as possible his old father and greatly perturbed wife, Roland had lodged his prisoner in a re- mote tower, at the end of the mansion, and he nowstruggled alone with his diffi- culties, followed through the stables by a train of anxious darkeys, who watched his countenance intently. Turning to cross the yard in despair he beheld a horseman riding toward him. A messenger from Jamestown had sped hither, riding hard with a packet for the Governor’s secretary. He had missed Roger Templeton on the road, and sought Roland inhaste. Governor Berkeley had ridden forth two days before on a fancied clue to Drummond’s lurking place. Not having yet returned, and in the present confused condition of affairs, the messen- ger had been sent pell mell to the Gov- ernor’s representative, Roland Ashmead. The papers had arrived from England but two hours when he set forth. He also brought the rumor that three men were to be hung Christmas morn, and that Roger Templeton was to provide a fourth victim, no other than the person of William Drummond. A thrill shot through Roland as he heard this rumor, and he hastily turned aside to open the packet. Then with an exclamation he sprang forward, and turn- ing to the messenger, said eagerly : ‘*Can you ride swiftly back—as for your life, and take this paper to Temple- ton or the Governor ?” ‘‘Not I, sir; my horse is dead lame!” ‘¢ And every horse in the stable more or less spent. Good God! what shall [ do. Release for both, reprieve, and no way tosend it thither. Is there no man or servant that knoweth where I can pro- cure three horses, fresh and swift ?”’ ‘¢ J will carry that paper, sir,’ cried a clear voice, as a slender lad bent before Roland. His clothes hung rather loosely on him, and his hat was pulled low over his forehead. ‘‘Thou stripling! What meanest thou,’’ cried Roland eagerly ; ‘‘ hast a horse? ‘Thou are so light thou couldst

Page 23

med in James. r,”’ the g. In le his wife, n a re- insion, s diffi- s bya atched air he | him, 1 sped or the nissed ought 2y had incied Not resent essen- - Gov- mead. gland He » men , and vide a yerson as he urned th an turn- s for mpile- me !”” more iall [ id no ) man | pro- ied a efore osely over anest ast a uldst RALPH OF ASHMEAD. 31 ride the devil’s steed and she not feel thee. Quick men—Sambo—is my broth- er’s mare in the stable? I saw her not? This lad is so light perhaps she'll bear him hither. It must be done. Great God! that I should be forced to leave Speak ! whence such an errand to a lad. comest thou ?” ‘‘From Jamestown, yester eve.’’ «And the countersign ?”’ ‘¢For King and Home.”’ ‘¢Thou art right. Good. Take these despatches straight to Green Spring, and place in the hands of Templeton or the governor. Guard them as thou wouldst thy life. It contains the pardon of King Charles for all who took part with Bacon. May Heaven bless his royal clemency. If thou arrive in time mayst save those men about to hang, and make glad a Christmas morning. More than all else, remember ‘his, boy, save my brother.’’ As Roland talked with the lad, Sambo and the crowd of eager servants brought out the mare. She was the only horse who had not been forth that day, and she came with a light step and arched neck. The slender boy made a quick move to mount the horse. ‘‘Hold,’’ cried Roland, ‘‘ thy name?”’ ‘¢ Hugh Moreland.”’ ‘And think not I will let thee forth © save under the king’s oath for thine er- rand. Swear by thy fealty to king and state——_”” ‘‘Not I, Roland Ashmead; _ these papers,’’ he tapped his doublet, where they were now concealed, ‘‘ carry in them release for kinsman and: friend. I need no oath to king or governor to steel my heart and hand. Look in my face, and say if thou thinkest / will betray thy brother?’’ He lifted the battered hat from his curling love-locks, sprang lightly to the mare’s back, and with a ringing shout of ‘King and Home,”’ Lille Hans- ford rode forth to save her lover and her kinsman. Roland reeled back in amazement. He seized the gaping Sambo savagely. ‘‘Who rode hence?’’ he cried, not believing his own eyes. ‘¢Su’ah sir, an’ if ’tain’t Massa Ralph’s bride, den its de debbil, and J tink it’s boff, fur she kin caff like Massa Ralph hisself. And it ain’t nedder, den don’t you fret, Massa Rolan’, she'll git dar, or she’// kill the mare.”’ IV. While Sylvia wept bitterly for the young master whom she loved, Lille had but one moment of irresolution. She hastily di- vested herself of the long black robe she wore, shook down her short crop of black curls and appeared to the startled gaze of Sylvia, a trim young lad, and demanded she should find her a black hat that would serve her purpose. At Sylvia’s wide- eyed amaze she waxed impatient, and shaking the girl by the arm cried : ‘‘Haste thee, I say. Dost think I served my brother until three days be- fore his execution in this guise, to falter in wearing it now, in behalf of thy mas- ter? I willgoto him; better die now, with him, than stay here to betray an- other to death. Get me a hat, I tell thee. Anything I can pull low over my brow, and then to the stables.’’ In sooth to Sylvia, the transformation of character seemed as entire as the garb. Lille seemed the impatient youth she looked, and Sylvia obeyed her without a murmur, watching the while the quick stride, and altered mien of the young wo- man, as if she expected every moment to see her revert to her former estate. But Lille went straight to the stables. There she had the good mare Reneé led out, and rubbed and groomed, and ’twas thus Roland failed to find the mare in his round of the stables later. Reneé already stood equipped to bear Lille away, and only the chance of ascer- taining whether Roland captured her cousin, led Lille to linger in an agony of waiting. There was one last hope even then, that she, Lille Hansford, might risk with Governor Berkeley, and this she re- solved to accomplish. When Roland madethat call, however, her quick nature sprang to greet it, and now she was off. Reneé, eager and fleet under her light weight; the road a white line between the great dark forest trees, Jamestown and Green Spring twenty-five miles away. In the gathering gloom of the early dusk the wind rose sighing, through the bare branches overhead. A lonely owl flew cross the way with lugubrious cry,

Page 24

32 RALPH OF ASHMEAD. and woke the hollow echoes. Later, the flash and gleam of the wildcat’s eye, shone forth from the wayside, and in the shadows might lurk, keen of ear, and quick at aim, the savage, who had cost the colony of Virginia her bravest men, and crushed with anguish her fairest daughters. Lille heard, saw, comprehended naught, save in the quick forward leap of the good mare she bore those tidings from the King of England to release four souls from death. Beside the road, some travelers had en- camped, and cried out, ‘‘ What news sped so fast at night?”’ ‘‘For King and Home, and the inno- cent set free! ’’ was the cry borne back to them, as the rider checked not speed and rein. They reached the bridge, this side the Welton ford. Good Heaven, forefend ! Why did the mare pause and rear ? snort- ing in alarm. On—on, good Reneé, no pause now! What frights thee? oh! the bridge is half gone. But one leap, and thou’lt reach the other side—! to it, Reneé—’tis to save thy master! ’’ Ah! like a bird she leaps the chasm, and on they speed once more, Lille’s hand upon the mare’s neck, in grateful caress, and Green Spring but fifteen miles away. On past fields of corn; fields where Lille hath played, with light step, culling flowers, down to the water’s brim. Bare fields of stubble now, and icy rims upon the river. Through lanes where, linger- ing in days but shortly past, she scouted Roger Templeton’s elderly suit. Those free days when, with Puritans in power, Will Drummond played a part better suited to him than fugitive. Good Reneé, never flag. Ah! see’st thou not the journey is near ended ? Think on thy master’s need. Already Temp'e- ton may spend his jealous spleen on that dear traitor. Oh, never flag now, with uneven step. No! once more she lifts hoof with steady pace—what matters how one foot goes limping, she slacks not speed. See! yonder light is Jamestown—one poor, feeble light where a hundred lights have guided travelers to a welcome. ‘¢ Halt! Who goes so fast ?”’ I ride for ‘¢Qut of my path, man! the king.” ‘« The countersign ?”’ ‘‘For King and Home.’’ «« Prythee, whose horse ride ye! ’”’ ‘¢’Tis not for thee to ask. Unhandle my bridle.”’ ‘«Thou saucy varlet? I mistrust ’tis not safe to let thee pass. The right hon- orable Governor put me here on guard—” ‘*And I'll put thee on thy back, if thou detain me longer. I must reach the Governor ere day-break. Fall back!’’ ‘*Not so fast. Thou hast a pretty voice, I'll see thy face.”’ ‘‘ That, for thy sorrow. Reneé, on!’’ An oath, and the gossiping guard reels back, his face full of glass from his splin- tered lantern, and far down the street good Reneé speeds, her rider stern and eager with Green Spring but ten miles away ! But those miles, how long they stretch when the smouldering ruins of Jamestown are past. Past with a shudder the houses of Drummond and Lawrence, ashes now, like the hopes of those who reared them. Weary, Reneé, lame and spent. Oh! speed yet good mare—sweet Reneé! see, the day is peeping along the Eastern sky, flinging a scarlet ribbon about the hori- zon. ‘Tis but a little distance—is not that curling smoke from:Green Spring roof? Only a little hill, Reneé, Heavens! art down? No, up again, ne'er stumble, tis but four miles—three—two—there, there, for ‘‘ King and Home!”’ cry out oh! Lille, in triumph, for thy journey is ended and thy goal won. White with foam, trembling in limb, with quivering flank and panting nostrils, Reneé feels the arms about her neck, the kiss and warm tears of her dauntless rider, and looks at her with mute and blood-shot eyes. Reneé is ruined, but she has won the race—and will it save her master ? With eager haste Lille seeks the ser- vants’ quarters. ‘Too well she knows the grounds at Green Spring. It was here she heard her brother pass his mockery of a trial. Sending someone tothe poor mare, she rushed to the Hall. The door was opened by a garrulous

Page 25

e for 1 the gf ice, a1 ! ”? eels blin- reet and iles stch wn Ses ow, =m. Yh! ee, ky, yr i- not ing art tis re, h! ib, ls, he SS id ut ve 1e re of old English butler, about whom Lille had heard little save quizzing and laughter. ‘‘Thou wouldst see his lordship, the Governor? and a pretty time o’ day to ask it. Who art thou? Whence cometh ? lookest like a slip of a gal, and acteth like a man, forsooth. Where’s thy beard ? ‘I come with the message of Roland Ashmead to the Governor.”’ ‘Perhaps thou hast a rebel or two in thy pocket—eh? if so wilt be welcome, for my lord be vexed enough because Templeton hath brought instead of Drum. mond the youthful Ashmead, with a face smooth as thine, but an eye like a hawk, and a device for keepin’ his mouth closed, and the Governor is wroth with him and Templeton and the lot, and swearsat Ash- mead’s absence.”’ A quiver ran through his listener. ‘Hast seen Templeton’s prisoner? tisnot Drummond ?”’ she asked in feigned surprise. ‘¢T tellthee ’tis that young blade, Ash- mead, brother to Roland, and he won’t tell where Will Drummond lies, and the Governor saith he’ll try the whipping- post with such a youth before he will hang him. Odds me! but he spoke bravely back to him though!” wagging his head in admiration, ‘‘and my Lord said since he had such courage mayhap he was provided that he should die in the same. Ever for a joke is Lord Berke- ley.”’ ” Thou must not keep me longer wait- ing. Go to my Lord at once, and tell him I bring despatches sent to him, but forwarded to Roland Ashmead.”’ ‘‘Eh? is it true then? Despatches came on the good ship Hoe, and my Lord was nothere. He but returned last night, and now 4 ‘‘Prythee, have done, and do my er- rand! It behooveth thee to have a nim- ble step and feebler tongue. Begone, to my Lord.” ‘¢Tut, tut, young fire-eater, thou wilt threaten, wilt thou. Hast a pretty dag- ger? Well—well—lI’ll to it, though I donbt if he’ll see thee,”’ So with impatient pacing Lille awaited his coming, stemming the tide of Andrew’s words by a flat request for silence, to that worthy’s great prejudice. Now, when Roger Templeton had RALPH OF ASHMEAD. 33 brought Ralph Ashmead to Green Spring, treating him with every indignity he could well heap upon him, he avenged two sources of unrest, in his peculiar nature. Aside from his unrequited love for Lille Hansford in days past, he loved Ro- land Ashmead as few men love each other. Therefore he had always been wildly jealous of Ralph, his younger brother. This small man compressed so much bitter jealousy in his equally small stature, that his total distraction through the means of this quality had more than once threatened him. That moment in the hermit’s cell, when he saw in Ralph a rival in the af- fection of both the persons he adored, riveted the link in the chain he had long endeavored to forge about Ralph’s free and haughty footsteps. Fancy, then, his chagrin, when Lord Berkeley, vexed, and sore with disappoint- ment, treated Ralph’s defection as that of a boy, and gave Roger Templeton such a rousing piece of his august mind in the matter, that Templeton retired full of wrath, and sulked until sent for early the following morning, to meet with Lord Berkeley, a message from Roland Ash- mead. Wondering what word Roland would send hither, glowing angrily that Ash- mead, being so near the English throne through Lord Moray, should thus be leniently dealt with, Roger bustled forth, and found his lordship hastening to greet the messenger, in only the regalia of his dressing-room, since he wore his flowered chamber-gown, and his cap of black silk still adormed his hoary head, albeit some- what awry. Templeton dia not speak. He bit his lips sullenly, after a careless glance at the stripling messenger. ‘‘ Thou comest from Ashmead? What message hast thou? Hast Roland found an Oliver for this brother of his, brought hither by Templeton? Speak! Comest thou with news of Drummond ?”’ Lille sunk down on one knee before him. ‘«My lord, I do bring thee news of William Drummond,”’ she said. ‘¢ Then never hang thy head like that, lad,’’ cried the Governor, slapping her + eeeoene

Page 26

shoulder, ‘‘if that be so, and I live to hang him, I’ll make thee, my man; I'll make ¢hee. Where is he? ”’ ‘«My lord, but yesterday the house of Ashmead was accused of treachery, and the younger son dragged hither. Dost think a traitor can lurk in that house, when Roland Ashmead holds as prisoner William Drummond?’”’ *«Ts’t so?’’ The old lord rubbed his hands in delight. ‘Nay, we know Ash- mead is no traitor, and, for the younger son, I mistrust he is only over-young, a fault we'll cure, if time doeth not its work. What more hast thou to tell me?” ‘Do I understand, my lord, thou ex- onerest Ashmead and his house from blame, and wilt release the younger son ?”’ ‘*Thou seemest over-bold, young sir. Who told thee to stipulate for terms? Ashmead knoweth my humor. If I choose to shoot or hang the rebel, what is it to thee ?”’ *« What treason canst thou bring against him, pray thee, good my lord ?”’ ‘*Vex me not with questions, I tell thee, or I’ll have thee whipped forit ; to thy errand. Where is William Drummond ?” ‘* At Ashmead, under ward and key.’’ ‘¢ And he shall hang.”’ ‘‘Never, my lord.” The ringing tone sounded like a trumpet on the waking ear of Roger Templeton. ‘‘I here place in your hands that which renders the king’s servants a// free. It is no treason to be- friend the followers of Bacon, since so declared by Charles of England. Read, my lord, his blessed royal message.”’ The change from eagerness to anxiety, from anxiety to white amazement on the face of the governor and his servant as they caught the despatches from the mes- senger’s hand was but a slight reward for the worn but victorious giri. She saw the color fly to Templeton’s face, and heard him cry excitedly: ‘My lord, these despatches are au- thentic, but the messenger—if thou be- lievest not how false Ralph Ashmead to his father’s house and cause; bring him forth now; let Azm tell thee who is his brother’s messenger.” ‘*Come, what meanest thou,’’ bawled the Governor, turning his fury suddenly upon Templeton, glad of an excuse to vent the anger and disgust within him; 34 RALPH OF ASHMEAD. ‘‘wilt forever flaunt thy tempers in my presence, thou sulking, jealous, foolish, old blustering chimney. What, Andrew Gildersleeve, art napping, thou lazy var- let. Go, bid them bring Ralph Ashmead hither. I’ll have thee humored, thou gouty whiner ; to dare bluster in my pres- ence, Come hither, boy; thou, too, shalt show him thy metal.”’ ‘Oh, my lord, my lord,”’ cried Lille, now trembling before the mighty storm thus raised, and covered with confusion that she so must confront her lover. ‘«My lord me no my lords. What, wouldst thou too turn sniveller? Canst not bear the sight o’ Ashmead, either? Here, here, Ralph Ashmead, your hand, my man. Here are two culprits, fain would confess their sins. Identify yon lad, and thus gratify this—gentleman.”’ The infuriated old Governor flung out the word, scattering a shower of con- temptuous snuff toward Templeton, as he dug prodigiously into his snuff box at - every exclamation. Worn and white, defiant and miserable, Ralph came upon the scene, scarcely re- alizing that his hitherto fettered wrists were free, anticipating another attempt to involve him in a betrayal of Lille Hans- ford’s kinsman. He heard the Governor’s words, but did not understand their meaning. He stood gazing at the drooping figure of the lad, whose face mantled with burn- ing blushes, until the old Lord roared again : «« Art dumb, thou dolt! Speak! Who stands there like a guilty thief! | Was’t so bold last night to have no tongue to- da ? ” «‘T’]ltell thee my lord ! cried Roger, yon- der stands the sister of Thomas Hansford. The old Governor reeled back with a muttered oath,and pale face, asif the ghost of the hanged man had suddenly con- fronted him. ‘Good God!” he cried, but Ralph sprang forward at Roger’s tone. ‘¢ Hold! my lord,” he cried, ‘she is of the house of Ashmead, for if I never claim my birthright more—to-day I claim it for my wife !”’ And with his arm about the fainting form of Lille, he turned to confront the other men. are — = A © —a ~*~ eh tet oe oe

Page 27

my lish, lrew var- 1ead hou res- too, ille, orm sion hat, anst er? nd, ain yon ? out on- at . le, re- ists ns- ut ire ‘n- ed ho st But Roger had rushed with an oath from the room, and the old Governor af- ter one quick turn up an down, stopped before the young couple, and lowering his voice said : ‘«¢?Twas well said, young Sir, we will forget who brothered her; thou hast a brave sweetheart, and one for whom thou hast come nigh unto death. Bear her hence in peace, and God speed ye. Wilt thou ?”’ He politely tendered his jeweled snuff- box, but Ralph neither heard nor saw it, for her hard-won task accomplished all the woman in Lille Hansford re-asserted itself, and sobbing and trembling she lay upon her lover’s breast, while with whis- pered endearments he sought to sooth her. And as they stood thus, beneath the window broke forth the Christmas Waits, and sang right lustily : “God rest ye merry gentlemen, May nothing you dismay ; For Christ the Lord our Saviour, Was born on Christmas Day.” ‘God bless my soul!”’ cried the old Governor, taking his snuff vigorously, ‘¢ Methinks I grow old. This is forget- ting confession and early mass. Come, lead the lady forth Ralph Ashmead. My priest shall shrive ye both, and wed ye, as I'll be bound ye had no leave or license for the bond before. This is Christmas, therefore, a holy day. So, speed thee. Take the lady to my housekeeper, if she would doff that garb—she hath not shamed ; and do thou, Ralph, meet me at the chapel in half an hour. I want a word with thee.”’ And so it fell out, that Ralph Ashmead and Lille Hansford were wed in the Gov- ernor’s own chapel, and Ralph bore his bribe back to Ashmead ere nightfall, with a suave letter from Lord Berkeley to his brother Roland. So dazed and happy were the young cou- ple, they little heeded Roland’s wonderiug comment on the Governor’s conduct. Allyn Ashmead followed readily his king’s example, and forgave his son the treachery ; all the more gladly that, since Roland had unburdened his mind, he felt he had good cause to rejoice in the clemency of King Charles. And, as to Ralph himself, he had already invested ’ RALPH OF ASHMEAD. 35 the ‘‘ Merry Monarch” with every virtue, and drank to the king in a manner that would have satisfied Roger Templeton of his loyalty, had he chanced upon the scene at Ashmead that Christmas night. And it was only Lille, close at her hus- band’s side, who, still Puritan and king- hater at heart, slyly threw her wine upon the paved floor. It was only by the light of the days that followed, that Roland Ashmead under- stood the wily old Governor’s conduct. For it was when Berkeley knew Roland Ashmead to be so placed as to be unable to succor his friend, that he found the loop-hole in those papers Royal brought to Virginia by the good ship ofe. Either the ‘‘ Merry Monarch’ had but faintly set forth his wishes, or his Premier had failed to legalize his state- ment so as to suit the old Governor’s sense of lawful authority, at any rate when he met William Drummond, history tells us he greeted him with :— «¢ Ah, Drummond, art welcome! I am more glad to see thee than any other man in Virginia. Thou shalt die in half an hour!” * And he made good his word, to the in- finite horror of Puritan and Royalist alike. It was on hearing this that Charles of England swore a large oath, exclaiming ‘« why this old fool hath killed more men in that open country than I did for the murder of my father.”’ But for that Christmas night at Ash- mead Roland cast aside all surmise, and strove to win a smile from the lips of his whilom captive, now his guest, William Drummond. But Roland also felt it was not quite safe that Ralph with his fiery, outspoken temperament should remain in Virginia during these troubled times. Nor had he been blind, like Ralph, to the young wife’s silent denial of the toast ‘For King and Home.”’ So when the good ship /ofe sailed once more for England, she bore from Virginia’s shore, Ralph Ashmead and his bride. THE END. * J. C. Cooke « Stories of the Old Dominion.” Henry Cabot Lodge, “ English Colonies in America,”

Page 28

@ne New Pear’s Ede. BY LILLIAN GREY. NEW year! Grandma Smith had seen fully seventy of them, and yet she was not weary of them, but had al- ways a tender and hearty greeting for each one as it came. She did not seem so old—to us, her granddaughters, for her heart had kept young. Yet not always had a new year brought her unmixed joy and blessing. She had found crosses to bear often: times. Once in a while her path had been fur- rowed by a grave across it, and then it had seemed for a time as if no year could ever bring comfort again. But after all it was hard to find anyone with such a sweet and serene face as Grandma Smith, and no one was a more entertaining and genial companion than was sne. Two days before the last year closed she was sitting alone, looking along the path of the vanished years, when she was recalled to the present by the sound of girlish voices and laughter floating along the hallway, followed a moment later by the advent of three merry granddaugh- ters. ‘*Oh, Grandma! we’ve got such a lovely plan !”’ ‘¢ And a favor to ask you, dear!”’ said another. ‘¢ And, Grandmamma, how sweet and lovely you do look !’’ exclaimed the third, clinging around her neck and kissing the dear face. ‘« Now, now, my dears! when you be- gin to flatter like that, you must have a great favor, indeed.”’ ‘*So we have, Grandma. Well, you know to-morrow will be New Year’s Eve, don’t you ?” ‘Oh, yes. I was thinking of that, and of other New Year’s Eves as you came rushing in ‘«Yes: well now let’s think only of this one coming. And we three are your very ownest, and dearest, and sweetest grandchildren, aren’t we ?’’ ‘«« Granted ! but what of that ?”’ ‘And you’d dearly love to do some- thing to make us happy and our visit still pleasanter than it is, wouldn’t you, grand- mamma ?”’ ‘*Certainly! Then have I failed in some way?” ‘¢Oh, no! no indeed! but we want something more. Can’t we have a party —only a teenty little party that night? Just twenty or so of the young folks right around here that we know the best? Aunt Delia is perfectly willing; she said we could hear what you said about it.”’ ‘«Tintended to invite the young people before you went away, girls, but I had not thought of that night. You would want a dance and a supper, of course, or you wouldn’t callit a party.” ‘<Just a little bit of both, Grandma? We thought of some light refreshments that wouldn’t be much trouble, for there is so little time, you know.”’ ‘“‘Oh, that could be arranged well enough; but I don’t like the fashion of dancing the Old Year out and the New Year in. It seems to me that is not the ‘time to dance.” You know, my dears, that I don’t frown down innocent gaiety, but yet it seems to me that the passing of one year and the coming of another, is a solemn time—a time for thought, for re- gret possibly, and surely for a prayer that we may keep the New Year more unsul- lied than the old one.”’ ‘Yes, Grandma! but then it is such a ghostly time to be alone, unless one is asleep, and it don’t seem hardly respect- ful to sleep just then, either; so we thought we'd like a little company.” ‘¢ Well, you may have the party, pro- vided you stop dancing by half past elev- en; and we must think out some way to pass the midnight suitably and pleas- antly.”’ ; ‘¢ But how, Grandmamma? You are such a good planner, you’ll have to ar- range that part. We could talk or sing, of course.’’ ‘Yes, singing is always in order, and there is one hymn I should like to have sung, ‘God be with you till we meet again.’ It is a hymn of benediction, and every verse expresses an appropriate wish or blessing for the New Year.”’

Page 29

d- nt ite ht t? id le ad ld or a? its re ell ‘Why, so it does; and we’ll sing it, surely.’”’ ‘¢ And, dearies, suppose we have a reso- lution box? ‘That will be very suitable, also.”’ ‘¢Gracious! What zs a resolution box, randma?’’ ‘¢ Well, something like this. Have as many slips of paper with a resolution or pledge, as you choose to call it, written on as there are people to take part. Num- ber the folks, and as some one calls off the numbers, the owners draw one slip from the box. Then when all are dis- tributed we’ll have them read aloud, each reading his or her own.”’ ‘¢ How nice; but what shall we put on the papers?’’ ‘¢«] faithfully promise this year to be patient.’ That will do for one, and for another this: ‘I faithfully promise this year to be industrious.’ Oh, you can think of plenty of good resolutions, unless the company is too large. It is a simple little game, of course, and yet I think it will pass a half hour-very pleasantly.”’ *¢ Indeed it will, and what fun if some certain ones get some certain papers; and we'll have something to remind each other of all the year, to say nothing of watching ourselves. How did you come to think of anything so nice, grandmam- ma?’? ‘«Indeed. MustI give an account of my thoughts to you? Possibly it was an inspiration.”’ New Year’s Eve found about twenty- five people assembled in Grandma Smith’s pleasant parlors. The Christmas decora- tions were still in place, and added much to the festal appearance of the rooms. The evening passed happily with chat and music and some dancing, winding up with the Virginia Reel, in which all, from youngest to oldest, took part. Then refreshments were served, and soon after that the door-bell rang, and Norah appeared at the entrance, beckoned to Grandma Smith, and excitedly an- nounced : ‘‘A Gipsy woman, mum, this time 0’ night, an’ she wants to tell all of yer fortins.”” This addition to the evening’s enter- tainment was a complete surprise, and ONE NEW YEAR’S EVE. 37 questions and wondering exclamations went round the room. The Gipsy was allowed to sit down in the hall, and one by one the bravest of the young people went out to have their fortunes told. She did not ask for silver to cross their palms, but said the good lady had made it right with her. As each one kept the secret of what she told them, of course it cannot be divulged here; but it is very likely that she foretold many good and pleasant things in the year to come, with possibly some kindly advice thrown in; and then she came to the par- lor door, and said: ‘Good night, and a good year to you all, pretty ladies and gentlemen, and re- member the poor Gipsy.”’ Then she bowed herself out into the chill starlight; and if Grandma Smith knew who she was, or whence she came, or where she went, no one else was the wiser. But it was nearly twelve o’clock, and so the company gathered round the piano, and sang the sweet benediction hymn: “God be with you till we meet again, ’Neath His wings protecting hide you, Daily manna still divide you, God be with you till we meet again.” And as the verses went on, many be- side grandma thought that there could be no better New Year wishes given or re- ceived than they expressed. “ With the oil of joy anoint you, Sacred ministries appoint you, When life’s perils thick surround you, May His arms of love be round you, God be with you till we meet again.” And when, asthe pretty bronze clock on the shelf began to strike the hour, some one opened the hall door and said, “Good bye, Old Year!’’ it seemed as if some bodily presence had indeed gone out from among them. And then, suddenly, the fair young unsullied New Year was with them: and they could hear the bells ringing merrily in the village below, while each turned to the other with smile and hand- ~clasp and kindly words. Then after a little a cedar, wood —- was brought out and placed on the cen- tre-table, and announced as the Resolu-

Page 30

38 A WINTER NIGHT. tion Box, which of course gave rise to a chorus of questions and comments. After the explanation and numbering, each person went solemnly up and drew a folded slip of paper from the box, and it was curious to watch the varying ex- pression of countenance as they read to themselves the promises they were to sub- scribe to. After all had been supplied with slips, the leader requested No. 1 to arise and take his pledge. Amid breathless silence, Harry Dean, a newly-fledged young lawyer, got on his feet and to the intense amusement of everyone, read gravely: ‘I faithfully promise ¢his year to speak the truth! ”’ After the laughter had a little subsided No. 2 was called on. It proved to be Grandma Smith herself, who arose and read smilingly: ‘‘I faithfully promise this year to be generous !”’ ‘* Bless her!’’ whispered one and an- other ; ‘when was she anything but gen- erous?”’ ‘‘Now we will hear from No. 3.’’ ‘*Please mayn’t I beexcused ?” begged Willie—good-natured, indolent Willie Cameron. ‘*No excuse, young man; you en- listed !”’ Thus urged, Willie got up and read meekly, and possibly with a mental reservation—the following: ‘‘I faith- fully promise this year to be indus- trious !”’ A shout of laughter greeted this an- nouncement and only subsided to hear what No. 4 had to say. The eldest granddaughter got up in re- sponse to this call, and after a side glance at Grandma, read in a determined tone: ‘‘T faithfully promise this year to think less of myself, and more of other peo- ple!’’ ‘*A very laudable resolution, young lady! No. 5?” ‘‘I faithfully promise this year to be humble!’’ read the most audacious merry boy in the room:—‘‘A regular Uriah Heep!” he added confidentially. And so the slips were gone through, some of them fitting so aptly as to cause much fun and suggest design, although as they were shook up and drawn, that was impossible. The party broke up about two o’clock in great merriment, each person declaring that they would not fail in reminding the others of their pledges; and allagreed in saying that it was the most pleasant way in which they had ever spent a New Year’s Eve. A Winter Night. Cc. B. P. HE night is dark—the wind is drear and wild, Tall branches bend beneath the wintry sky, Dead leaves go drifting by, While through the dark a stay gleams, wan and mild. I stand within the shelter of my home, { hear the sweet home voices rise and fall, But through it all My heart is as the star, alone, alone. O, darling, as the sea: ns come and go, And years go on, to bring the final sleep, May angels keep Thy heart from every cloud of pain or woe. ‘The wind dies low—the sky is clearer grown, The trees show gaunt and bare against the light, While clear and bright Shines the pale star—and oh! no more alone. So may I meet thee, darling, after years— After the gusts of passion have died low, And I can know How love is perfected through pain and tears.

Page 31

ead atal ith- lus- ear Sajor and MArs. Hannival Hawkins. THEIR BRIDAL TOUR. BY BELLE C. GREEN. ( Author of « A New England Conscience,” “ A New England Idyl,” etc.) me was en- gaged ter be married, and the weddin’ day was set, we naterally be- \ gun tothink about where we should go on our bridle toor. Hannibal said how he couldn’t take no extene- wated toor intew furrin’ parts, or so, because the busy time was comin’ on pretty soon, and he must be to home tendin’ tew his mill business. ‘¢ Fact is,” says he, ‘‘I hadn’t orter take scurce any toor at all jest now, for there’s the mill, and there’s Car’line all sole alone.’”’ (Car’line was his darter by his fust wife, you know. ) ‘*We might dew like one couple I heard on,’’ says I laughin’, ‘‘ that is go seperate on our toor. You go fust, and leave me ter home to look after things, and when you got back, I could go and have my weddin’ toor.”’ Hannibal seemed ter think favorable at fust, but finally he says : ‘No! we’ll go tergether or not at all, but we won’t go fur. What say to New York City, Ruth Ann?”’ ‘* IT told him I was agreeable, but I’d heard it was a monster place ter spend money.” He said ‘‘ no matter if it was, we didn’t go on a bridle toor every day, and besides he meant ter take along some punkin sif- ters and sell enough to part pay expenses.”’ (I orter told you to begin with, that Major Hawkins is in the Punkin Sifter business, and sole inventor and proprie- tor ’o the celebrated Hawkin’s Punkin Siftey—you’ve all seen it.) fs >» FTER the eho y, —) Major and \ \\ 4 by ste J 39 I thought that idee ’o his’n was a bright and equinomical one, and I felt jest as he did about makin’ most of our bridle toor, seein, we might never have another one. We concluded we’d go out by boat, then if we wanted tew, we could come back on the cars. We had’nt ary one on us ever been on the salt water, an mother was dretful worried for fear we should be sea-sick. She put us up half a dozen lemons and some codfish—she’d heard tell how they was good fer sea-sickness—and she charged us over’n over ter have life pre- sarvers handy night and day, in case ’o shipwrack or accident. Wall, we took the boat at New London, and a queer boat it was! It looked enough like a boat outside, fur’s I know, bein’ shaped some like Noah’s Ark in the pic- ter, but inside, my land! it was more like a king’s palace than anything else ; all white and gold, with beautiful car- pits, and velvit chairs, and curtins and everything! Then there was black wait- ers more’n you could shake a stick at, standin’ ’round in the way wherever you went. Ishould judge there was a hundred rooms, big and little, for the passengers to sleep in (state-rooms they called ’em), they was fitted up nice and comfortable as you please, and I obsarved that the furnitoor was all nailed down tight, so that when the boat rocked and pitched, it would stay put, Hannibal said. It was candle-light when we went on board, and pretty soon we begun ter feel as if we'd like a little somethin’ to eat, so we went down into the dinin’ room and had a nice supper. It seemed curi’s enough ter be settin’ there, eatin’ and en- joyin’ ourselves in that hansome room, and yet to know that at the same time we was sailin’ ’way, ’way off on the water. After supper we went out on deck. The moon wasshinin’, thoughevery once in a while it would go behind a cloud ;

Page 32

side.”’ 40 MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. but it was beautiful, and Hannibal and me felt dretful cam and happy, our tew hearts beatin’ as one, as it were. We locked arms, and meandered ’round leisure like, a while, and finally set down and convarsed tergether in low under- ground tones. (N. B.—I’ve noticed that wel! brought up folks never speak loud in company, ‘less somebody’s hard 0’ hearin’). Well, we set there talkin’, and I s’pose I got uncommon sentimentle, ’t any rate, I spoke out as I never felt ter speak before, and I says to Hannibal : ‘*Hannibal, I wonder if you feel to- night as I dew, that your bein’ is at last complete, rounded out full, as it were—’” ‘« Yes, yes—sartin,’’ says Hannibal rub- bin’ his head in a dreamy sort 0’ way. ‘¢ And you are my twin soul and I am your’n,’’ I continued pressin’ the hand I held a little clos’ter. (You see I had read all this in a book—I’m a master hand to read. ) ‘‘What say? Twins, twins,’’ says Hannibal, rousin’ up. ‘‘ Ain’t you a leetle grain off, Ruth Ann? Twins is ginerally brother and sister, or brothers or sisters, or—or somethin’. And we wa’n’t even borned the same day! ”’ ‘*Oh, Hannibal ’”’ says I, ‘‘ I spoke in a speritewal sense. Imean that you are my other half, and I’m your’n.”’ ‘¢ Now I know what you’re drivin’ at,”’ says he, ‘‘why didn’t ye say in the fust place that you was my J4etter half and I was your’n—though that goes without sayin’, bein’s we’re married, I s’pose,’’ and he laughed careless. Ihove asigh. Icouldn’t helpit. I begun ter see that it was jest barely possi- ble that we shouldn’t jibe tergether in our inmost souls, at all pints. But I de- tarmined to make the best o’ my husband and not the wust, assome wives seem per- sessed ter dew. ‘¢ If he’s only a good pervider and don’t actilly git drunk, I can stan’ it,’’ says I ter myself, ‘‘ It’s better than bein’ an old maid anyway,’’ says I. We didn’t talk much more, but we con- tinnered to set for quite a while, ’till bimeby Hannibal turns to me all of a sud- den and says: ‘*Ruth Ann, I don’t feel very well somehow. JI guess we'd better go in- I was on my ‘‘ fee veev’’ in a minute. ‘¢ Oh, dear, Hannibal!’’saysI, ‘‘I do hope you ain’t goin’ to be sea-sick,”’ ‘*Oh no, I guess not,” sayshe. ‘I e’t ruther hearty, and my stomach feels a little squeamy, that’s all.”’ ‘‘Dear me!” thinks I. ‘I dew believe he’s in for’t,’’ but I didn’t say so out loud. When we got into our state-room he took the lower shelf for his’n. ‘‘T shan’t have so far to fall, if I git oneasy and roll out,’’ says he. I looked at the top shelf ruther dubi- ous—I ain’t much ofa clim’er you know, but as it turned out it didn’t make no dif- ference, seein’ I didn’t get a wink o’ sleep that night. Hannibal grew wuss’n wuss, ’till he was about the sickest creatur’ I eversee. He e’t up all the lemons and codfish that mother had pervided, but they didn’t dew him the leastest mite o’ good; nothin’ seemed to help him. And oh, what a fuss he made! ‘¢ Kill me, kill me, Ruth Ann!’”’ he would groan, ‘‘if you have one ioty of love for me; kill me quick and put me out o’ torment! ”’ I knew he was in terrible misery, but I did think he might ’a bore it a little more becomin’ a man and a soldier. Why! a sick baby would ’a behaved better’n what he did! I begun ter lo’er my ’pinion o’ his moril courage, in p’int o’ fact, I begun ter doubt whetherer no he had much moril courage ter begin with. ‘*A pretty bridle toor this! ’’ thinks I ter myself, and I made up my mind that Major Hannibal Hawkins had got ter be trained in some respecks, and by me; but I wouldn’t tackle him ’till his stomach got settled, then I’d undertake ter larn hima few things evidently not laid down in his militerry tactix. But for the present I kep’ still and bore with him patient, and tended him the best I knew how. In the middle o’ the night the wind riz high and strong, ’till at last it blew a a perfeck gale. The -boat rocked and pitched fearful, and if the furnitoor hadn’t’a been nailed down strong, we should ’a been hit and killed permiscous. Bimeby as the storm increased, Hanni- bal camed some and seemed ter collect tergether what few senses he had left, as

Page 33

inute. ‘Ido sey eels a dew ay so m he I git dubi- now, ) dif- sleep vuss, ur’ I ;and but te o’ And ” he y of t me but I nore yia what his gun uch ks I that but you might say. He made me get out the life persarvers and we put ’em on, and then set there waitin’ our ‘‘dooms,’’ as Hannibal said. I didn’t borry much trouble. I remem- bered how them wimmen that Mr. Stock- ton tells about managed ter get a good . meal o’ vittles and set the table for three, out in the middle o’ the ocean, and I reckoned I had as much gumption as they had, any day, and so I told Hannibal, and charged him ter hang onto the lunch baskit, whatever happened. Towards mornin’ the wind changed, and the captain said there wa’n’t no more actual danger, bein’ as the wind was blowin us right where we wanted to go, and we was most there. But some was so scairt and worked up, that they wouldn’t believe but what we was goin’ straight ter destruction anyway, and Han- nibal was one of ’em. His sickness had pretty much left him now, but he felt dretful weak and narvous, and insisted on dewin’ all sorts 0’ foolish things. He run of a notion that the boat would go to pieces eventuwally, and we should have to float or swim ashore, if we got there at all, and he said he considered it his dooty ter take percautions and he cordin- ly took ’em. He made me throw away the lunch bas- ket (though I insisted on fillin’ my pock- ets fust), then he ondid the satchel and we perceeded ter put on all the cloe’s, fastenin’ ’em to our bodies, any-way we could, till we looked like anermated rag bags, and nothin’ else, then he took the empty satchel in one hand, and the punkin sifters in the other, and we star- ted for the deck, there ter meet the final catastrofy. Iruther hoped we should be carried out ter sea, we sartinly didn’t look fit ter ’pear mongs’t folks on dry land ! We'd been so took up with our ‘* per- cautions,’’ that we hadn’t minded where *bouts we was, nor nothin’, and jest as we stepped out on deck, the boat give a tremenjos kind o’ lunge, and bein’s Han- nibal and me hadn’t no base nor ballance tew us, all rolled up, and stuffed out as we was, we found ourselves knocked over sudden and simultaneous, as you might say. Hannibalthoughtthetime for action had arrove. He ketched up the punkin MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. 41 sifters, quick’s a wink, and flung ’em far’s he could out ter sea, threw the empty carpet bag after em, and grabbed hold o’ me, as if he meant I should follow soot; but I had got perpendic’lar by that time, and I braced myself aginst the cabin door firm as a rock, and says I. *¢ Hannibal Hawkins, that ’ll dew! Throw your punkin-sifters and all the rest o’your airthly possessions inter the sea, like a gump and a fool, if you wan- ter, but spare your bride of a day! Would you go twice widdered inter New York City, and a murderer to boot?”’ This seemed to bring him tew his sen- sessome. He stared round and rubbed his head bewildered. ‘‘Why! What was it? I thought we was goin’ ter pieces! Where be we any way ?” ‘We're in New York City.. We've arrove safe and sound,”’ I answered cam- ly, as I pulled him away to follow the rest o’the passengers out. When we came in plain sight o’ the folks, wearin our life persarvers and all decked out with our bridal trewso, as we was, every body stared and some laughed and hooted. I didn’t blame ’em a mite, and I told Hannibal so, and insisted on settin’ down right where we was and on- riggin’ ourselves. ‘«Redickerlous! ‘‘says I,’’ who ever heard of any body’s wearin all the cloe’s in his trewso ter once !”’ When we was reduced down to our original bigness, there lay a great heap o’ cloes, and how tew carry ’em was the question ! ‘¢ Hannibal! ’’ says I lookin’ at him severe, ‘‘ Hannibal! where is the bag?”’ (I knew too well where it was !) He wrings his hands and groans. ‘* Oh what a fool, what a blarsted fool, I’ve been! And the punkin-sifters is gone tew!”’ ‘Yes they be!’’ says I, ‘‘ but I be- grudge the bag the wust. What’s ter dew about a bag ?”’ says I. I don’t know how we should ’a come out, if it hadn’t been for a good natered musicianer—a tromboon man, he was— he stepped for’rard and offered to lend us the great green woolen bag that he car- ried his instrument in ; said how he could spare it jest as well as not. Wa’n’t it

Page 34

42 MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. friendly? We took it thankful enough, and when our things were all stuffed intew it, it made quite a good lookin green woolen bolster, but ruther a curis bag for a new married couple ter carry their bridle trewso in, that’s a fact ! As we was walkin’ away from the wharf luggin the great green bolster between us, Hannibal stopped all of a sudden, and squared round in his militerry way, and lookin’ back over the water, pinted with his finger. There, as plain as day, we see the pun- kin-sifters sailin’ away in a sort of per- cession, out ter sea! They did sail nobly, and looked affectin’, no mistake! The tears came inter Hannibal's eyes. ‘¢Ruth Ann,”’ he says tremerlous, ‘‘I’d give a dollar bill ter know where ’bouts they’ll put in, and how they’ll fare.”’ “¢ Yes,’’ says I, ‘* 1dew hope somebody "ll get ’em that will ’preciate ’em then they wont seem quite sech a dead loss, as it were.’’ ‘«They’ll be a dead loss to us, Ruth Ann,”’ he answers, shakin’ his head dis- mal, ‘‘and they was to help pay our boards ter the Fifth Avenue House, tew.”’ ‘*Oh la! don’t you fret about that,’ says I, ‘I'll resk but what we'll get along. We can hire a cheap room some- wheres and board ourselves, if necessary. You haint no idea what a manager I be! Why, I can cook a good meal o’vittles out o’ next ter nothin, if the kindlins is only dry,”’ says I. Upon this, he brightened up some, and when we took a hoss car and got fairly settled with the green bolster between us, we both began ter feel as if things might a ’been a good deal wuss after all. In pint o’ fact our luck had turned, for we hadn’t been in that car more’n five min- utes, before she stopped to take on some passengers. One of ’em, a master nice looking young feller, quick’s his eyes lit on Hannibal, rushed for’rard and grabbed him by the hand awful corjal. ‘‘ Major Hawkins ; by Jove !”’ says he. He did ’pear dretful glad ter see him, and when he was interduced to me, he *peared gladder yet. Itseemed he was a distant relation o’ Hannibal’s and he had visited to his house when his first wife was alive. ‘So you’re married agin and this is your new wife ! bowin to me as if I’d been the queen, and smilin’ till all his han- some white teeth showed, ‘* Married, and on your bridle toor. I’ll be bound !” We told him how that was about it. ‘¢ Well, well! says he, now you shall come right along home with me, and see how we live in Bohemy! My wife and dorter will be delighted to see you. Bo- hemy ?’’ says Hannibal, ‘‘ we hadn’t thought o’ goin much further. Is Bohe- my nigh about here ?”’ “¢Qh yes, we shall be there in no time,” answers Mr. Landsdown. (That was the young man’s name. You see Hannibal’s mother was a Landsdown. ) When we found Bohemy was so nigh we was glad enough ter go, for we both thought ’o the board bills and the loss ’o the punkin-sifters, and this invite did seem like a reg’lar providence, didn’t it ? In a few minutes we found ourselves standin’ on Cousin Landsdown’s door stun’ and we was in Bohemy. But what we see and experienced there, I’ll tell you another time. Read, Note and Digest. The day of feas And scores of Get one that’s yo U And stuff it f With fruits and be And add _ prese Ask friends and And meet Kriss Let not the car But fill each gu Revive the jo And for th ing draweth nigh, urkeys soon must die. ng, and sweet, and fat, ll of this and that. ries sauces make, ves and pies and cake. indred all to come ringle at your home. s of life distress, st with happiness. s of youthful days, blessings offer praise. mt HO © eet Wu —~ te ee ee a Rh le Che ee. OU. ee re ee ae

Page 35

Sean FRANCES N Luther, Lessing and Goethe, Germany magnifies her three Ut pun aflifee s-_ greatest intellects ; in a PESS == = Schiller and Richter, she reverences her best-beloved. ‘‘ Rich- ter,’’ says De Quincey, ‘ is a Proteus, an * Ariel, a Mercury, a phenomenon, who can be compared to nothing in heaven or on earth or in the waters under the earth.”’ His countrymen have well named him Jean Paul der Einzige—‘‘ Jean Paul the Unique.” Unique in style as well as in thought, he passes at will from the gravest senti- ment to the highest humor. He heaps metaphor upon metaphor, he involves simile within simile. He strays off into episodes entirely foreign to the subject whenever the whim seizes him. He is crochety and grotesque. He delights in far-fetched illustrations. His finest gems are often inclosed in tawdry settings. ‘He has as much gold as other writers have tin,’’ says one of his admiring coun- trymen. He labors under an embarrass. ment of riches; he is a sort of literary parvenu—all too fond of displaying his mental treasures. ‘The perusal of a work of Richter’s has been compared to a prog- ress through a picture gallery, where ce- lestial Madonnas, St. Johns and St. Cece- lias hang side by side with Dutch Inns, Sancho Panzas and Drinking Boors. It must be confessed that he has astyle, repellent to most readers, pleasing to none. He is so obscure even to Germans, that a countryman of his, once set about compiling a Richter Lexicon, and carried it through ‘‘ Levana,” his great work on education. But study and patience are the keys that unlock this enchanted realm. Un- derlying this gorgeous, often florid word- painting, are vast stores of true poetry and deep philosophy. De Quincey pro- nounces Richter, in his power over the humorous and pathetic, the most consum- mate artist since Shakespeare. ‘‘ He is deep, billowy and vast. The melody of his nature is wild and manifold, its voice is like the voice of cataracts, and the VoL. CXX—No. 4 Paul. A. SHAW. sound of primeval forests. To feeble ears it is discord; but to ears that understand it, deep, majestic music.”’ The Fichtelgebirge, a vast table-land in Northern Bavaria, takes its name from the immense pine-forests that cover it. In the heart of this region, Johann Paul Friedrich Richter first saw the light. The vernal equinox of the year 1763 marked his advent to the earth. He was born with the spring. He came from a race who, as is com- mon in Germany, united the two offices of village pastor and school-teacher. His , paternal grandfather had passed a useful, saintly life devoted to both these callings, at a salary never exceeding seventy-five dollars a year. The old man’s mantle fell upon his son, who with the paternal office inherited that pious content in pov- erty which had so. long adorned it. To this humble life there came a heavenly solace—music, which Jean Paul, also a musician, declares the most divine of arts. Pastor Richter, a learned, kindly man, but a strict disciplinarian, taught his sons in a manner peculiar his own, thinking to strengthen their memory by requiring them to learn everything by rote. He one day placed a Latin dictionary in Paul’s hands bidding him learn and recite it page by page. Disgusted with the boy’s frequent mispronunciation of the word lingua, he at length took away the book. The good pastor’s library contained only abstruse works, beyond the comprehen- sion of youth, but his sons were so eager for reacing that they devoured even these dry volumes of which they did not under- stand one word. In Paul’s thirteenth year, his family removed from the hamlet of Coditz to Schwarzenbach on the Saale, a better liv- ing, yet one offering but aslender income. Here Paul and his brother Adam were placed in a good school, where both stud- ied Latin in the right way, and where Paul began Greek and Hebrew. Here too, they had access to good libraries, a privilege which Paul improved by read- ing everything that came in his way, from

Page 36

44 JEAN PAUL. the most profound metaphysical specula- tions to the lightest romances. He now began to gather those stores of out-of-the- way knowledge with which he surprises us in his writings—to compile those ex- tracts from various authors which were ere long to comprise his sole library of twelve manuscript volumes. At the age of sixteen he was sent to the gymnasium of Hof, the home of his mother’s parents, who were prosperous cloth-weavers. ‘They received the young student into their household and defrayed his expenses. During his second year at Hof, his father died, but the grandpar- ents still kept him at school. In hisnine- teenth year, he entered Leipzig Univer- sity. His parents had destined him for the church, but his secret predilections were for literature. The grandparents soon died, leaving Frau Richter, their favorite child, sole heir. But the other heirs contested the will in a tedious lawsuit, which ere long consumed the whole inheritance. The widow could not now aid her son in his university course ; she appealed to him for help. The youngest son was of too tender years to assist in supporting the family, and Adam, the second, find- ing no other employment open to him, had enlisted in the army, from which death gave him a speedy release. Paul was obliged to leave the univers- ity, where, humble as he lived, he had contracted debts beyond his ability to pay. Compelled to flee from his creditors by night, the only refuge open to him was his mother’s one-roomed dwelling at Hof—a poor abode in the rear of the par- ish church given the pastor’s widow, rent free. Hither came her eldest son beggared in purse, but richly dowered in intellect and courage. With the calm, high stoicism of self-respecting, self-reliant nature, he set about his life work, resolved it should be no fault of his if he failed to conquer in the desperate struggle with fortune he saw before him. ‘‘ He was at hand’s grip with actual want,’’ says Carlyle, “ but he shook off the little evils of pov- erty as a lion shakes the dew: drops from his mane.” ‘* What is poverty?’ he wrote at this time. ‘‘Who is the man that whines under it? The pain is but as that of a maiden whose ears are pierced, that she may hang jewels in the wound. Who- ever pities me, I'll tell him to his face he is a fool.”’ Years after, in the midst of worldly success, he wrote: ‘* Welcome poverty if thou come not too late in life. Wealth bears heavier on talent than poverty. I would not for much money, have had much money in my youth.’ The Widow Richter’s one earthly am- bition was to see her eldest son installed in the paternal office. This son, who had other dreams, scarce shared her grief at the frustration or indefinite postponement of so dear a hope. He had already begun to write under his life-long signature, ‘‘ Jean Paul.” His first work, the ‘‘Greenland Law- suits,’’ a series of satirical papers, dates from his nineteenth year. After many fruitless attempts to dispose of the manu- script, he at length sold it for fifteen ous d’or, toa Berlin publisher—a rare piece of good fortune. The critics, all save one, ignored the book. ‘Selections from the Devil’s Papers,’’ was its gro- tesque title. The manuscript, after run- ning the gauntlet of all the publishers, remained for seven years upon its author's hands. -Still he toiled bravely on, draw- ing up plans for other books, and writing articles for the magazines and news- papers, overjoyed if one was now and then accepted. Authorship was his main dependence, but he took pupils when he could obtain them. His small gains, dutifully shared with his mother, kept starvation from the. poverty-stricken household. He himself, sometimes suffered from hunger. Writ- ing of those days, he said: ‘‘ The prison- er’s allowance is bread and water. I often had only the latter.” To Frau Richter, a good, pious woman, as unlearned in books as in knowledge of the world, her eldest son was a riddle past finding out. She- had allowed him to pursue his chosen path in the vague hope that from this eternal scribbling, food, clothing and other necessaries of life, now so sadly waiting, might be evolved some day. She had shared these literary earnings in a dazed sort of way, and would have been content to go on after ’ "“oreseseetiwdesd&

Page 37

- of a at she Who- ace he orldly erty if Vealth ty. @ e had y am- talled o had rief at ement under aul,” Law- dates many nanu- louis piece save “tions ; gro- > run- shers, thor’s lraw- riting news- and ence, btain 1ared n the nself, Writ- ‘ison- often man, ge of past n to hope ood, life, ved rary and after JEAN PAUL. 45 the manner of Racine’s wife, who lived on the proceeds of her husband’s dramas, without even knowing what a drama was! Now that Jean Paul had published a book —that sure road to fortune—she was sorely puzzled at their continued lack of money. As the sixteen J/ouis melted away, and no more came, she ceased to believe in her son’s vocation, and wor- ried him incessantly with sighs and tears and dismal auguries for the future. It was not from his mother, the best of women and of German hausfraus, that Jean Paul had inherited the ‘‘ poetic vision and faculty divine.”’ This, with his cheerful courage and unwavering hope, had come a priceless legacy from his father. The aspiring youth was thrown back entirely on himself. At home he met nothing but discouragement ; outside these four pent-up walls no recognition was vouchsafed him. Ignorance of the world of books and men, had bred an overweening self- conceit in the Hof gentry. After the usual manner of bucolic aristocrats, they fancied themselves hoisted upon a pe- destal, whence they could gaze down in scorn upon a less favored universe. These rural magnates treated our would-be author with disdain ; he became the butt of their scoffs and ridicule. What busi- ness had he to leave the commonplace rut assigned him by birth and fortune, and attempt things too high even for his betters ? Burns was ostracised in the same way by the Dumfries gentlefolk, a race long since forgotten, while the man they scorned lives immortally enshrined in the homage of the world. Neglect in life, and apotheosis after death, is the too common fate of genius. ‘* Homer still lives and will live for all time,’’ says Beaumarchais ; ‘‘ but what has become of those high-and-mighty personages who despised Homer, who avoided him in the public thoroughfares—who never deigned to invite him to their table— who looked upon him as a poor, obscure man who was merely writing a book?” In souls like young Richter’s, egotism becomes sublime. He cared very little what this narrow Hof world thought or said of him. In the hour of his sorest need, he was offered a place as family tutor, but he declined it, assured that authorship was his vocation, and declar- ing that he would take charge only of the children of his own brain. He felt that the divine art he had espoused would ac- cept no divided love. So, unheeding the scoffs of a world that has inall ages de- rided its teachers and stoned its prophets, he wrote on in want and isolation, while his good mother kept up a by no means cheerful accompaniment upon her spin- ning-wheel. Well might the flax be moistened with her tears, since the pro- ceeds of her spinning never exceeded four shillings a month ! In Jean Paul’s twenty-sixth year, he found a publisher for his ‘‘ Selections from the Devil’s Papers.’’ The book had sold but slowly, when five years later he sent forth another venture, freighted with much labor and sacrifice, but with few hopes. ‘‘ The Invisible Lodge,”’’ was its title, and it met with a kindly though not brilliant reception. ‘‘ Hesperus,’’ the result of eight more toilsome, self-denying years, soared at a single bound to the topmost heights of popular favor. The critics were unanim- ous in its praise, and Jean Paul all at once found himself famous. His name was upon every lip; his brave, tender and beautiful words had found an echo in every heart. Never again would the reading public receive him coldly. The doors of the most exclusive circles opened wide to receive him; the aristocracy of birth vied with that of culture in bidding him a hearty welcome. The lovely and - intellectual Queen Louise entertained him as an honored guest in the royal palace of Berlin. The simple, upright soul that had so nobly borne adversity was unspoiled by prosperity. Richter never fawned around the great, or looked with disdain upon the lowly. To him all humanity bore the impress of the divine. Success had come to him as the reward of earnest endeavor ; he accepted it gladly, but not exultantly. To quote his own words of another: ‘‘ He now felt that he had struggled like an eagle through the storm-clouds. The black tempests were dis- solving beneath his wings, while the starry heavens heamed brightly above his head.”

Page 38

. f i — Sa 46 JEAN PAUL. The widow Richter, who had ceased hoping for prosperous days, could scarcely believe in their reality. Her hour-_of worldly happiness was brief. She had just laid aside her burden of toil, just be- gun to enjoy the new life of ease and plenty, when she was summoned from the earth. This son had tenderly loved his mother ; he had dreamed of no successful future unshared by her. Unmanned by the sud- den loss of the being dearest on earth, he laid aside books and pen, and for weeks would allow no mention of his be- reavement. Her memory remained with him, a holy presence. He declares that man unhappy to whom his own mother has not made all mothers venerable. The two sons left Hof soon after their mother’s death, the younger, who would speedily follow her, to enter Leipzig Uni- versity, the elder to seek change and re- creation in travel. Wherever Jean Paul went, his fame had preceded him, and a hearty welcome awaited him. The year 1798 found him in Berlin, where he formed the acquaintance of Pro- fessor Mayer, a member of the faculty of the university, and also Privy Counsellor to the King. A man of advanced ideas in regard to the higher education of wo- men, he had given his two daughters op- portunities for thorough intellectual culture enjoyed by few young ladies of that day. Caroline, the eldest, a charm- ing and gifted girl, became Richter’s wife, and it was given this chosen pair to realize that ideal of happy marriage— “ Two souls with but a single thought, Two hearts that beat as one.” ' Richter tells us that when he wooed and won his Caroline, he carried his en- tire worldly possessions under his hat. These possessions proved ample for the support of his family; being of asort that could at any moment be coined into gold. Government ere long recognized the merit of their owner, and granted him a pen- sion for life. He had no greed for money, and was never rich ;but ‘¢ Hesperus ’’ had opened to him a career that was no longer hampered by poverty. Jean Paul’s personal appearance at this time is thus described. ‘‘ He was tall, muscular and strongly built. His face wa; indicative of his mind. The broad, no- ble brow bore the stamp of intellect, the large lustrous eyes were full of sensibil- ity. The nose was regular, the mouth small and fine. The neck was full, giv- ing an idea of power.’’ In that day of the subjugation of wo- man, Richter became her champion, ad- vocating her broader mental culture and larger personal independence. The sor- rows, burdens and disabilities of average German womanhood moved his heart and pen. Hence he won the love and rever- ence of his countrywomen, from the peas- ant to the Queen. In those days of slow and arduous travel, ladies would often journey hundreds of miles to see and con- verse with him. Friendship was his frequent theme. ‘¢ His writings would have created friend- ship, had it never before existed,’’ says one of his admirers. His own friendships were numerous, and embraced people of all stations and callings, but none among them was so deep and lasting as that for his university class-mate, Christian Otto. These two kept up a daily correspondence for fifteen years. ‘« Be my critic, my reviewer, my pub- lic,’’ said this Damon to his Pythias, and the true friend ever after fulfilled all these duties. When Richter died, Otto de- clared that he could not live without him. He in fact lived only long enough to ar- range the papers of this ‘‘ dear other self,” and edit a brief continuation of the ‘‘ Au- tobiography.”’ Jean Paul’s writings are a mirror of his soul. Never did literary artist live nearer to nature’s heart. To him the universal mother revealed her secrets ; he became her chosen interpreter. ‘‘ The whole temple of nature is the temple of love, and pul- pits and altars stand everywhere,’ wrote this priest at her inner shrine, where he knelt a most reverent, impassioned wor- shiper. ‘¢ The poet, like Apollo, his father, is forever a youth,’’ writes Jean Paul, and, even in advanced years, he retained that youthfulness of thought and feeling ‘so characteristic of truly artistic natures. Childlike himself, he delighted in the so- ciety of little children. ‘‘ Good God, from heaven, thou seest o!d children and young children, and thy Son long ago

Page 39

t, the isibil- nouth » giv- f wo- 1, ad- e and € sor- erage rt and rever- peas- f slow often | con- heme. riend- ’ says 2rous, is and yas so ersity se two ifteen j pub- ;, and these (oO de- - him. to ar- self,” < Au- of his 1earer versal ne her -mple d pul- wrote re he wor- er, is and, 1 that ng ‘sO tures. 1€ SO- God, n and 5 ago

declared in which thou hast most pleas- ure,” he would often repeat with Goethe. ‘¢] love God and flowers and little chil- dren,’’ is one of his sweetest sayings. Flowers he called ‘‘ Those living ara- besques of God’s throne, those mute, ever sleeping children of the Infinite.” He was seldom seen walking the Baireuth streets without a flower in his button- hole; he died with flowers sent him by loving friends, clasped tightly in his hands. ‘‘ The Infinite,’’ he says, has sown his name in the heavens in burning stars, but on the earth he has sown it in tender flowers.” ‘‘The setting of a great hope is like the going down of the sun; the stars arise and the night is holy.’’ Thus wrote Jean Paul in the flush of his own youth and hope. The words were to be verified in his own experience. The year 1821 brought to the revered author the one great sorrow of his life. His only and idolized son Max, a youth of great prom- ise, died suddenly while yet a student at Heidelberg. In this night that had now fallen around him, the one star that ilumined his darkness, the one theme that inspired his pen, was Immortality. The shadows of another night were slowly enveloping him; he was growing blind from constant tears shed for hisson. Conscious that he should not long survive the setting of this fondest hope of life, he ere long gave up the prosecution of new works, and set about revising those already written. Otto Spazier, his wife’s nephew, began under his dictation, the revision of ‘‘ Selina,’’ a treatise on the immortality of the soul, designed as a sequel to the ‘‘Campaner Thal.’’ The blindness ere long became total, and the author’s voice so weak that dictation was impossible. Feeling that his life work was finished, he resolved to devote the remnant of daysstill left him to the offices of love and friendship. Thesupreme hour drew near. ‘‘ A look like that tradition gives to the bust of Plato, an expression like that the saints have told us of in the holy Christ, rested upon the features of the dying writer,,’ Says Otto Spazier. Every one who entered his chamber spoke softly, as if in presence of a being not of earth. Sight, hearing, and all the other senses had JEAN PAUL. | 47 gone, but he gave whispered responses to the accents of the loving wife as she held his hand, and breathed words of hope and comfort into his failing ear. At noon of his last day on earth, the dying poet, to whom all hours were alike dark, thought that night had fallen and expressed a wish to sleep. All that lovely afternoon of late autumn he lay motion- less with clasped hands and closed eyes, until, as the sun neared its setting, he fell asleep, never to waken again in this world. ‘‘ Thus Richter passed from us, great and holy as a poet, greater and holier as a man, writes Otto Spazier. He died at his home in Baireuth, November 14th, 1825, in the fulness of his mental powers, and on the threshold of still greater literary achievement. Loving friends bore him to his final rest by torch- light, and followed by a _ sorrowing multitude. Upon his coffin lay the man- uscript of his unfinished work on Im- mortality, and Klopstock’s divine hymn, ‘¢Auferstehen wirst Du’’ (Thou shalt arise, my soul)—was his fitting requiem. Next to Schiller, the Zebling Dichter,” Jean Paul,* holds the warmest place in the hearts of his countrymen. His works are numerous, and embrace a wide range of subjects. Their usual theme is ‘‘ The Ideal versus the Real,’’ the Godlike in man contending with the lower nature. Few writers have become so much the personal friend of their readers, few works are so permeated by that genuine human sympathy that makes the whole world kin. Richter’s best thoughts came to him in solitude. Hecould not write in the bustle of the town, and so he rented a small cot- tage in the suburbs. Hither he went every morning, a satchel of books slung over his shoulder, his dog Fritz gambol- ing at his side. Here his best works were written. Twelve months after, Wilhelm Miiller, the well-known German poet, made a pilgrimage to this shrine. The owner of the cottage, a little motherly old woman, led him up a narrow staircase, and opening a low door, said tearfully yet proudly— * Dichter, the German word for poet, is ap- plied to all poetic writers, whether their medium be prose or verse, Richter wrote only in prose.

Page 40

a ee SS 48 JEAN PAUL. ‘« This is the room where Jean Paul sat and wrote for twenty years. I tended him like a lord. If he had been my king I could not have loved him more. Ah, he wasaman! He was not like a man of this world. I often told him so. Once I said to him, ‘ You seem to me like a comet full of light; we know not whence it comes or where it dwells.’’ At another time, it was his birthday, I wrote upon a large sheet of paper— “On this day he saw the light, and was light.” Many poems and good wishes lay upon this table, but as he turned them over and came to mine, his face beamed with pleasure. It is about a year since he stayed away and did not come again.” Tears choked the old woman’s utter- ance,and Miiller left her with a silent pressure of the hand, feeling that among all the tributes to Richter, none were so touching as this, from the humblest of his friends. Soon after his death, Richter’s works were issued in an edition of sixty vol- umes. ‘‘ Zi/an,’’ the product of his best thought and effort for ten years, is consid- ered his masterpiece. It was so esteemed by Richter himself, and a_ well-known critic has placed it first among the six greatest novels produced within the last century. A French reviewer pronounces it, ‘‘A poem, a romance, a psychological resumé, a satire, an elegy, a drama, a phantasy, having for its motive the enigma of civilization in the eighteenth cen- tury.” Richter’s most popular work is ‘‘ Hes- perus.” The late Rev. Charles T. Brooks, the translator of this work, and also of ‘‘ Titan,’’? may be said to have trans- planted these two rare growths from their native earth, wit). «« any loss of their sweetness and beauty. Such praise can sel- dom be given to a translator. ‘‘ Quintus Fixlein’”’ rendered by Thomas Carlyle, who was the first to introduce Jean Paul to English readers, is an idyl of country life, sweet, quaint and pure, as tue ** Vicar of Wakefield.’ The Fvegeahre, a portion of which has appeared in our language, is the most pleasing of Rich- ter’s works, and may be regarded as asort of continuation of the autobiography which he did not live to finish. De Quincey pronounces Richter’s ‘* In- troduction to Aésthetics the wittiest bouk ever written. No English rendering of it has appeared ; its involved style ren- ders it a sealed book even to the inasses of German readers. ‘‘The Campener Thal,” ‘*Levana’’ and ‘+ Fruit and Flower Pieces,’’ are other translations of Jean Paul now before our public. E, Forster and Christian Otto are his Ger- man biographers, their joint work com- prising fifteen volumes. Carlyle, and also Mrs. Lee, of Boston, have written memoirs of him in English. In all literature there is no subtler, more tender, humorist. George Eliot, while admitting the frequent tiresomeness of Richter’s style, pronounces him the most humorous of German writers. The peer of Juvenal as a satirist, he hurls the shafts of his ridicule only at reprehensi- ble persons and objects; he never jests at high or sacred things. Never was writer more fully imbued with the spirit of those ‘‘ twin sisters,” Piety and Poetry. ‘To quote his own words :—‘‘ The beauty and holiness of life, the splendor of the Creator, the dig- nity and greatness of man’s heart, and bright images of eternal truth, stood clear before his mental vision as he wrote. The sentimentality which so often mars his work, arises only from an excess of sensibility. In many of his ideas Jean Paul is far in advance of his time. In ‘* Levana,” he advocates the higher education of woman and the universal diffusion of knowledge. He says that to apprehend danger from the education of the people, is like fearing that the thunderbolt may strike the house because it has windows; whereas it almost always enters through the smoke of the chimney. He declares that the highest subjects of intellectual speculation are good for the masses. Jean Paul was a wonderful dreamer, and his ‘‘ Dreams,’ though but fancies of waking hours; have the vividness of those actual visions that come in sleep. One of these, his best known and per- haps his grandest composition, isa dream of theuniverse without a God. He says in reference to it: ‘‘If ever my heart were to grow so wretched and so dead, that all feelings which announce the being of a von 2 D> - Ono =-ahD

Page 41

6c In- bouk ing of > ren- lasses pener and ns of . = Ger- com- and ritten otler, tliot, eness 1 the The is the ensi- jests bued ers,” own ss of ' dig- , and clear mars ss of s far na,” 1 of of hend ple, may OWS ; ough lares ctual mer, rcies ss of leep. per- ream ys in were it all of a JEAN PAUL. 49 God were extinct there, I would terrify myself with this sketch of mine.’’ Another of his dreams vividly por- trays the sorrows of a man, who like the mystic Wandering Jew, is condemned to endless life upon the earth. Never had man a deeper horror of Atheism. ‘‘No one in Creation,’’ he says, ‘‘ isso alone as the denier of God. He moves with an orphaned heart that has lost its great Father, by the corpse of Nature.” Though bound to no church or creed, he was a devout, religious man. ‘‘ In thy darkest hour,’’ he writes, ‘‘ remember Jesus Christ. | Remember that soft moon of the infinite Sun given to enlighten the night of the world. Let both life and death be hallowed unto thee since He has shared them. From many ‘‘ winged words”’ of this most versatile and sympathetic of authors, we select a few gems, and then bid him a reluctant farewell, or rather an Auf Wie- dersehen: ‘¢ The great artist when he stands face to face with his God, and from the moun- tain of the Eternal Law receives his art, must forget his lower life with its joys and sorrows. While he mounts to Heaven, the Earth with its petty realms, must sink beneath him, until at length, lost in clouds and distance, it vanishes from his sight.” ‘¢ Life is a beautiful night, in which as one star goes down, another rises.’’ ‘We carry and lock up a heaven of starry light within our own breasts.” ‘« Every virtuous and wise being is in himself a proof of immortality.’ ‘¢ That tenderest, kindest angel of the last hour, whom we harshly call Death.’’ ‘¢ The stars burn as altar-lights in the great temple of the night.’’ ‘« Fate manages poets as men dosinging birds. We shroud the cage of the singer and make it dark, until at length he has caught the tunes, and can sing them rightly.” ‘*No joy in nature is so sublimely affecting as that of a mother over the good fortune of a child.” ‘¢Man climbs a mountain as the child climbs a chair, in order to stand nearer the infinite mother, and reach her with his puny embrace.”’ “We shake back the snows of time from the winter green of memory, and behold the fair years of our childhood striding on before us in the distance.” ‘¢ Ah, we have all known it once, we have all been once illumined by the morning-glow of life! Why do we not regard all first strivings of emotion as holy, as firstlings for the altar of God? There is nothing purer, nothing warmer than our first friendship, our first love, our first striving after truth, our first feeling for Nature. Like Adam, we are made mortals out of immortals; like the Egyp- tians, we are governed earlier by gods than by men. Our ideal outruns the reality.’ In a life of but‘narrow experiences, Jean Paul’s ideal also often outrun the reality. ‘* Heaven, earth and sea stand before me like three divinities,’’ he wrote. He never beheld the sea save in fancy. He died without having visited those two goals of his life-time love and longing— Switzerland and the oceans. Hope. BY LILLIAN GREY. LIGHT to lighten darkest places ; C) A cordial to the fainting soul ; A staff to help the weary footsteps Press on toward some shining goal, A songster singing magic numbers ; A stay when shifting sands are trod ; An angel guide in mercy given, To help us find the way to God.

Page 42

A Wheel of Fortune. BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. Author of « A Legal Fetter,” «* A Social Dagger,” “ Luck of Ashmead,” etce., etc. « Smile, and we smile, the lords of many lands ; Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands, For man is man and master of his fate.” III. OR a long time afterward, Sylvia never could remember distinctly what occurred in that brief scene of fright and woe, on the Fair- grounds. She saw Mrs. Myddleton’s carriage drive up, and Mrs. Myddleton spring out; heard Robert’s cry of despair, as he sprang from her side. Then she knew, she too stood on the ground, while Junior Bolton led the colt away, and a crowd gathered about the white form. Then the young man who had been first to the rescue, commanded them to stand back, Miss Serepta came to Mrs. Myddle- ton’s side, and Robert knelt crying wildly for a physician, as he endeavored to re- vive the fainting girl. Young Dr. Drew came running across the grounds, and after a moment’s consultation, Denmead lifted the stillsenseless form of the girl into the carriage. Miss Serepta and Mrs. Myddleton followed, afid the carriage rolled away, leaving an excited crowd of questioners. Then Sylvia felt a hand on her arm, and saw her old friend Perry Halsted at her side. He drew her hand under his arm, and led her away. ‘Oh; but the horse,’’ she cried vaguely. ‘¢ Junior will look after the horse.’’ ‘« But Robert—” ‘¢ Bob has gone with the doctor. Miss Serepta said I must take you home.”’ She obeyed his touch, but hardly heard his voice. She was trembling violently. Perry talked incessantly, distressed at her pale face, and hoping to restore her more quickly by common places. ‘¢ Seems as if Serepty grew more full o’ sense every day. If I hadn’t had such a swarm o’ cares, I might a married some nice woman years ago, like Serepty. She has such a lot of book-stuff, and is such a hand at similitudes,’’ by which Mr. Hal- —TENNYSON. sted intended to express Serepta’s com- mand of language, ‘‘ but jinin ain’t fur Perry, single blessedness, mortgages, and more likely the Town farm fur sich as he,” and he sighed and looked at Sylvia, They were now out of the Fair-grounds, on the dusty highway. Mr. Halsted touched the arm from which hung the ragged sleeve. ‘‘I’m right glad it w’ant you, Sylvie, as lay there on the ground so white and still. I couldn’t spare my little Sylvie.” ‘¢Don’t! oh, don’t, Mr. Halsted,” broke sharply from the girl, ‘‘ she is dead, and I have helped to.kill her.”’ ‘¢Tut, tut, we don’t know yet, and accidents will happen. I ain’t a denyin’ Bob was kerless. ‘¢ Where are we going ?”’ she interrup- ted pausing in the road. ‘I’m goin’ totake ye home, Sylvie, I hitched old Trot yander.”’ Sylvia put her hand to her head with a hard sob. ‘¢ Home! I have no home,”’ she cried pitifully, ‘‘ don’t call it home where they grudge the bread leat. No, no, Uncle Perry, take me to Greytower. I must know more. Oh! I will be so good, I will beg forgiveness, anything God pleases, if she may only live. Come let us go to Greytower.”’ He could not gainsay her, so turned old Trot’s head toward Greytower, and Sylvia would fain have hurried hisshambling gait. Perry garrulously recounted what he had gathered as the result of the balloon accident. The aeronaut had fallen twenty feet and was seriously injured. Dr. Drew, Senior, was attending him. Sylvia hardly heard the old man. He refused to go into the grounds at Greytower, but promised to wait for her, and alone Sylvia sped through the bloom- ing garden, upon which the sun now cast long slanting rays. - © hw

Page 43

>om- - fur and h e, ” lvia, nds, sted the vie, and ie ” d ” ees oad, and yin’ ‘up- e, I tha ‘ied hey icle just vill ee » to old via rit. on ity WwW, lly er, m- ast The household was in much confusion, and Sylvia’s entrance into the large hall, was hardly noticed by the one servant who was hastily crossing to the stairway. She hurried on, and Sylvia sank down on a large wooden bench under a window, lis- tening nervously to every sound from the end of the hall. She had never been at Greytower before. Only anxiety would have brought her there now. In the face of Robert’s love for his mother, Sylvia thought of her as cold and proud, and had a dread of her presence. But one great fear swallowed up all else. She laid her head against the carved back of the seat, pressing her smooth temples, as if giving herself needless pain, stilled the dull aching of her heart. Presently the door at theend of the hall opened, and Mrs. Myddleton came down the hall. She still wore her hat, and the sad face under the broad black brim, smote Sylvia like a blow. A stern look settled about the mother’s lips, as the library door opened, and Rob- ert, with little Kate clinging to his hand, came toward her. They did not see Syl- via. ; *¢« Mother ! ’’ exclaimed Robert in a iow tone of entreaty. Mrs. Myddleton bent over little Kate. “Go, my child, at once, to my room, find Diadlma there. She came up from the lodge. Do as mamma bids you.”’ ‘‘But Faith, mamma, dear Faith, is she—?”’ ‘* Kate, mother has spoken,” then, as the child obeyed, ‘I cannot talk to you now, Robert. You must not ask it of me.’’ ‘* Mother, dear mother, do not look at me thus. I know I have done wrong in concealing my love for her—but I am punished—oh ! how severely you cannot understand. Mother, tell me, can she live ?”’ ‘*We cannot tell. The doctors fear internal injuries. And should this fear prove groundless, Dr. Drew says there is a hopeless spinal injury.”’ A groan escaped Robert. He leaned — the wall, one arm thrown over his ace. ‘* Maimed for life—and, I, 7have done it—it is more than I can bear—oh! mother, mother, my poor love, my little Faith!” A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 51 At this moment while the mother stood watching her son, every hard tearless sob that shook his frame, sending the keenest anguish through her, Sylvia Wendell left her place, and stood before them. She went up to Robert, and laid one hand on his arm. ‘¢ J must help you bear it, Rob, I share the blame alike. Mrs. Myddleton, if I had not begged your son to take me to the Fair, all this would have been spared. I am the culprit—but Robert loved her. Oh! Robert, Robert, what can I do, what can I do!” In surprise Mrs. Myddleton heard her despairing appeal, and saw Robert grasp the slender hand, and throw his arm about her shoulders. ‘Sylvia, dear old fellow, you would not desert me,’ he cried, in a stifled voice. ‘I forgot all about you ? how did you come here, and have—you heard ? ” ‘¢ Yes—yes,” witha gasp. ‘‘ I came be- cause I thought her—dead. I could not rest without knowing more. Mrs. Myd- dleton, do not be harsh with Rob. We did not know—we never meant—but, oh! how can you ever forgive us, when we candot ‘forgive ourselves. And Robert loved Ler *” ‘ The mother winced at the reiteration of this cry ‘of Sylvia’s, fraught with so much syinpathy. - ‘Thé¢n she drew Sylvia away from the close grasp, that was almost an embrace, Robert leaned upon this com- panion in woe as well as weal. ‘I do not blame either of you, my poor children, she said gently, ‘‘ if I was stern just now, it was because I dreaded to speak the words that must pronounce your own remorse. No reproach of mine can equal Dr. Drew’s verdict.” ‘¢ For you, Miss Wendell, there is no pos- sible blame. Through youthful folly you have learned a terrible lesson. You had better go quietly home now. Robert you must take her thither.” ‘*No, no, Mr. Halsted is waiting for me. Only tell me, is it true Miss Carstone is very poor? must work for her living ?” “Tt is true, but Faith will never work again.” Sylvia shivered, and drew nearer Rob- ert. ‘«If she dies, said he hoarsely,” ‘ 7 cannot live.”

Page 44

ee ee 52 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. ‘« Robert, my son, my darling ! ” Mrs. Myddleton followed him down the hall, but he closed the library door behind him and she stood white and trembling without. Sylvia went to her, and throwing one arm around the trembling form, she called peremptorily ; ‘* Robert! open the door at once.” At the tone of command, the door was opened and the grief-stricken youth see- ing his mother’s face full of love and pain, threw his arms about her, and drew her into the room, with a cry of—. ‘‘ Mother, mother, forgive me, forgive me.” Sylvia shut the door softly and turned away. For her there was no mother’s love or grief to call for atonement. The bitterness of that lonely moment, when she had bravely recalled her friend to his duty, was like a knife in her young heart. Miss Serepta came down the hall her eyes red with weeping. She did not seem surprised to see Sylvia. ‘©The nurse has come,” she said. ‘‘I can go now, Sylvia, will you go with me! where is Mrs. Myddleton ? ” “She is with—Robert—there-!” said Sylvia, pointing to the ‘closed ° door. ‘*Let us go at once,” and. she. hurried Miss Serepta’s steps. The cool pleasaat evening: had sét’ in as they jogged along lenind Trot. Syl- via did not listen to Miss Serepta’s de- tailed account of the examination, and the stupor in which Faith lay. She wanted to close her ears to the awful thought of a life helpless, forever depend- ent upon others. Had she listened she would have understood the relations be- tween Faith Carstone and the man who had that day saved her from being torn and maimed by the wheel in the machine shed. Serepta and Perry chatted volubly and let her mercifully alone. Arriving at the Maythorne gate, Perry said warily: **It ’pears to me Sylvie, we hed bet- ter go right along with you, because Dame Maythorne may hev’ mounted her high-hos’, and she can’t clean out the hull on us, and maybe she won’t be so high-falutin’, if Serepta tries some o’ them similitudes on her. ”’ ‘«T apprehend that appropriate phrase- ology will be inadequate to stem the cur- rent of a chronic choleric temperament,” said Miss Serepta smiling. “ But Sylvia shall have the opitulation of my presence.” ‘*You put it so snug, Miss Serepty. Now would you mind sayin’ it agen ? Tour upit-u-what ?”’ But just here they reached the house, Peter, the dog, had not left Sylvia a moment, save when she entered the hall at Greytower. Peter knew his place was. not there, and had lingered with Perry and Trot. Now Peter instinctively slunk behind the trio, as they entered the white kitchen, and encountered the wrathful eye of Mrs. Maythorne. In every line of his drooping head and tail, Peter betrayed what the others felt. Mrs. Maythorne gave one contemptuous. glance at Sylvia’s companions, then she pointed to the door. ‘Go wipe those dirty feet, and do not enter my kitchen, Sylvia Wendell, as if you owned it. Yougood-for-nothing shiftless girl! | Zhis is the way you re- ward us for the care and the home we give you. You miserable dependent—” ‘* Mrs. Maythorne,’’ interposed Serepta, while Perry sidled toward the door, and tumbled over Peter in so doing, ‘‘ Sylvia has undergone an ordeal to day exceed- ingly pfostrating to her nervous sensibili- tiés—”’ ‘* Miss Serepta Ann, you do not know the viper of ingratitude in that girl’s breast. She has ruined the best horse on the farm, and made herself and young Myddleton the town talk, and there she stands as brazen as—’”’ ‘¢ Aunt Maythorne,”’ cried Sylvia, who until now had stood rigid, before the storm of words, ‘‘if I’ve done wrong I am sorry for it, but if Robert Myddle- ton’s name is coupled with mine, it is not in any disgrace, and you shall not insinu- ate it.’’ “ Listen to the little fool! Nodisgrace to be running around after young men. No disgrace to be seen openly flirting, standing in the arms of a strange young man. Shame on you! on you, you bold Sylvia took a step nearerand cried with firm teeth clenched : ‘¢ You lie when you speak thus ! ”’ At the same moment Mrs. Maythorne’s. heavy hand sent the girl cullen back eo rf7o > Dr & DD Sawret Om a ei — = p> os’ @ mse cms gs tT nn fi

Page 45

hot as if hing 1 re- pive pta, and lvia eed- bili- now irl’s >on ung she vho the ig I dle- not nu- race 1en. ing, ung old vith ne’s. ack against the wall. with a blow that left its deep color on the lovely cheek. Sylvia screamed, Perry Halsted caught her 1n his arms, and Peter, with a low ominous growl, landed suddenly at Mrs. May- thorne’s feet, every bristle raised, and every fang showing. “Tt ain’t inthe natur’ of men—or dogs, to stand this, Mrs. Maythorne,’’ cried Perry Halsted, breathing hard. “ You may rake me fore and aft, but you shan’t touch her agen, or I’ll be bolted.”’ And having gone as far as his one oath, Perry continued to murmur it at inter- vals. But Sylvia recovered from the first effect of the blow, all the evil in her roused to its utmost, sprang to confront Mrs. Maythorne. A very devil seemed to leap into her eyes, and Peter quivered with suspense as he crouched, waiting her word, when the door opened leading from the living-room, and Uriah Maythorne followed by a tall man of thirty or thirty-five entered. ‘My dear,’’ said Uriah with great suaveness, ‘‘ let me present Mr. Bowman. My niece, Mr. Bowman, also my wife.”’ ‘Most happy, I am sure,’’ responded Mr. Edward Bowman, politely. ‘‘I hope I do not intrude.” IV. Had Walter Denmead beheld the pas- sionate fury in Sylvia’s face as she stood there, the marks of the blow still quiver- ing on her cheek, he would have felt only disgust, mingled with regret for a lost ideal. But for Edward Bowman the situation only presented a dramatic, amusing, spectacle, and his glance of admiration for Sylvia’s beauty was so intense, that Sylvia turned pale and drooped her eyes. Uriah Maythorne approached her and said in a fawning tone: ‘‘Sylvia, my child, gowith Mr. Bow- man to the living-room. He has great news for you. Angelina, my love, Mr. Bowman will remain and take supper with us. How de do, Serepty; and how air you, Perry?’’ he spoke excitedly ; some- thing had evidently moved him deeply. He had never intended the young lawyer should follow him to the kitchen, and thus be introduced into the bosom of his family. Especially as that bosom, he knew, was in a condition of volcanic agi- tation owing to Sylvia’s conduct. A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 53 Serepta and Mr. Halsted returned his salutation but prepared at once to depart, and on the way home Mr. Halsted gave Serepta no little trouble in soothing his wrath in regard to Sylvia’s treatment. He declared himself ‘‘ bolted ’’ so many times on their way to the village, that had not Serepta had a soul above punning, she would have suggested that ‘‘ lock-jaw might set in. But she only did her best to soothe him with choice phrases. Mr. Bowman conducted Sylvia to the living-room with grave courtesy. He was the cousin and junior law partner of Mr. Louis Marchant, and had beensent hither on the errand of announcement that had led Walter Denmead to Avon four days previous. He saw Sylvia’s extreme em- barrassment, and veiled the amusement in his merry, Irish eyes, and this ready courtesy stood him in good stead in the days to come. *¢ Sylvia recovered herself quickly, once out of the presence of her now sulky ad- versary, whom they left Uriah striving to mollify. ‘‘Mr. Bowman, you have encountered a strange househuld. I do not know what you have come to tell me, but I know you are Mr. Marchant’s brother and a lawyer. I hope it is about papa’s affairs. Uncle Uriah says there was nothing left for me, but Iam loath to believe this, Iam sure papa told me I should not be poor.”’ ‘¢ Miss Wendell, I am sorry to, say I know nothing about this. Your uncle is unfortunately your guardian, and also ex- ecutor of your father’s will. NoramI Mr. Marchant’s brother, I am his cousin. We are inthe same law office together. I come to-day to oblige him.” ‘¢ What is it then? ”’ she said wearily. ««Sit down, you looked fatigued. I was here at three o’clock to day, but you were at the Fair. I went thither in time to see the disaster occurring to the bal- loon. Sad, was it not?’’ He spoke lightly thinking to divert her. Sylvia shuddered, and made no reply, yet was glad he had not heard of the sec- ond accident. ‘¢ Tam sent here, Miss Wendell to tell you ofa fortune that has fallen to you. You know your mother was an own cousin to Mr. Eldridge, owner of Rose Lynn ?”’ ‘¢ Yes, but I neversaw him. Is he com-

Page 46

54 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. ing home? Will he be pleased to see me? I would work in his kitchen to escape this house, and its slavery and unhappiness, ”’ she spoke eagerly. Mr. Bowman laid a hand over hers al- most carressingly. ‘¢My poor child,’ he said ina tone that sent the first tears of this sad day, to Sylvia’seyes. ‘‘ Mr. Eldridge will never return. He and his wife were lost in that luckless A/aniste, on Lake Superior, six months ago. You are his heir; can you follow me?’”’ ‘* Yes, yes.” ‘‘ Mrs. Eldridge has anephew who will be also an he’r, should you compromise the case, as Mr. Marchant hopes you will. It lies in such a way that you can claim it all, if you wish.” ‘¢ And why shouldn’t 1?’’ she asked quickly. ‘‘IfIam his natural heir, I should have this money. A man can work, is free to live his life as he will. I see no reason for dividing the estats.”’ Mr. Bowman smiled. ‘<I fancied this would be the position taken by one party or the other.”’ “What is this fortune ? Isitreallylarge?”’ A new hope seemed to have sprung into the girl’s eyes. While Bowman was thinking in what a quick masculine man- ner, her mind had grasped the intelli- gence; while he wondered at the keen calculation fn her glance, and attributed it to the same qualities that made Uriah Mayithorne a miser, Sylvia’s feminine in- stinct was jumping to conclusions, build- ing a mighty castle for herself. But who can correctly read a woman’s heart? Not the man wholooks, with the first flush of admiration, into the mysteri- ous windows of her soul. ‘‘T understand Mr. Eldridge’s fortune was very large.”’ ** Would it buy Greytower ?”’ ‘‘ Hardly,” he returned smiling. “ Greytower, Miss Wendell, I think no money can buy.*Like my cousin’s estate, Elmwood, it has a priceless value through inheritance.”’ ‘<T understand. I only meant was the the fortune larger than that of Mr. Myd- dieton ?”’ “In a comparative light, I think as mistress of Rose Lynn you could buy out both my cousin and Mr. Myddleton,”’ ‘ chant desires it. was the reply. ‘¢ And if 1 should zo¢ consent to a com- promise ?”’ “It would go to the Court for arbitra- tration, and you must both abide by the the decision.” “Do you think the decision would be in my favor?” ‘That is impossible to more than sur- mise, Miss Wendell. But as nearest of kin to Mr. Eldridge, you stand the better chance.”’ “Thank you, Mr. Bowman. Now who is the other heir ?”’ “A man named Denmead.”’ ‘¢Do you know anything about him?” “He isa man, who is what they call self-made. Is a mechanic, having worked in the machine shops of the Harlem Rail- road Company, and finally established himself in a responsible position. He also has a patent, with which he thinks to make a fortune. He is a queer fellow, full of socialistic ideas. My cousin knows I never fancied him better than I do. him.”’ Sylvia pictured the rival heir as she listened. . Anelderly man, resembling woodcuts of the Anarchists, wearing glasses, and with a stoop in his shoulders, and repulsive greasy hands. With the arrogance of youth, she decided at once he must be very distasteful. ‘*No,’’ she said resolutely, “I will not share the inheritance. Iwantitall. I am poor; I am lonely; I will duy me friends. Will you tell Mr. Marchant my decision ?”’ “Miss Wendell must not undervalue herself. I am sure anyone must prize you as a friend.”’ ‘¢And Jam learning to prize money and the freedom it begets.’’ ‘¢ Mr. Marchant wished me to say that he desires that you will meet Mr. Den- mead here, or at any place you may ap- point, tomorrow at two o'clock. ‘Ts it necessary that weshould meet ?’’ ‘I think it must be since Mr. Mar- I hope you will remem- ber Miss Wendell, my sympathies are entirely with you?” ‘*Thank you, Mr. Bowman,’ she said giving himher hand with a quick smile, and completing the wreck ot his heart, the prospect of her fortune had already

Page 47

com- vitra- y the Id be 1 sur- est of etter + who m ? ” y call orked Rail- ished He hinks llow, nows acied s she bling aring ders, h the once 1 not I » me t my value > you oney that Den- y ap- ot?” Mar- nem- are said mile, eart, eady

undermined. He departed full of an idea in which he figured to a highly financial advantage, not unmingled with pride and a modicum of love for the girl he might win. It was eight years since Edward Bow- man had been disappointed in winning the only woman he had ever sincerely loved. His cousin and law-partner, Louis Mar- chant, to whom Edward owed almost everything in life, had won from him the love of Katherine Hawthorne, and since then Edward Bowman had never commit- ted himself, although his flirtations had been numerous. Nowhe was at anage when a pretty woman pleased him beyond measure ; while a pretty woman with a fortune was irresistible. Mr. Marchant, who was one of the most straightforward of men, did not relish Bowman’s account of his interview with Miss Wendell, or the eulogies he poured forth over her charms. ‘“«What a fool Ted is, over a pretty face,’”? he broke forth to his wife that evening.” ‘<Is he? ” said his wife, rather absently. “Yes. He is raving over the Wen- dell girl’s beauty, and reports her firmly bent on asserting her sole claim to the estate. A pretty dairy-maid, I suspect. Have you ever seen her Kate ?”’ “‘Oh, yes. She zs lovely. Fair as a lily and as graceful. She is the girl you admired so in church on Sunday that you forgot to find the hymn. Robert Myddleton has been with her a good deal this summer.” ‘Is that the girl? she is very respect- able then.” “¢ They tell me—or Rob says the May- thornes treat her abominably.” ‘¢ So—so—I commence to see daylight. I do hope it will all result satisfactorily.” ‘‘Don’t worry about Ted. It is onlya fancy. He will get over it, or would you like to have me speak to him?” ‘‘T much prefer you should zo#t,” re- turned her husband with rising color, as he met her mischievous glance.” Pro- bably he will recover if Miss Wendell loses the fortune, as in the caseeof Alice Heathcote last year.” ‘¢Thrue fur you! ” laughed his wife, dropping into the brogue, ‘‘ Teddy’s an Irishman like mesilf ! ”

A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 55 ‘* And there is your young Irishman, Louis the Second, howling for you in the nursery. You better gotohim” * * * Sylvia spoke no word to anyone that night after Bowman left. She put aside Mr. Maythorne’s advances haughtily, nor noticed his sulking wife. Once in her room, she knelt and prayed earnestly that this fortune should be hers. Surely no appeal to God, in the interests of Mammon, ever came from lips so little conscious of wrong. While Bow- man talked, the mighty power of this money, to make the future all her heart desired, seemed to present itself like a divine instrument. Once given this money she would as a first step, settle a portion on poor Faith Carstone. No want or care should touch her crippled life. Perhaps—oh! how sweet it would be to have her come and live at Rose Lynn. To be able to every day atone for her own and Robert’s folly. Then there was Miss Serepta Ann Carson, worn out, with school-life. She would give her a home at Rose Lynn— and dear old Uncle Perry! he should not be turned out of his home. ‘ Trot” should still remain, in his rickety stall, and the chickens torment the neighbor- hood. She, Sylvia, would pay the mort- gage. ‘The money should lift all these burdens. And oh! most of all, Sylvia longed for the luxury of her former life. She had never known a day’s want, or a harsh word until she came to the May- thorne farm. Now they were her daily portion, and although ashamed to tell it, she often went hungry, because the food was coarse, and meagrely portioned. With youthful hopefulness, then, she ar- ranged the preliminaries, and before she slept, she saw herself installed at Rose Lynn, Faith her beloved charge, and Serepta her righthand counselor. In un- dressing, however, as the ragged sleeve fell from the white rounded arm, she suddenly remembered those brown eyes that had looked into hers, and felt once more the eager touch with which he examined her arm. The warm blood rushed to her forehead. ‘‘ How good, how kind, and quick he was,” she mur- mured. ‘‘I wonder who it was? and — I never even thanked him?” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Page 48

A New Pear Circular, WILLIS HEN I came down to // . break fast on New 7 +) Year’s day I found in #24 my maila printed cir- cular that read as fol- lows: January 1, 1889. Sir :—Owing to the measures taken against us by the police force in accordance with a recent action of the Municipality of the city of New York, for the prevention of mendicity, I have the honor to submit for your approval, a new system which preserves my interests, while it simplifies your duty. Driven from the comfortable seat near the old aqueduct, that an occupation of forty years duration had taught me to consider as inviolable; aspiring, more- over, to the repose that my long career of labor and probity merits, I take the lib- erty to call your attention to a plan com- prehending this happy result and the continuation of your favors. To-day, January 1, 1889, I retire from public life. I abandon my old stand to the first-comer willing to brave the police. I shall, henceforth, remain in dignified seclusion in my home, relying entirely upon the generosity of a clientele that, I trust, will riot fail me. Of my benefac- tors I have made a careful list, and placed each one in his class, according to the amount of his daily donation. You are one of those, Sir, whose daily alms amounted to three cents ; that is toninety cents per month or ten dollars and eighty cents per year. Each year, then, I will present at the end of December a receipted bill for the amount of your charity. I beg you to consider the saving of time and trouble this plan secures to you. To stop and turn out your pockets for the customary threepennies; to make change if you have none, these, in winter’s snow and summer’s heat, are some of the an- noyances of the old place that you will not regret to be spared. Accordingly your benevolence comes cheaper. Hoping that you will give your assent to this reform of mendicity by affixing STEELL. your signature to this circular and return- ing it to me, I beg you to accept the sin- cere gratitude of your obscure friend and well wisher, FERDINAND FRAZEE, (Blind. ) Central Park West, No.—— (Formerly 8th ave.) After reading this circular I asked my- self if somebody had confounded the New Year’s with April Fool’s day. My unknown practical joker had gone to con- siderable trouble. The circular, as I have suid, was in print, only the paragraph that gave the amount of my alms, and the class to which I belonged was written in ink. That puzzled me, and with the knowledge of my habits, set me to think- ing. Finally I recollected a blind man to whom I had formed the habit of giv- ing every morning regularly, the change left from a nickel after I had paid for my paper. For more than three years, in fact, ever since I had lived on Madison avenue, I had seen him sitting under the wall of the aqueduct on 42nd street, wrapped in a ragged old shawl with an old battered hat on his head, and a tin plate resting on his knee. The grateful and even benevolent aspect of this Bartimeus is what first caught my attention. Next I observed on his breast a placard with thesingle word, B/ind, and nothing more, neither good nor puerile reasons, and that disposed me in his favor. I had even grown accustomed to double my ordinary alms on Monday, in order to keep him from missing my absence on Sunday. Itseemed that this detail had not escaped his sightless eyes, for no re- duction for Sunday was made in the cir- cular. Ought I, now to reply to this letter in a facetious strain and then throw it into the fire? or ought 1 to make inquiries to discover if the address given were ficti- ’ tious? My curiosity had been so highly 56 excited that I chose to seek out the writer of this strange document, and in the af- ternoon of the day of its arrival I walked out to Central Park West. In front of the house, which was the =3 8

Page 49

*turn- e sin- 1 and d.) | my- 1 the My .con- have sraph \d the en in . the hink- man - giv- ange r my ‘Ss, in lison r the reet, n old plate and meus Next with nore, and yuble ler to e on had > re- cir- ar in into es to ficti- ghly riter e af- ilked ; the one I was seeking, I stopped and read over again my New Year's circular. The absurdity of the joke of which I was the victim made me smile, It was impossible that my blind beggar lived in this hand- some apartment-house, which, if not so magnificent as some of its neighbors, still wore a look of self-respect that could only come from a succession of wealthy in- mates. Even the apartment on the fourth floor could not rent for less than two thousand a year. I determined to play the jest out, and penetrated the hall, richly decorated with lincrusta. A tall negro in livery came towards me. ‘«Mr. Frazee?’’ I asked. ‘Fourth floor,” he replied at once. ‘‘ Take the elevator.”’ At the door I paused. tleman blind ?”’ I put the question with so much hesita- tion that the negro looked surprised. He recovered and answered with a short and contemptuous nod, as if the idea that there could be in New York a Mr. Frazee who wasn’t blind, passed the bounds of ridicule. In the elevator, my doubts re- turned with greater force. If it had not been for shame of the elevator boy, I would have turned back and left the house at once. ‘Of course,’’ thought I, ‘‘ the joker who has got hold of me took the name of some respectable person. Fortunately, I brought the circular, and it must serve as an excuse for my intrusion. But if I’m not the first who, under this fallacious pretext, has violated this gentleman’s privacy, 1 may count on a frigid recep- tion.” : Arrived at the fourth floor, I almost decided to go back with the elevator-boy. But he descended too rapidly. ‘‘ Bah! I haven’t come so fa. to retreat now.”’ Saying this, I touched the electric button in front of me, and the door was opened by a servant. ‘Mr. Frazee?” ‘¢Ves, sir; walk in.”’ ‘‘Mr. Ferdinand Frazee ?’’ ‘Yes Sir; will you please walk in?” The hall to which the servant admitted me was dimly lighted, and I could only make out that he was a boy in livery. When he asked for my card I handed him ‘«Is this gen- A NEW YEAR CIRCULAR. 57 the circular by way of letter of introduc- tion. He took it and begged me tobe seated, saying : ‘*Mr. Frazee is not feeling well this afternoon and has not seen anyone, but if you will wait, he will surely make an ex- ception in your favor.’’ Wondering why, I obeyed in silence. As the servant pulled aside the portiére to pass into the next room, I saw him in agood light and recognized the ragged youth who had acted as guide to the blind man of Forty-second street. Left alone, I examined the ante cham- ber leisurely. Ona stag’s horn hung a tattered shawl and a battered hat. I had seen both before. A console surmounted by an oval mirror supported the placard ‘Blind’? I had read so many times. Two terra-cotta busts, flanked this; one representing the master of the house in professional costume, and the other ex- hibited him in correctevening dress. The first had for legend: ‘‘It is better to ex- cite pity than envy.’’ Thesecond: ‘It is better to excite envy than pity.” While I was pondering these contra- dictory proverbs, the servant returned. ‘¢Mr. Frazee says: will you kindly walk in?” I stepped inside a large room furnished expensively and in good enough taste, ex- cept for the pictures and statuary that were ofa painiul nature. A bust of Ho- mer stood onthe mantle; acelebrated and mediocre engraving of “ Milton Dictating Paradise Lost,’ had the place of honor on the wall, and all the other examples of painters’ and sculptors’ art had for their subjects, the infirmity of blindness. In the middle of the room, with one hand resting on an Empire chair, stood the blind man of Forty-second street. I recognized him with some difficulty. He was dressed in black frock coat and trousers of an irreproachable cut. His linen, of which he showed a goodly expanse, was fine and of dazzling whiteness. Over it flowed a _ pa- triarchal beard almost as white. A rib- bon, heavy with medals, hung from his lapel. With a respectful bow Bartimeus vague- ly directed meto achair, and without preamble, but first sitting down in the chair behind him, he said :

Page 50

‘* Whatever hope I may have had for my enterprise—’’ here Mr. Frazee gave a gentle cough. ‘‘I had not dared to hope for the alacrity with which my worthy benefactors—among whom, Sir, I have the honor to count you, have shown in responding to my appeal. This mark of esteem is the most enviable recompense that could crown a well-spent life, and all the kindness I have received heretofore, can not be compared with it.”’ ‘‘Then lam not the first?’’ I stam- mered. The blind man bowed complacently. ‘¢] have received since morning, twenty- s x signatures,’’ said he. ‘‘ A result more gratifying than I expected. At this rate, before the week is ended, my list will be filled. The poets have truly declared that charity is all powerful. She cannot be dammed up; she bursts her bonds or finds another outlet. By punishing men- dicancy as a crime, the City teaches peo- ple that to drop a penny into a tin bucket is not to efficaciously succor the poor ; it teaches people that by sparing the beggar the mortification of sitting in the pubiic view in all weathers, they double the value of their alms. Some egotistic souls have been attracted, doubtless, by that part of my circular which enumerates the advantages of time saved, etc., but I touched that chord only to draw the mi- nority.”’ Iinterrupted him: ‘‘ Your plan is the result then of the recent action of the municipality? ”’ ‘¢ You have said it but I would lie if I affirmed that the Syndicate had never discussed the superseding of intermittent and precarious begging by a plan of fixed and private mendicity. Many times has this improvement been the subject of our deliberations. The city’saction has only precipitated an oft-discussed plan.” ‘« A syndicate?’’ I repeated, struck by the word. ‘‘ May I ask to what syndicate you refer ?’’ ‘¢ What but the Association of Notabie Blindmen of New York? There are ten members. creased. When a vacancy is caused by death, we proceed immediately to elect a new member, after having carefully exam- ined the claims of numerous candidates who beg our suffrages. We are very par- A NEW YEAR CIRCULAR. This number cannot be in- - ticular. For it would not do to admit a Bohemian to a society composed of ten men whose frugality, honesty, credit and long popularity have made them rich enough to live on theirincomes. There, I have said it, but Imust add that inac- tivity would kill us. I used to think of retiring. Some years ago I spoke toa protege about taking my place on 42d street. I soon renounced the idea. No doubt it is sweet to enjoy in peace the fruit of one’s labor, but I repeat, idleness enfeebles us, and besides, you know, a stagnant fortune, one that neither aug- ments nor decreases is not an unmixed blessing. We are forbidden to speculate by a wise rule of the Association. The hazards of change would compromise at once the comfort of our old age and the aim of our association.”’ ‘¢ What is that aim?’’ ‘¢ The formation of a fund for mutual succor. We come to the aid of meritor- ious members of our profession, whom sickness, incapacity, a late start in life or whatever cause, except dissipation, con- demn to bad results. We wish, also to provide for special emergencies, vacations or accidents.” ‘* Accidents ?”’ ‘*Certainly. A blind man sometimes recovers his sight. We think of every- thing. We even dream of creating schools for apprentices. None of us who have been in the business twenty years or more, can think without pain of dishonest or ill-trained beggars occupying our old stands. Ah! the art of beggary has pro- gressed in twenty years! a novice finds that he has volumes to learn. And men- dicity will climb yethigher. Pardon my enthusiasm, Sir, which you must grant is natural, but I forsee the day when our profession will have reached so fine a point that the passer-by can give alms without any exterior sign appearing to mark the recipient from himself. Only the bearing of the alms-taker will reveal him to the initiated. That bearing will render useless the gross means which many blindmen now take to attain their ends. But all this is in the future. The world is not yet ripe for these innovators. Near- est to them in his methods (pardon what appears like egotism) is myself. Have you not remarked that I presented myself act the cor

Page 51

lmit a of ten it and 1 rich There, - inac- nk of » toa n 42d . No ce the leness Ow, a r aug- mixed culate The lise at id the nutual eritor- whom life or 1, con- Iso to ations etimes every- chools » have ‘more, lest or ir old iS pro- - finds 1 men- on my rant is n our fine a » alms ing to Only reveal g will ) many ends. ‘orld is Near- 1 what ve you myself

without parade, without an accordeon or a tray of pencils and note paper? Asim- ple placard with one word, Béind—was all my device. What more is necessary to awaken sympathy? I will add that I have always taken scrupulous care of my person and that care has not been wasted, As you see, Sir, lam not blind by birth merely, but also by vocation.” The orator drew breath while waiting for me to feel the truth of this aphorism. Then he held out the medals which dan- gled from his lapel, saying they had been awarded him by the Association of which he was the most shining member. He turned his sightless eyes sharply on me a moment afterwards. ‘All this time I’ve been talking,” said he, ‘‘and have forgotten to ask the reason of your honored visit. Perhaps you de- sire to pay a year in advance ?”’ ‘¢It is indifferent to me,’’ I murmured, taken by surprise. The blind man touched an electric bell on the table beside him. The boy ap- peared. ‘«Stephen, bring me this gentleman’s account.”’ While Steplien was turning over a ledger that he took from the desk, the old man continued : ‘That young man, whom you recog- A NEW YEAR CIRCULAR. 59 nized and who recognized you in turn, has been a great helptome. Through him I procured your name and address. All last year 1 meditated this project I am just now putting in practice, and I caused Stephen to follow all the clients on whose constant generosity I had learn- ed to depend.”’ ‘‘Here it is,’’ said Stephen. ‘‘ The gentleman owes $10.80.”’ ‘« Will owe, would be more exact,’’ insinuated the blind man, smiling geni- ally, and presenting me with the bill on a handsome salver in refoussé. ‘* Silver,” said the owner, as if he saw me examining it. ‘‘A present from my colleagues of the Syndicate.” I read the inscription with which it was engraved : To FERDINAND FRazeE, The Friend of the Blind. The mendicant, leaning on my arm, conducted me to the threshold, where he handed me the receipted bill with the words : ‘*I shall be pleased to see you here, sir, at any time, when I am sure you will gratefully acknowledge how ingenious is my plan. But if occupation should pre- vent your coming till then, permit me to say au revoir till New Year’s Day, 1890.” A Lullaby. ANNA SWAN REYNOLDS, . LEEP on, thou blessed child, Thy mother watches near. Sleep on, nor hear the tempest wild; Sleep sweet thy sleep, my dear. Sleep sweet, my baby dear, Thy father’s boat’s at sea. Sleep on, nor fear, his boat is near; Sweet chiid, he comes to thee. Dream on, thou little child, Bright angels near thee keep; They bring sweet dreams to make thee smile Smile on, nor wake to weep. Wake! wake! thou blessed child, Wake for the night is past. Safe from the raging tempest wild Thy father comes at last. VoL, CXX.—No. 5.

<a et Se

Page 52

A Year in the Home. JANUARY. NEW YEAR DAY’S CUSTOMS. T is more than a pity that the good old Dutch custom of making and receiving calls upon the first day in the year has been dying out among us. Every year, with the possible exception of last, has seen fewer and fewer homes thrown open as of yore with a hospitable welcome to all friends and friends’ friends who might be inclined to call and avail themselves of that hospitality. But last New Year a decided backward jump was made to the days when ‘‘ come one, come all” was the watchword; and, judging from indications, many more will follow the lead and be ‘‘at home” this year. Even in the summer when the over burdening and overpowering temperature made all ideas and plans for winter as vague and remote as possible, one frequently heard on hotel piazza and sea- side promenade, scraps of conversation to indicate that a good old-fashioned winter was looked forward to by all. Indeed, the feminine world seems to have awakened to the fact that diréctotre gowns and old-time flowing sleeves, ret- icules and bead-bedecked coiffures are to be worn, that such costumes will appear to better advantage if the wearer is enter- taining and entertained after the old-time manner; dancing stately minuets and cotillions, rather than the latter day waltz, giving noon-day feasts and calling them ‘‘luncheons’’ instead of ‘ break- fasts,” and setting the evening reception hours much earlier than has been the style for the last decade. So, with all these contemplated changes, it is pro- posed to begin the year by extending to all male friends the old-time right hand of welcome on New Year day. Of course no young woman will essay to. ‘‘ receive” without a chaperone, who may be her mother or some married friend. But this will not be a deterrent to any, for chaperones can always be found whose delight it is to gather about them a bevy of bright girls to assist in social duties. The subject of a New Year’s day toilet By Aucusta S. PRESCOTT. is always a vexed one for the fair sex, at least, for those of them who would fain clothe themselves in trained and décol. leté dresses, yet who hesitate to do so be- cause all traditions are against décolleté in the day time. To be sure when the rooms are darkened and taper, gas, or electric light is supplied, there is a sem- blance of night, but even with this ar- tificial arrangement, full dress 1s not considered ‘‘good form.” While, to wear one dress in the afternoon and another in the evening, making the change at twilight offers too many prac- tical difficulties. Callers are apt to flock in profusion at about that time, so that no hostess can be sure of an uninterrupted minute. And everybody knows that to keep a New Year guest waiting, is an unheard of thing. So the dilemma shows but one way of escape, namely, to wear a house toilet that will be suitable at morning, noon or eve. For matrons, a dinner dress of black orcolored silk, elbow sleeves, square or V shaped neck, relieved as one pleases. by jets, diamonds, or other ornaments, and made elegant by the dress-maker’s art is above criticism, and is sure to be admired, while the hair-dressing may be made as elaborate and becoming as possible. Many fancy pins are worn. Long ones, comb shaped, high pointed ones and a little army of daggers and arrows project in every direction from my lady’s coiffure. For young women the light bengalines, Henriettas, and cashmeres offer such variety of color and quality that some- © thing just suitable can always be found. Black net makes a pretty costume with ribbons and flowers. These materials are softer, and hence more manageable than heavy materials, and are considered ‘ more appropriate for an all day’s toilet. If those who are to receive together take care to select their dresses to harmonize, one with another, the result may be made wonderfully pretty. Three dresses, one of pale green, another light pink, anda third, a delicate corn color, make a

Page 53

ex, at 1 fain décol- so be- olleté n the aS, or . sem- is ar- ; not e, to and the prac- flock lat no upted iat to is an vay of toilet on or 2ss_ of square leases. nents, aker’s to be may ing as worn. ointed s and from lines, such some- — ound. » with terials geable dered toilet. r take onize, - made S, one and a ake a A YEAR IN charming combination, and if, with the wearers of these, there is a chaperone dressed in a handsome gown of black lace with gold embroidery, little more can be desired in the way of a color picture. A little care should also be taken to provide chairs that do not clash in color with the dresses, so that, for example, the young woman who is as lovely as an artist's fancy could paint her, as she stands clad in shimmering green, may be able to rest for an instant without making herself a nightmare, by sinking into a light blue chair. A portiére of becoming shade can be draped for a background, or a scarf thrown over a chair of objectionable hue. Matters such as these are of slight detail, but important when it is taken into con- sideration that one remains stationary: nearly all the time, scarcely stirring from one’s post of duty during the entire recep- tion hours. What to eat, how to serve it and where, are always knotty points, especially if one has a small reception-room with little or no space for tea tables, chocolate stands, or biscuit trays. In such cases a small spread is often provided out in the hall, and presided over by a waiter who offers the guests, as they depart, the hospitality of the house. In larger establishments, a dining-room back of the parlor is thrown open, and guests are invited by the hostess to repair to it. It is seldom on these occasions that the tables are presided over by the ladies of the house, as the many coming and going guests demand constant attention. Bouillion with salt, but no pepper, is always on the menu, and this, with raw, pickled or stewed oysters, small sand- wiches and cakes, make a_ respectable showing. Cold sliced meats may be ad- ded, also pickles, preserves, fruits and bon-bons, but a more limited repast will be found quite as satisfying, for no one Stays to partake of a full meal. On the vexed wine question, one can say little. Only this—remember that your wine glass is not the only one that is held to a man’s lips during the day, and that your wine and your Roman punch and your fancy drinks add one More to the already bewildering list of Mtoxicants that have been offered him, THE HOME. 61 to lead him astray when New Year re- solves are still fresh upon his mind and conscience. In the hope that this may happen to meet the eye of some of the sterner sex who contemplate a New Year round of calling, let this one word of advice and caution be appended. Do not—I say it authoritively — do not touch upon the weather as a topic of conversation. If you could but be the hostess and hear the vast number of widely varying opinions as to the climate, both present and in store, it would disgust you for all time with the subject. Nor is the matter of calling, nor the number of guests one has received, etc., a fresh topic. To be sure it is not easy to find things to say when thrown suddenly upon neu- tral ground, often with no hint of an- other’s tastes, and no knowledge of another’s accomplishments nor pursuits. But then there is always the subject of health, the ‘‘ how very well you are look- ing.’’ that every woman expects, and there is the decoration of the rooms, about which it is permissible to speak, and it is also appropriate, at this time of all times, to inquire after the health of the family, if one is acquainted. A party of merry girls, hoping to en- liven the monotony of ‘‘receiving,”’ hit upon a little scheme whereby they might at the same time reward those who were ex- ceptionally happy in the choice of remarks. A number of small bows and arrows were selected and fastened together with bits of bright ribbon and a silver pin at- tached. As a caller rose to go he was accompanied to the parlor door by one of the young hostesses, and if he had uttered at no time during his stay a word con- cerning either the weather or the number of people out calling, he was presented with a little ribbon bedecked bow and arrow, which was fastened to his coat by the fair one’s hands. It is a reflection upon the resources of our small talk when the narrator is com- pelled to record that out of four-score calling acquaintances, but five received these badges of honor. Beware of that bugbear, the weather. He who discusses it, *‘ Is louted and laughed to scorn For the veriest dolte that ever was borne.” 9 Pins gas AREA ie eee oa et a Moe a Cac eninint ees”

Page 54

BY MARIAN C. A fMlidsummer Rose on Twelfth=Night. L. REEVES. Author of ‘‘A Wave O’ the Sea,”’ etc., etc. (6 THINK you arte very wrong, Rhoda!” ‘¢ Actually. Well!” ‘Very, very wrong, Rhoda,” the first voice went on, never pausing for the mocking answer that came out from among the midsum- mer roses clambering everywhere about the broad, sunny face of the old: fashioned farm- house. ‘¢ Very, very wrong, Rhoda. It may be too late to say it, but I do think you ought to wait until to-morrow, when your cousin Vance Goodwin—” ‘¢ My cousin!” Vance Goodwin, who had been wan- dering leisurely through the labyrinthine shrubbery in quest of the house, stood still where he was, behind a den e rose- arbor. ‘¢Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves,’ he thought. ‘‘ It issome good, however, to hear I have a cousin, if she would acknowledge the relationship in a tone rather more friendly. The first kind little voice—”’ That first voice was resuming the subject: ‘« Well, if he is not your cousin, Rho- da, he is at least the cousin of your poor, dear adopted mamma. And just because she put off, and put off, and died without making a will in your favor—”’ ‘«Stop, Nell!’’ There was a faint sob through the words. ‘‘Stop, dear. I won’t have a word that seems a reproach to one who was so good to me. I wouldn’t have her last hours disturbed by any thought of a w li, and I won’t have it spoken of now.” Vance Goodwin had shifted his position slightly, so that ne could see the house: the girl in the light, summery traveling- dress, traveling-satchel in hand, who still lingered on the threshold, apparently re- luctant to leave; the other girl on the porch-steps, among the roses—a tall, white rose of a girl, for all the heavy black draperies about her. She was a revelation to Vance Good- win. It was the first time he had ever heard his old maid cousin, Anna Vance, had any one at all belonging to her. «*Dear Rhoda, I’d not hurt you for the world!’’ Nelly here broke in upon his thoughts. ‘‘Only, I do think you are wrong. If you would only wait until he comes—or just leave a note, or but a mes- sage for him! I suppose it zs too late to say it—but, oh, dear, I do think you are wrong !”’ Rhoda shrugged her shoulders under the long, black folds of her veil. ‘¢ Considering you’ve said it every day for the last week, Nell, perhaps it is rather late. What good it would do tostay and tell this interloping cousin of—hers—that he is arobber and murderer, because he comes lawfully to take away the only home I ever knew, and to break my heart.” She stopped short. She would not sob over the home; it was only the kind, adopted mother she had lost who should have her teas. She reached up and gathered her last spray of those June roses, then turned and held out her hand with a brave smile to her companion. ‘Come, Nell, we have just time left to walk comfortably to the station.’’ She dropped behind her friend an in stant. -Vance Goodwin, peer:ng out more closely, saw her go down on her kuees, and kiss the threshold which she never meant to cross again. And then she was going down the path, arm-in-arm with Nell, and tucking into her belt the roses she had gathered. Nelly looked askance at her. ‘«¢ Do you know what day it is, Rhoda?” ‘«What day? The twen 2 ‘¢Midsummer’s Day. And you know the spell of a rose gathered and worn by a maid on a midsummer’s day ?”’ Rhoda smiled, though rather faintly; she knew her friend was trying to lighten the gloom of this home-parting. ‘‘It brings down the wrath of the fairies, Neli, for broken bow and sca’. tered bloom.’’ ‘1 don’t know about that; but if that same June rose is worn on Twelfth Night the maid’s true love will come and gather it from her bosom, ané the story will end in the good old way. ‘So they were married, and lived happy ever after.’ Ob, = ey ~*~ Ae tel l — —_— 4 7 = — — — 2 by et os = of co

Page 55

on his 7Ou are intil he a mes- . late to you are > under ery day 5 rather tay and s—that ause he y home t. ” not sob > kind, should 1er last ed and mile to left to an in- it more knees, > Never ie path, 1g into \. 1oda?” 1 know orn by aintly; lighten of the 1 scai-s if that Night gather ill end y were .’ Oh, Rhoda, and you will, be with us next Christmas. We always keep the good, old-fashioned Christmas-tide till Twelfth Night, and what a pretty story it would be it this Cousin Vance Goodwin ——” They had reached the gate, but from his rose-screen Vance Goodwin could see Rhoda lay her hand on the top bar, and turn and face her friend. Her eyes were flashing; she was no longer a white rose, but a very blush one. ‘‘ Well, you are the best friend I have left, and your mother is just too kind and good to take me home to teach the little ones. But if I have to meet this Vance Goodwin at your house I shall just run away, and bide away ‘* Bide a wee, Rhoda, my dear, for you are running away now.” Rhoda had quickened her pace, and Nell after her, and they were both lost to view round the turn in the road. But this Vance Goodwin still stood looking out on vacant space. He was a little pale, but his eyes sparkled, as he roused himself. ‘‘Miss Nell will be serviceable,’ he said; ‘‘it shall go hard, but I will get her to serve myturn. I shall find out her ‘local habitation and her name.’ As for mine——”’ * * * * * ‘Mr. Wynne.”’ It was Twelfth Night; and Rhoda from her place at the piano glanced up and gave her lover a smile, instead of the white hand, that was so busy with the keys ; Her lover. If she did not admit the fact, no one else questioned it. Certainly he had been devoted to the young governess at The Hollies ever since Nell Hollingsworth introduced him asa friend of hers, four or five months ago. Rhoda was looking wonderfully pretty to-night, notwithstanding the simple black dress she wore. But Nell herself had pinned a bunch of roses on her breast, and perhaps they reflected some- hing of the color coming and going in ve bright face uplifted to welcome Mr. omne. “here was some in his face, too, as he said : ‘«Surely they don’t mean to keep you here all the evening ?’”’ A MIDSUMMER ROSE ON TWELFTH-NIGHT. : 63 ‘©Oh, but I’m keeping myself. They are everything that is kind. But—but I’ve been a little homesick all day; it is some comfort to do something for others’ enjoyment.” Her sweet eyes filled, as she turned them away. Then she turned them back to him, smiling. ‘*Go and take Nell out, Mr. Wynne, or the beautiful Miss Rivers. I'll play you such a waltz.”’ ‘‘Not I. I shall stay and turn your music for you. Only I shall expect some pay for my services.”’ ‘« Some pay ?”’ ‘¢A ro-e from the bouquet you wear.” ‘«Oh, you have none in your button- hole. But you will have to wait until I finish this piece; I can’t break in upon the dancers.” ‘*No; but you can kindly permit me to make my own selection. I always make it a rule to be prepaid.” She nodded at him, with a smile. ‘¢Your choice, then; but you must just take the first you touch.”’ How was it that the first one he touched was a withered, shriveled, old ghost of a dead rose, which, unknown to Rhoda, Nell had buried out of sight in the exact middle of the bunch? He drew it out; and if just then the dancers were not broken in upon, it was because there was more music in their feet than there was in Rhoda’s trembling fin- gers, as she glanced up at the withered thing in Wynne’s hand. Nell, waltzing past just then, threw him a merry glance over her shoulder into the music-room. But he missed it ; he was looking down so into Rhoda’s startled eyes. ‘¢ A midsummer rose on Twelfth Night —Rhoda, do you know what that means? ”’ She tried to laugh it off, and not notice that, for the first time, he called her ««Rhoda.”’ ‘*That is some trick of Nell’s,’’ she said, as steadily as she could through her blushes; she must have stolen it out of the leaves of my Bible. It is from my dear old home, Mr. Wynne; I don’t think I can give it away.” ‘*No; but come to me with it, sweet- heart.”’

Page 56

The unlucky waltzers had a time of it for the next bar or two. ‘¢ Promise me, Rhoda, my own swect white rose——”’ Down went the pretty hands on a false note. ‘*Earn it, then,’’ she said, ‘and turn the page. Yes, yes, I must turn over a new leaf; it will never do to play so shockingly. There, go away, and dance with Nell x ‘¢ And tell her?’”’ * * * * +” * I said she was my darling pet; I kissed her lovely lips and brow, And fondled her within my arms— But would she let me do so mow ? Pleased with the little maid’s conceit, I laughed to hear her thus avow Her love for me, but since that time I oft have wondered, would she mow ? I did. Her promise I recalled, And its fulfillment dared to claim; Quoted the very words she spoke— She laughed, and then her answer came: 64 THEN AND NOW So there was a wedding long before the New Year grew old; and Nell was bridesmaid, as she had earned the right to be. After all, Rhoda took it very quietly when Wynne ventured to break it to her, before the wedding day, that he was the hated Vance Goodwin. ‘¢ And so Nell knew all the time. But if it had been your fate to fail, instead of Wynne——”’ ‘‘If it were any good———_ There, it was you began it first.” Then and Now. BY T. H. FARNHAM, CALLED her by the sweetest names— Then, to be sure, she was but ten, And I twice that, and ten years more Have intervened ’twixt now and then. Then, seated on my lap, she threw Her tender arms in girlish glee Around my neck, and laughing, said That she my little wife would be. ’Twas but, of course, a childish whim ; Perhaps her gratitude to show, For all the candies, dolls and toys I did upon my pet bestow. I watched the opening bud expand Into a rare and beauteous flower; I felt my yielding heart succumb A slave to love’s resistless power, Dare I ask her to be my wife, And tell her she had promised so ? For she to me far dearer was Than in those days—ten years ago. «“’Tis true I promised, as you say, That I your Zé¢#/e wife would be, In those far days—ten years ago— But not your 47g one—do you see?” iam le wa

Page 57

O you know girls, I have decided to go into the Bellevue Hospital Train- ing School and study to be a nurse.”’ ‘¢Why, Marjorie Bruce, what do you mean?’ cried a chorus of sweet, girlish voices. ‘¢ Exactly what I have said. It is one of my New Year’s resolutions, which I hope I shall be able to keep. Now, chére Madame, don’t look so very grave over it, but do give me just a little more of that delicious coffee.” And she smilingly passed her cup to her hostess, Madame de La Ville, a pretty, dark-eyed French- woman, at whose house this party of young women were wont to meet one af- ternoon every week, ostensibly for the purpose of reading and chatting over their work, in Madame’s native tongue, in or- der to ‘‘keep up their French,”’ but gen- erally ending as to-day, in their all talk- ing English. As Marjorie said, it was so sweet to hear Madame’s English, that it was a pity to miss it. Though the short winter’s afternoon was already drawing to a close, the lamj's had not yet been lighted, and they sipped their coffee, fragrant indeed, and served in the daintiest of china, by the open fire. Marjorie sat full in its light, her soft brown hair, tinged with its ruddy glow. On her knee lay her work, a half com- pleted sock, and a great ball of stout, grey yarn, thestoutest and strongest to be had in the city, with which she was busy knitting socks for the poor, the outcome of another New Year's resolution. ‘¢ But Marjorie,”’ put in May Downing, ‘‘think of the horrid things you would have to do, and you might take small-pox or some other nasty disease and die.”’ ‘¢Qh that is what mother says; if you are all going to take part against me, I must leave. It is late anyway, so Jon soir chere Madame. 1 am afraid we have not done much French to-day. It is to be hoped I shall be more of a success at my nursing than I am at it.” Ginder The Llectric Light. LINDA BELL COLSON. 65 As Miss Bruce wended her way along the quiet streets which led her homeward, her thoughts assumed a somewhat sombre tinge in keeping with the fast-gathering darkness. To be a nurse, to devote herself to the poor and suffering was certainly a noble ambition; it would bring her peace, if not happiness, but at twenty-four one has still youth’s unreasoning longing for hap- piness. Marriage she had decided was not for her. She cared nothing for the two or three men who sought her hand, and Jack had disappeared out of her life as completely as if the earth had opened to receive him. It was cruel of Jack. They had been engaged for more than a year, and were all in all to each other. Nothing, she used to think, could ever separate two such lovers, and yet— Ah, well, perhaps it was better so, though Jack had been everything she most admired in a man, tall, strong, fair to look upon, and moreover true and honor- able, winning the respect of everyone. It was just a year ago to-night, the 2d of January, that he went away. Just one year! it seemed like a life-time, and all on account of that detestable Captain Frere. The Captain had been very attentive to her for a long time. He was handsome, decidedly fascinating, and undoubtedly as much in love with Miss Bruce, as it was possible for him to be with anyone. She had not meant to flirt with him, cer- tainly not, b.t s»mehow at that New Year’s ball of Madame de La Ville—and what charming balls Madame did give— she had danced a great number of times with him, far more than was right, she ackuowledged now. But she was excited then, she had not realized how her con- duct would affect her lover, and Captaia Frere did dance divinely, far better than poor Jack, who assuredly was not a danc- ing man. It was a perfect ball, and she was enjoying herself to the utmost, when suddenly, as she paused for a moment’s rest, Jack hurried up to her and whispered in a strange, hard voice:

Page 58

66 UNDER THE ELECTRIC LIGHT. ‘Good-bye, Marjorie. I hope you may be happy. I shan’t trouble you any more—’’ and he was gone. Good-bye? She did not quite under- stand what he meant, but at once the brightness, the joyousness faded out of the evening; the ball was a disraal failure, and Captain Frere the most detestable of men. Next day she wrote Jack a loving little letter, pleading for forgiveness, and beg- ging him to return to her, but the mes- senger brought back the information that Mr. Bartlett had gone out of town, leav- ing no address. The Lvening Post an- nounced that Mr. John Barrett, a young artist of unusual ability, had sailed for Europe, to be absent for an indefinite period of time. Once only since then had she heard of him, and that again through the medium of a newspaper, when his picture ‘*‘ Alone’’ was hung in the Paris Salon. He was beginning to be a famous artist now, and had doubtless quite forgotten her. Oh well! probably she too would forget—when working hard in the hos- pital nursing the Her thoughts were rudely interrupted, and she was brought to a sudden stand- still by something tightly twisted around her ankles— It was a quiet retired street. The nearest electric light was evidently in a fitful mood and just then cast but a feeble glim mer around. Was it some terrible trap laid for her? Her heart beat fust with terror. She strove to call aloud tor help, but no sound came from her trembling lips. At the same moment i: ihe darkness behind, she heard a musical masculine voice exclaim impatiently : ‘¢ What the deuce is round my legs! ”’ With quick feminine intuition Marjo- rie understvod it all. Her ball of stout yarn had falled from her bag, while she was absorbed in her thoughts—she and the owner of the musial voice were bound together in its many twistings—she strove impatiently to free herself, while from the other end she could hear a vig- orous stamping mingled with muttered imprecations—but in vain. The situation became more and more ludicrous, and at last, in a voice choking with suppressed laughter, Marjorie called to her fellow sufferer : ‘«Would you kindly back up this way; it is my ball of yarn.” Slowly, solemnly, the two backed until close to each other. ‘«T must find the ball before I can dis- entangle us. Oh, I beg your pardon a thousand times.”’ ‘«Pray don’t mention it. Allow me,” and the young man (for young she soon discovered him to be) was down on his knees in the snow, searching around for the recreant ball. Marjorie stood helpless, overwhelmed with confusion, and an irresistible desire to laugh. The broad back, bending down, had somehow a familiar look, which made her feel that if the laughter escaped her, it would end in a helpless burst of tears. Was ever any girl placed in such a ridiculous position before ? ‘ Ah, here it is at last,’’ he said, rising; ‘*T began to fear that I i The electric light blazed forth as if by magic, illuminating the scene for a mo- ment. ‘6 Jack!” 66 Marjorie!” ‘¢Oh, Jack, Jack,’’ 1 am so glad to see you,”’ laughing and sobbing al! at once, and forgetting everything but that her two hands were seized in a strong, hearty clasp. ‘«*And you are not married, Mar- jorie?”’ ‘Do you think I would be here if I were ?’’ making a faint effort to tree her- self. ‘‘My darling, that blessed, blessed yarn; but for its aid I never would have known this. They told me six months ago you were married to Captain Frere. To day I was just here for a few hours on business, and hating the place for its memories of you, I was leaving it again by the midnight train. Oh, Marjorie, my love, I’ll never let you go again. Dearest, won't you let this knot, which has been the means of drawing us together, be an earnest of that other knot to which there will be no undoing ?”’ Marjorie did not go into the hospital ; but, in the course of time, she had as much nursing to do as she desired. Do: Ea I se

Page 59

alled vay; antil dis- na 1e, ” ;00n his for med sire ling 0k, hter less girl ton ng; mo- Beauty and the Beast. A LITTLE PLAY FOR LITTLE PLAYERS. BY MABEL WARE. Characters. Beast. 1 am a beast, and therefore, ud 4 ag , wit sa) thou shalt die. A MERCHANT. ‘THE Beast. BEAUTY. Merchant. Oh, no, kind Beast, Oh, : , : oe gentle Beast, be calm, ScENE I.—TueE Beast’s GARDEN. Spare me, most noble Beast ! I’ve done Music. As the Curtain rises, enter no harm. the MERCHANT, slowly, and crosses stage, (Kneeling with every sign of wild fear.) looking about him, then stands. Beast. Didst thou not seek my gar- Merchant. For six long hours I’ve den ? wandered to and fro, Merchant. Seek it? Nay, Yet from this garden by nomeanscan go. I only found it when I lost my way. (&és- I don’t know where I am, and—truth to ing.) say— Beast. My private dinner ate? Begin to think I must have lost my way! Merchant (smacking his tips). A noble This state of things is really quite absurd. feast. (Walks about, and looks round.) It does you credit, though you are a A most delicious place, upon my word. Beast ! Just now I found a table in the shade, Really your Highness’ cooks are Where a most royal and sumptuous feast east (walking away). Quite asight was laid, My roses were? Which much refreshed me! Merchant. Yes, they were something (Wipes his mouth, and laughs.) like! Here are roses, too. Beast. And thou hast dared to pick I may as well pick Beauty one or two. them ? My little girl will like them Therefore die. (As he gathers roses, loud chords on Merchant. It was my daughter, sir! piano.) Not 1! Not I! (Znter the BEAST.) I picked them for my Beauty, if you Beast. Hold! Forbear ! please. Merchant (starting back). Oh, mercy! Pardon, great Beast; I ask it on my mercy! gracious lord ? knees. Beast. 3eware ! (Kneels again and clasps his hands.) Dost thou not see I am a beast ? Beast. Your daughter, wretch ! Merchant (with conviction). Ido. Merchant, Yes, gracious Majesty, Each word your lordship saysis very true; As good a little girl as well can be. I see you are a beast, I know not why. I can refuse her nothing: no one can. 67

Page 60

68 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. Beast. Bring her to me at once, un- grateful man. Purchase thy safety with thy daughter’s life. Depart at once, or dread a monstrous knife! Fail to return or send thy child instead, And I will seek thee out, and kill thee dead. (Music. The Beast chases the MERCHANT round the stage and drives him off.) CURTAIN. Scene II.—Tue Beast’s GARDEN. (As before.) Music. As the curtain rises, enter the MERCHANT and BEAUTY, arm in arm; they lock about them cautiousty, and ap- pear very nervous. Merchant. Here is the place where dwells this horrid thing ! (Loud chords on piano.) Hark! What is that ? Beauty (wildly), 1 hear a spirit sing. Merchant. ’Tisthe night-jar—a bird of ill- repute. Shut up, vile warbler! (Shaking his fist.) Beauty. Father all is mute! Had you not better fly at once? Merchant. Dost fear ?>— I know I’m horribly afraid, my dear. How can I fly, and leave thee to thy fate ? I wil) not go! (With resolution.) (Loud chords on piano.) The Beast ! too late! too late ! Oh, I must leave, although it breaks my heart. The Beast draws near ; I tremble, and de- part. (Embraces Beauty hastily and runs out.) Beauty. Oh, dear! I am all in a flut- ter and fright. I will follow papa. (Runs after him, and then stops ab- ruptly.) No, that wouldn’t be right. I am horribly frightened, yet here I must stay, For papa will be killed if I hurry away. (Sits on the ground.) (Pauses, then adds firmly.) I won’t /ook at the Beast! if to die is my fate, I will shut my eyes tight, and in darkness I'll wait ' (Loud chords on piano; she starts up.) He is coming! I hear him! Oh, horror! Oh, dear ; I wish—how I wish—I had never come here ! (She shuts her eyes, and turns her back on the Beast, holding one hand over face.) (Loud chords on piano.) (£xter the Beast.) Beast. Oh, gentle Beauty, do not tear at all ; Welcome, sweet welcome. At thy feet I fall, (Aneels.) And bid thee welcome to my home. Enough ! This Beast loves Beauty, though he’s somewhat gruff. Beauty (timidly). Indeed, my Lord ; I’m sure you’re very kind ! Beast. Iam not handsome, but I have a mind. Oh, do not look at me; speak ! Beauty. Talk on, great Beast, I’d lis- ten for a week ! His voice is charming, and-delights the ear ; In fact, I think I’d listen for a year. ( Aside.) Beast. Stay with me, Beauty! be my little love ! Beauty. For “ little love,’’ I stay not. (With dignity.) but hear me Beast (taking her. hand). Dearest Dove, Stay with the poor Beast! Turn to day his night ! Beauty. My gentle Beast ! (Zurns very slowly and looks at him.) Oh, what a horrid fright ! Oh, let me go! Ah, you thrice hideous thing! Let go my hand. (Wrenches it from him.) You can’t love anything ! (Beauty runs out, leaving the BEast gasz- ing after her in an attitude of despair.) Beast. The dream is vanished, and the flower is withered, - The Beast is sold and all his hopes are shivered, He can’t love anything, for he’s a fright, Then farewell life and joy, and welcome night. (He throws himself on the ground.) (Sa Be | Meth My | To w And He d My Toh (Kn How Poor (Th Bea (She An | The Her Ise Wel &. cy

Page 61

's up.) yrror ! come - back ver t fear feet I is.) 10me, he’s ord ; have r me d lis- s the year, e my stay arest | day m.) eous gaz- and are ght, ome | (Soft music. Enter BEauty, slowly.) Beauty (musingly). ‘* This Beast loves Beauty, though he’s somewhat gruff,”’ Methi:ks the Beast was gentle, Beauty rough. My hasty words I thoroughly repent, To win his pardon now is my intent. (Sees him.) And there he lies. Forgive the words I said. (Going up to him.) He doesn't answer ! Oh, I fear he’s dead ! My thoughtless speech has killed him. Woe, is me! To have seen what I have seen, see what I see ! (Kneeling beside him and wringing her hands.) How gladly would I stay with him ! For- give, Poor Beauty, Beast. Oh, if he could but live. Beast. And so he can, if Beauty wills it so. Beauty. Are you not dead, indeed! (Starts up soyfully. ) Beast. Indeed, love; no! I’m very much alive to all you’ve done. ( Rising.) (Zhe Beast goes out hastily, BEAUTY és about to follow, but pauses and gath- ers a rose. (Soft music. She pulls the petals off.) Beauty (softly). He loves me; he loves me not! He loves me. (She must repeat this till the BEAST re-en- ters.) (Enter the Beast as a Prince ) Beast. She who could love a Beast a Prince has won, An evil fairy wrought this change in me; The Great Enchanter—Love ! now sets me free. Beauty. Oh, I’mso happy! you won’t change again ? He smiles and shakes his head.) Henceforth the wicked fairy works in vain. Isee my poor old father coming here, (Enter the MERCHANT.) Welcome, papa! There’s nothing now to fear? Merchant. Where isthe Beast? Beast. My honored sir, I’m he! The only Beast that you are like to see. Merchant. Are you the Beast? I’m very glad indeed ! (Politely. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 69 Pray don’t apologize? There is no need ! I’mtired andhungry. Lead me tothe feast! We’ll drink the health of Beauty and the Beast. (Music. They all dance.) CURTAIN. This little play can be acted by two children, if Beauty takes the Beast’s part in the first scene, and the Merchant in the second ; but the lines after, ‘‘ Henceforth the wicked fairy works in vain,’’ must be omitted, while Beauty continues, ‘I’m tired and hungry, etc.’”’ As any other dress can be worn under the Beast’s costume—the changes of parts are very easily managed. The dresses are simple and can be made with little trouble. The beast must have a mask, any animal’s head will do, and a long fur cloak ; gloves of fur or wool, of the same color asthecloak; and any disguise for the feet, if the cloak does not conceal them. The Merchant should have a wig and a beard. A long dark gown drawn in at the waist by a running string makes an effec- tive costume. He should lean on astick and walk with a slight limp. The prince should wear a similar gown, of dark green trimmed with gold braid, a large sash of yellow tied at the side, anda turban to match the sash in color. A mous- tache of false hair or burnt cork is requisite. Beauty may be dressed in any sort of picturesque fashion, atrain to the gown is more effective, a skirt of red decorated with gold paper, cut out in various shapes, overskirt fringed with gold, and a peaked bodice of blue, looks bewitching. A large feather fan completes the costume, with a drapery of black or white lace and gilt coins arranged in the hair. The scenery can be verysimple: Some dark shawls or material, thrown over a couple of clothes-horses ; upon whichcan be pinned evergreens, paper and artificial flowers, with pot plants set around if they are attainable. A curtain is not necessary, as there is no change of scene. Beauty and the Beast can dance off the stage (7. ¢., out of the room), at the end of the play. For the music, bright simple airs are the best; aset of quadrilles or old coun- try dances, for instance, of course, choos- ing those tunes that seem most appropriate to the dialogue and the situation.

Page 62

Work For Little Girls. HOW TO DRESS A CHRISTMAS DOLL. Dolls, like their little mistresses, always look pretty when they are dressed in frocks make of soft knitting and crochet, and the dress illustrated is a particularly pretty one, as it is made rather fussy- looking by the two flounces that are worked round the lower edge. The quantity of wool depends upon the size of the doll, but where on- ly a small dress is to be made, it is a useful way of turaing to ac- count those many trouble- some odd lengths of wool that ac- cumulate amongst the hoards of ev- ery worker, as the flounces and the scal- loped edges > may be of a different shade of color to the body of the frock. The dress is commenced with a round of fifty chain. First row: Pick upa loop from each of the next two stitches, draw the wool through all three together (counting the loop already on the hook) 1 chain. Work in the same manner for 26 rows, making a little allowance for the shape in taking up the stitches. After the 17th row, work backward. After the 2oth row, the front and back pieces must be worked separate-* ly, in order to make the arm holes. The tront iscrocheted upon theeleven middle fans of the pattern, the back upon the six faus upon each side of the opening. After the 23d row decrease by leaving two stitches in every row unworked on WORK FOR LITTLE GIRLS. each side of the six middle fans, and in the same manner decrease the back pieces, Join the edge stitches on the shoulder, and border the neck, armholes, and the opening behind, thus: zs¢row, 2 double crochet into each stitch. 2d row, 4 chain *, 1 long double crochet in next stitch, 1 chain, miss one, repeat from *, jd row, *, 1 double crochet, 3 chain, one double crochet into each stitch, z double crochet in the next; repeat from *. th row, into every hole made by the three chain of last row, work 2 double crochet, 4chain, 2 double crochet. 5¢h row, this may be worked either with silk or wool of a different color to the rest of the frock, *, 7 double crochet into the four chain of last row, 1 double crochet in between the next group of 4 double crochet; repeat from *. Now crochet into the founda- tion of 50 chain. zst¢ row, « double crochet into every stitch. 2d row, 5 chain *, 1 long double crochet in the next stitch, 2 chain; repeat from *, and at the end work 1 single into the 3d of the first 5 chain. j3d@ row, 3 double crochet intoeverysetof 2chain. 4th and 5th rows, all double crochet. 6th row, 4 chain, miss 1 *, 1 long double crochet in the next, 1 chain; repeat from *, and at the end work one single into the 3d and 4th stitches of the first 4chain. 7throw, 4 chain, 1 long double crochet into next chain, 1 chain; finish by working single into the 3d and 4th of the first 4 chain. The &¢h and 9th rows are worked like the 7th. roth row: this is worked like the 3d row of the armhole, and the 17/f, 12th, 13th, 14th and 15th rows, like the 4th row of the armhole, the 26h row be- ing like the 5th. For the upper flounce work as in the 6°h row above described, in the upper stitches of the 5th row, and repeat the roth, 11th, 12th, 13th, 14th and 16h rows. A crawling blanket will be found a suitable ,ift to a child. A very pretty one can be made of squares of blanket serge in different shades of art coloring and ornamented with quaint Japanese designs in applique work. Pretty artlcles, intended as a present for a baby girl, has the name ‘‘Sheelah’’ worked in fanciful letters across one of the corners. You Ther It’s i Ard I thi Whz And And But Anc Thi

Page 63

, and in pieces, \oulder, und the double rOW, 4 in next from *, in, one double *. th e three rochet, mw, this or wool > frock, hain of 2en the repeat ounda- double rOW, § in the *, and 3d of double th and h row, rochet *, and 3d and hrow, O next single chain. ke the ke the 1Zth, ke the ze be- ounce ‘ibed, r, and ‘A and nd a retty anket oring anese Icles, |, has .ciful THE DEAD DOLL. Tye Dead Doll. SELECTED. You needn’t be trying to comfort me—I tell you my dolly is dead ! There’s no use in saying she isn’t, with a crack like that in her head, It’siust like you said it wouldn’t hurt much, to have my tooth out that day ; Ani then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn’t a word to say. And you must think I’m only a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue! As if I didn’t know better than that! why, just suppose it was you? You might make her /ooé all mended—but what do I care for looks? Why, glue’s for chairs, and tables and toys, and backs of books! My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it’s the awfulest crack ! It makes me feel sick to think of the sound, when her poor head went whack Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf, Now, Nursy, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself! I think you must be crazy—you’ll get her another head ! What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead ! And to think I hadn’t quite finished her elegant new winter hat! And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night, to tie on that horrid cat! When my mamma gave me that ribbon, I was playing out in the yard— She said to me most expressly, ‘* Here’s a ribbon for Hildegarde,” And I went to put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it, But I said to myself, «Oh, never mind, I don’t believe she knew it!” But I know that she knew it now, and I just be- lieve, I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke, too, Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit! For I’ve hit it over and over, and it hasn’t cracked a bit, But since the darling zs dead, we must bury her, of course ; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse ; And I’ll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in this, you see — This dear little box—and we’ll bury her under the maple-tree And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird ; And he’ll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word ! I shall say: “ Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead ; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head,

Page 64

The Beautiful Mome-Clud. BY EMMA J. GRAY. vil. a THINK this is what might be called a small blizzard, girls,’’ said Edith, as, having shaken the snow from her ulster, muff, and hat, she pro- ceeded to the grate fire, in order to see as well as feel the heat. ‘‘If this is a small blizzard, Edith, please deliver me from a big one. Why, when I reached here, my feet were numb, my hands stiff, and as for my nose and ears, they ached in such a terrific man- ner, I almost cried. Molly said, that she knew, in time I would be able to thaw, as she had limbered out considerably, and had really gotten to feel quite comfortable again. But I was silly enough to forget a veil, and the snow just cuts; besides, it is so blinding that I staggered all the way here. I think, Olive is to be congratulated, as she is the only one who has been able to afford the luxury of a pretty gown and slippered feet, and the indolence of toast- ing herself in this capacious, sleepy hol- low, by a big, roaring wood fire.’’ At these words, all the girls laughed heartily, but Olive exclaimed: ‘‘Con- gratulated! No, I thank you. I would rather confront two blizzards, than be the unfortunate individual who must attack so mighty and magnificent a topic, as the conventional drawing-room.’’ ‘* Do you like the cognomen of draw- ing room better than parlor, Olive ?”’ ‘€ Yes, though both are correct, as is also the word salon. They each convey a shade of difference, though virtually all mean the same. The English people more frequently use the appellation of drawing- room, while the French designate the same in saying salon.’’ ‘* Don’t you think we can almost dis- cern the distinctive difference of the na- tionalities in these very words? ”’ ‘‘Yes, I do,” replied Olive, ‘‘ and as Amy seems once more happy, cosy and comfortable, and as time slips on so rap- idly, perhaps I had better begin my talk.’’ ‘¢ Besides,’” added Molly, “with Olive’s exception, we each have that bliz- zard to go home in.”’ ‘TI will commence at once, though I scarcely know where to start, but suppose after the circumscribed manner of our previous talks, it would not be amiss to advise regarding the walls and ceilings, though I will say just here,”” with a know- ing nod to each of the girls, ‘‘ that a par- lor needs nothing as much as a cheerful, charming hostess. No matter how ele- gant the appointments may be, they are nothing and nowhere alongside of the sunny smile, the tight hand clasp, the helpful words that woman can extend to even a stranger friend.” “It isn’t the thing you do, dear, It’s the thing you leave undone, Which gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun.” ‘¢ And I do believe in helping even a chance caller, and making him for a time, at least, forget the bitterness and sorrow that, whether it is acknowledged or not, is a part of many a life. Your friend may not remember whether your parlor was fitted up in hard woods, cabi- net finish or not, but he will not forget the winsome, gentle woman whose words spoke help and hope, and will leave your home, always better and happier for hav- ing come.”’ ‘¢ Oh, Olive, youare always so thought- ful and practical, so different from the rest of us,” sighed Amy. ‘* No, indeed, I am not, but this thought came, and you'll all forgive me for appear- ing so wise, I know; and now for the ceiling and side walls. If you can afford it, frescoing will present the most hand- some effect. In that case, the artist, after getting your idea, as to whether you de- sire a light or dark room, will relieve you from further trouble, provided you pay his bill.’’ ‘¢ Does not fashion decide as to whether the parlor should be dark or light? ’’ ask- ed Molly. ‘‘Certainly, but you must not be held by its cast-iron rule, or you will always be in trouble. Don’t you agree with me, Edith ?”’ ‘*I surely do, though in furnishing newly if you can, I think it’s best to con- form to the mode of the day.”’ 3 OC 3 th ° mo oO mot OO moO 8 OO ee + = © © 0} HOD -m wht che obo mm UeflCUmMlUeete Oe 88

Page 65

Suppose of our miss to eilings, a know: it a par- 1eerful, »w ele- hey are of the sp, the end to even a for a ss and ledged Your r your , cabi- forget words e your or hay- ought- m the ought ppear- or the afford hand- , after yu de- e you 1 pay ether ask- held lways n me, shing con- ‘¢The artist, in frescoing, is not con- fined to the ceiling alone, but can deco- rate parts of the wall close to the ceiling, only allowing space enough to hang the pictures, and not cover up any of the costly work. But, girls, wall papers are so exquisitely pretty, that they are in great demand, and, when used, the side walls are generally covered with a thick paper of solid color, with an ornamental frieze. Both must harmonize with the papered ceiling, which may be as richly decorated as your taste and pocket-book will desire. Colored calcimine is some- times used instead of either paper or frescoing, and it is very dainty. The color of walls and ceiling must always unite with the wood-work, and your furniture shouli be selected, with here and there a glint of the same shade also. It is not necessary to have a great outlay of money in order to produce artistic effect, as now so many cheap Japanese and Eastern materials can be obtained with small expenditure. It is good taste rather than money which is to be desired, though it is well to have both.” The parlor should contain your choicest and rarest purchases in the furnishing line, as well as souvenirs, because here your friends expect to see the best, and besides these articles of value are gen- erally treated with more consideration in this room than they would be in any other part of the home. Introduce as much of art as is possible, for this gives tone and elevation to your parlor. Have the choicest bits of marbles, bronzes, and antiques, if you can, but if not, get the best copies possible. The Medician Ve- nus, the bust of Clytie, the head of Daphne, or whatever you may please, that will lend charm and give pleasant thought and variety. Add to these paintings, engravings, etchings, pho- tographs of some beautiful woodland S:enes, marines, interiors, or whatever most may please. It is astonishing how cheap, even choice pictures, can be picked up sometimes, if you have not those deemed choice, give to this room wat seems to you best. The old time parlor was something terrible in its cold stiffness. Iimplore you, girls, rack your ingenuity to make yours as cheerful, and sunny, and homelike, and luxurious as is possible. THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. 73 And do not copy somebody else, but put yourself in your room. Plan out some- thing new for yourselves, be ingenious, you can get ideas from any Decorative Art Society, but improve on them. Let your parlor show individuality. Have irregular juttings, and bay windows here and there, if you can, if not, break up the long, narrow, hall-like, or square p2rlor someway. ‘Try what portiéres and screens will do to effect this.’’ ‘« By the way,” said Edith, I saw a very pretty screen, divide a long saloon parlor the other day. The frame was after the fashion of carved latticed work, and madeof antique oak. 4t was in three divisions, two were hung with pale blue silk, and the other, was a Persian design on yellow silk. The silk was gathered at the top and allowed to remain loose. This is a little newer, and is not so stiff, as when fastened at the bottom as well. The screen formed a pretty decoration to the parlor, and as my friend said, ‘ Come look this side!’ I went, and saw such a bewilderingly beautiful oriental room. I could not but exclaim, for it was only the other end, of the same long parior, I had been sitting in after all. The same carpet, side walls, and ceiling went with both, but a Turkey and Persian rug, two three legged tables for tea, a mahogany rocking chair, a low artist’s couch, with a mass of fancy silk pillows, to add to one’s comfort, curious bits of carving and bric- a-brac, and two handsome, odd-looking lamps, had so completely changed the space on that side of the screen, as to make it seem a different room.” ‘¢ What do you think of flowers, and plants for the drawing-room?’ asked Amy. ‘Growing plants are beautiful any- where, and lend refinement to any room, therefore in the parlor they are ever in place. Put your palms, pendennis, or whatever the plant may’ be, in an orna- mental pot, and place it on a pedestal in the window. There it will thrive and give constant delight. If you have a box of growing plants, treat it in the same manner. Put some vines, so as to twine around pictures, their graceful fresh effect will give beauty to the most severely furnished drawing room. While a vase of flowers put on your piano, mantel or

Page 66

74 THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. table, as at the time seems most appro- priate, is indeed a great addition. They will last a long time, by cutting a little of the end of the stems daily before placing in fresh water. Oh, I love flowers, girls, they are so beautiful.’’ ‘¢ You have not told us anything about furniture,”’ interjected Edith. ‘« That is true,’’ sighed Olive. ‘Well, girls, for those of you who are to be rich, I would suggest what is known as the Empire style. The frames are of white and gold; the upholstery of tapes- try of the time of Louis XVI. Or you may prefer gold frames, with plain satin cushions. These cost all the way from one hundred and fifty to four hundred dollars for a set of three pieces. Or how would you like those made of amaranthine wood, with cushions of rich modern tap- estry, and introduce with these as many indolent and foreign looking divans and lounging chairs as would be possible? And if you please, for hangings, have great pictures, woven by the Gobelin and Banvais looms, to adorn your walls. Or another, and entirely different style, would be the delicate furnishing of Washington’s time, with the graceful lines and spindle legs. You can buy carved frames, and have them upholstered in cushions and colors to suit. But for those of us who must have a pretty parlor without too much outlay of money, some cheerful cre- tonnes, with an occasional plush or ma- hogany chair, to break the monotony and add richness, must do. Be careful, when buying, to get easy, low, odd looking shapes for your chairs and couches, and see to it that your room has a full esthetic look, without being all of a jumble.”’ ‘* As to curtains, nothing looks as rich as a fine Brussels lace, gracefully looped, or hung straight, as you may desire, and have with these an India silk curtain cor- responding in color to the interior de-:o- ration and furnishing; but with cretonne covered chairs, these would seem amiss, I would rather advise Nottingham Jace, Madras curtaining, or both; the latter comes in dainty tints, and, caught -back with pretty ribbon, will make a very at- tractive looking window. If you prefer a heavier curtain, get a suitable shade of cotton cloth, with pieces of flannel run- ning perpendicularly, after the Roman fashion. This is where you must unite taste and judgment, girls, and it is ever pleasant to remember that taste will do more than money towards attractive fur- nishing.”” ‘‘That is true,’ exclaimed Amy. ‘¢Sometimes my teeth are just put on edge, with the flaring carpets and dis- cordant colors I have seen in some homes, oftentimes in rich people’s houses, too.”’ ‘‘] think that is where you more fre- quently find such a condition of affairs, than among the poorer classes, or those possessing moderate means.’’ added Mol- ly. ‘I suppose for the reason that poor people think more carefully before pur- chasing. The rich can try again, but those having little money, know their furnishing has come to stay.”’ ‘«To continue our drawing-room talk, be prodigal of lamps, girls, some of them are cheap enough for the poorest of peo- ple, and a very little mcney will buy a dainty piece of silk for a shade, and they add so much to a room both day and night. Put plaques and sconces on your walls, also cabinets just as handsome as you can afford. The bric-a-brac to fur- nish them will probably be given to us as wedding gifts. Cabinets, as other fur nishing, come in varieties. A beauty is made of mahogany, with backs of big mirrors, and topped by a large circular glass.’’ ‘¢Excuse me, Olive,’’ chimed in Edith’s voice, ‘‘ but did you know that the snow was about three feet deep, we must start at once. Come girls, hurry, or we will never reach home. But I will make you all glad before going, by say- ing that I will take our next lesson, and will continue the topic of this morning, and will also advise regarding the recep- tion room. May we meet at your house, Amy ?”’ ‘* Certainly, I shall expect you all, and on time, too.”’

sas oa | S&S SS hlUcrtlC hhlUCUre—— hUvrHhlC rh UCUrVMttlhlC<iCir Crh

Page 67

The Fashions A (Monthly Resume of Practical Matters Relating to Dress and Social Events. magnificent amongst all the beautiful fabrics pro- duced for this season, are the silk and satin brocatelles, with the pattern raised in re- lief by means of a padding secured between the upper and under sur: faces of the material. These are chiefly in plain colors and in large patterns, and they are mostly used for black, brown, mantles, in green, grey, etc.; they are certainly sumptuous fabrics for the purpose; shot bro- catelles are another variety. are also produced in smaller Dubarry with raised flowers on a light or differently colored ground, These are charming for tea-gowns, be- ing a trifle too thick for a tight-fitting corsage. Plaids and tartans are universal; the patterns are large and the colors bright, as a-rule, but many of these stylish fabrics are in sober colors, with the narrow crossing lines that form the pat- tern in brighter tints, red, yellow, blue, green, etc.,on a brown réséda, or very dark-green or blue ground. These materials are sometimes made up aloné as draped skirts, but they are more often combined with plain woolen to cor- respond. The plain material is used for the underskirt, with a wide bias band of plaid near the edge; the plaid is employed fex the over- skirt, and forms a draped tablier in front, with plaits round one side and the back. On the VoL. CXX.—No. 6 effects patterns, Similar 75 other side is adraped panel of the plaid, distinct from the draped front and plaited back breadths, and showing the underskirt on either side of it. In some models the plain skirt is seen in front, the tablier of plaid over it falling in plain folds on one side, while the other side is caught up with a few plaits near the bodice, which ‘is usually of the plain ma‘erial, with plastrons of plain woolen, either plaited or gathered. Plaid silks and velvets are used in the same way for more expensive dresses; these fabricsare also in brighter colors than the woolens, and more like Scottish tartans in appearance. Furs are very much used this season for trim- The lat- ter are much larger, very fashionable ones are made of wolf skin, a beautiful deep fur ina dull shade of white, tipped with dark brown. Boas are also made of wolf skin, which is the most striking novelty in fur of the season, The most fashionable fur is undoubtedly bea- ver, which, by all who can afford it is worn as a trimming for wraps and gowns, and in. the form Real beaver is, ming garments, capes, boas and muffs. of pelerines, capes and muffs. however, a costly fur, and an economical substi- tute for it is often used; this, called Nutria, isa genuine fur and closely resembles beaver, al- though it is less rich and deep, Otter is also used, but it has not the depth and lustre of bea- ver, although still a very handsome fur. Astrakhan and Persian lamb, especially in black, are immens¢ly employed in ornamenting jackets and dresses, but itis not a favorite fur for wraps. The lovely, long, white, fleecy Mong. lian lamb is a charming trimming for Opera c oaks, and less showy and more useful wraps for even- ing wear made of plain or broché colored c!urh, have the collar and fronts lined with this fur

Page 68

76 THE FASHIONS. and then turned back over the under fronts. Boas are also made of Mongolian lamb, and are very pretty and decidedly becoming. Natural lynx, Isoline, a species of goat skin with long, light colored hair, and bear, are all used as trimmings, and for boas, which are very long, and either round or shaped like a deep collar at the back, with long narrow ers in front, generally fiat like the collar. Round capes are not as popular as they were earlier in the season, and the newer shape is much more graceful. It is a pointed pélerine, longer in front, where it has short mantelet ends, than at the back, and with a Medici collar, more or less high, according to taste, Sealskin jackets are chiefly made with straight fronts, longer than the back, which fits the figure neatly like a cloth jacket. They are generally quite plain, but some few have revers and a col- lar of beaver. Sealskin jackets are also made with a diagonal opening, the right side buttoned over on to the left, close to the throat New ulsters and traveling cloaks are made of tan livery cloth, of the light shade used in gen- tlemen’s box-coats, and are long enough to cover the gown beneath. They are fitted in the back, but are loose and double-breasted in front, and similar buttons define the waist line in the back. They have lapped stitched seams, and pocket- flaps to real pockets—hip pockets, sleeve pockets, and a pocket for change on the left of the chest. A turned-over collar and cuffs of tan velvet, bordered with a raw-edged cloth strap, completes this great-coat. Cloth jackets of simple shape in écru or green shades are made very dressy, by being striped with black Astrakan fur, applied in lengthwise bands from the collar to the end of the coat. Zouave or Figaro jackets, entirely of gilt braid, or of gilt and steel mixed, are very beautiful to use on house gowns and tea gowns of cloth or of plush, and many such jackets have a Swiss girdle accompanying them. The newest belt buckles of silver or gold, are curved inward, to follow the figure, and are eight inches long; the material of the bodice is drawn down from the shoulders and side seams to meet in the buckle under the bust, a becom- ing fashion, and especially suitable for soft fab- rics of silk, crépe or net. New Oriental laces have mitred edges, with open ring patterns, and are crimped, fluted or accordeon plaited, to be worn around the neck and sleeves in wide frills. Very effective imita- tions of round point laces are used in the same manner. Blouse-like vests of white or colored mousse- line de soie, laid in accordeon plaits, with turned- over frill at the neck, a knife-plaited jabot down the front, and a folded girdle below, are added to plain high corsages; while for low bodices are bretelles of the silk muslin, with ribbon belt and shoulder bows. ; Mousseline de soie ruffles with scalloped edges, worn double around the neck and falling ina soft jabot to the waist, are made separate to use with various bodices. Another arrangement has a high flaring collar with a frilled puff of the silk muslin inside it and a jabot below. How to make skirts of gowns without drape- ries hang well, is a difficult problem, but it will be found that they are better gauged than plaited. To begin with, the foundation skirt must set well, and have a small frill or kilt at the bottom; then the upper skirt with a broad hem, is gauged on to it, with a great amount of material in the back breadths. Three or four rows of gauging can be used, but there should never be less than two. ; Now that no tournure is worn, the arrange- ment of plain skirts can be undertaken witha greater surety of success than before, and when carried out in the way described suit admirably bodices reaching to the waist. A diversity in bodices is to cut them without darts, and then tuck or gauge in place. Many, again, have tucked yokes, banded waists, and sleeves tucked from the wrist to the elbow, in- stead of a plain cuff; or, again, with a series of tucks between the two puffs. Accordeon kilted skirts, in plain or a materials, are very much worn, and the straight evening skirts of tulle or net, with one or two rows of wide ribbon as a border, A skirt of this make just now, is a good investment, as its popu- larity is increasing daily, and anything in dresses or wraps that is once ‘well a la mode is rarely quite displaced before it has run through two seasons, and the modifications that are bound to appear may be usually applied to one of the earliest creatioris of the style. . Pockets in modern gowns are often put in the most extraordinary places, hidden away under folds where they are not easily gotten at, so that a glove with a tiny purse in the palm is sure of a warm welcome. Mousquetaire and buttoned Suéde gloves are made with these, with the aperture down by the opening of the glove, fast-

Page 69

e same 10usse- ‘urned- | down added odices yn belt edges, g ina to use nt has he silk drape- it will than 1 skirt kilt at broad unt of r four should range- with a when irably ithout Many, ;, and w, in- ies of dered raight r two of this popu- resses rarely h two nd to f the in the under o that e ofa toned h the >, fast- THE FASHIONS. (Sa ened by a tiny clasp. They are large enough to hold several pieces of money, Coiffures are altogether modified from last winter. A good deal of variety, however, is allowed in the arrangement of the hair. Each lady should dress her hair to suit the style of the face, and the nature of her hair. To some who have dark and frizzy hair, the Salomé coiffure is exceedingly becoming. The hair, rather short in front, comes down over the ears, forming an irregular tuft on one side of the forehead. A few tortoise-shell pins and a small comb fasten the capricious waves of the hair. Ladies who have fair, curly hair, should merely brush it lightly from the forehead, and arrange it in loose coils in the nape of the neck, False hair is quite gone out of fashion in Paris, and those who wear it take the greatest care to conceal the fact, and to make their coiffure look as natural as possible. FASHION. Fashion’s Fads and Fancies. A very beautiful shell hair-pin has a crown of Bohemian garnets set in filgree gold. Chased gold link handles are the most popular fad of the moment for glove buttoners. Cuff buttons are being made of enamel and painted to represent porcelain, some of them are exquisitely beautiful. Feather trimmings are much worn on mantles and costumes; for a sortie de dal there is no handsomer trimming. Some of the 5 o’clock tea-kettles are swung from high standards that rest onthe floor; others swing over a spirit lamp and rest on the table, Ostrich feathers are more than ever the fashion for winter millinery, the natural colored ones be- ing very much liked. A new kind of cord for stay laces has been in- vented. To prevent the frequent breaking, and render it more durable, it is interwoven with fine gold wire. Extremely unique as an umbrella handle is a correctly produced shoe in silver, both bright and oxidized, with the sole upward. Stuffs with large check patterns are, in contra- distinction to recent fashion, now worn with the plaid or check taken straight, and not on the cross as heretofore. A novel departure in bronze paper knives isa correctly simulated leather strap with nickel sil- ver buckles. This a handsome gift for a gentle- man, A. M. G. Description of Fashions. Fig. t«. Walking costume of blue cloth, the skirt is plain laid in plaits with slight drapery in front and back. It is braided, with side panels, vest, and revers of black Astrakhan. The bodice is straight in front and finished with a belt, cut with a princess back. Hat of velvet trimmed with feathers. Fig. 2. Walking costume of plaid cloth and plain. The front of underskirt is of the plain matérial trimmed with four rows of velvet. The skirt of plaid is laid in box plaits, bound with brown velvet. Coat bodice with vest of cloth bound with velvet, velvet buttons, and velvet revers, Hat of felt, bound and trimmed with velvet and aigrette. Fig. 3. Visiting gown of black velvet, the front is made of moiré the plaits of skirt orna- mented with passementerie. Short jacket bod- ice, with vest of moiré and trimmed with passe- menterie. Toque of velvet trimmed with feath- ers. Fig. 4. Evening gown of olive-colored velvet the front of plain pale blue, and striped blue and flowered satin. The skirt is straight, bordered with a plaiting headed with a band of feathers. The bodice is cut in zouave form in front over a vest of blue surah, the back is princess. The neck and sleeves are bordered with feathers. Fig. 5. Bride’s costume made with a long plaited train of heavy ottoman silk. The front is made of a handsome point flounce the full depth of skirt, crossed in front with a sash knot- ted of ottoman ribbon. The bodice is plain with a lace front, and a deep crossed waistband fast- ened with a bouquet of orange blossoms; veil, with flowers fastening it. Fig. 6. Reception costume of black lace, with bodice and long tabs upon the skirt made of violet satin embroidered in silver and black. Hat of lace and velvet, with violet feathers trim- ming it. Fig. 7. Carriage costume of black velvet with plain skirt, and revers of /fi//eu/ green satin em- broidered with gold, a pointed plastron similarly embroidered trims the bodice. A band of the plain satin extends down the bodice and skirt, and also forms a belt. Hat of same, trimmed with feathers. Fig. 8. Visiting costume of dahlia velvet made princess shape, embroidered with a front of cream color satin embroidered in the same shade as costume. The bodice is cut with revers

Page 70

38 THE FASHIONS. which are of cream color, a vest of plain velvet with folded scarf of cream color surah silk. Hat ol velvet, trimmed with large feathers. Fig. 9. Evening gown made of cream color satin brocaded with gay colored flowers. The back is plain with a long train, the front of plain cream color satin, with jabot of lace, and strings of pearl beads festooned atrass it. Pointed bod- ice cut-V in front, elbow sleeves. —_—-§ Fig. 10. Fashionable winter bonnet made of brown velvet embroidered with gold, and trim- med with a bunch of ostrich-tips. Fig. 11. Evening gown made of cream color silk, the front plain, crossing over to the left side, and édged with gold embroidery and white fur. The back is box plaited. Hanging sleeves of mousseline de soie edged with lace. Fig. 12. Sortie de bal made of white satin brocaded with gold, the skirt has panels of olive- colored velvet inserted between the plaits em- broidered with gold, Fur boa and edging to the sleeves. Fig. 13. Muff made of plush, trimmed: with lace, ribbon bow, and spray of flowers. Apron for little girl made of white figured percale. Fig. 14. cambric, and trimmed with Sash of percale in the back. Fig. 15, Checked kerchief edged with jet of colored glass rings, and headed with a kind or aigrette bow composed of loops in corded ribbon edged with multicolor wafers, and ends in floral ribbon. Fig. 16. Mourning bonnet made of crépe with the veil forming the trimming of the bonnet, Fig. 17. Pelerine and vest made of Astrak- han or Persian lamb, to be worn over a street costume, Fig. 18. Mourning bonnet formed of folds of crépe, the veil being fastened upon it. Fig. 19. Toque made of cloth trimmed with band of fur and bow of satin and velvet-striped ribbon, Figs, 20, 21. Back and front of coat for little girl made of astrakhan around neck, down the front, and around the sleeves, Toque to match. Fig. 22. Pelerine for lady made of black Persian lamb. Hat of felt, trimmed with velvet and feathers, Figs. 23, 24. Muff and toque made to match of plaid silk, trimmed with fur and bows of the silk, Fig, 25. Fancy apron for Jady made of cream canvas or étamine, siriped with an embroidered design in colored silks, each pattern being divi- ded by drawn work. Itis gathered at the waist, and bordered with a fluting of Torchon lace; side bow in moiré ribbon, edged with satin. Fig. 26. Child’s yoked apron made of white lawn, gathered at the waist, and adorned with colored tambour work or braiding; it is bordered with Torchon lace, which is also used on the pockets. Side bow in washing silk. Fig. 27. Incroyable revers and collar; the latter and lapels are in tgrra-cotta plush; under revers of gold color satin Merveilleux, lace, or lisse coquilles; velvet bow at the waist of the darkest shade. Fig. 28. Fancy apron for lady, made of bands of lace or muslin insertion divided by plaitings of colored silk, A deep plaiting edged with lace trims the apron, with a ribbon bow at one side. Pointed waistband fastened with ribbon bow in the back. Fig, 29. Wa king costume for lady made of dark green cloth. ‘Ihe skirt is slightly draped in front, plain princess back. Itis trimmed with a band of beaver fur. Velvet bonnet trimmed with feathers. Fig. 30, Wrap made of brown and écru bro- caded cloth,trimmed with passementerie and band of fur. Hat of velvet, trimmed with a long plume, Fig. 31. Fancy bird and aigrette for hat. Fig. 32. Hat of felt, trimmed with a long feather and ribbon bow. Fig. 33 Chemise made of cambric, trimmed with embroidery and lace. Fig. 35. High neck corset cover, cut square in front and full, edged with narrow lace. Fig. 35. Coat for little girl, with plaits in back and trimmed with bands of fur. Fig. 36. Coat for little girl, with triple cape and revers, it fits tight both back and front. Fig. 37. Overcoat for boy, made of plaid cloth with deep cape. Fig, 38. House gown for lady, made of striped woolen goods. The skirt is straight, very slightly draped, with plaits upon the right side. Jacket bodice with revers and vest of a lighter shade of plain material. Fig. 39. Wrap for lady, made of navy blue cloth, it has long hanging sleevesand is trimmed with beaded passementerie. Hat of velvet trimmed with ribbon and feathers.

Page 71

of cream ‘oidered ng divi- ie waist, n lace; tin, f white ed with ordered on the ar; the > under lace, or of the f bands laitings d with at one ribbon ade of Jraped d with iramed ru bro- e and a long . long mmed lare in » back cape cloth triped ightly acket de of blue nmed relvet Foreign Gossip. Paris, December, 1889. HE fashion of remaining not only all the autumn, but part of the winter, in the country, is gaining ground in France, and this year especially, as the del/e saison was very much pro- longed in Paris on account of the Exhibition. Our beau monde are not giving any sign of a re- turn to the city, and most of the hotels of our aristocracy remain closed. We must seek for in- formation as to new fashions in the echoes of princely chateaux, or in the houses from which our é.égantes are in the habit of ordering their toilettes. At a popular modiste’s I notice many novelties in millinery. The most popular hats have large brims, covered with feathers, both without and within the brim. Embroidered felt hats are also very fashionable, The embroidery is of velvet, in leaf designs, the leaves being lined with gold, steel, or other me- tallic cord. The brims are sometimes open- worked, as if they were of straw. The great success of this season, as yet, is the Uléma veil, of lace or embroidered tulle, which is made expressly for these veils. The veils them- selves are shaped like a Marie-Antoinette fichu or scarf, three metres long, at least. When worn, it covers the whole hat and face, and, after being tied at the back, it is brought forward and tied on one side, or under the chin, according to the wearer’s taste. Nearly all our most fashion- able ladies are wearing it—it is so pretty and becoming; for, it not only keeps the face pre- served from the cold, but it also prevents the hair being ruffled by the wind. With this veil, also, no boa of any kind is needed. Bonnets are absurdly small, and these, also, are generally covered with embroidery. Toques, with strings, are sometimes worn in- stead of bonnets, and are worn right at the back of the head. Their trimming is all in front. Very pretty toques and capotes have been made of autumn flowers and foliage, in velvet. Even real flowers, when they can be found, may be worn on toques and capotes. But this is a luxury which every-one cannot allow herself. Let me now describe a few hats, noticed at a recent five o’clock tea. The first which came under my notice was a toque of ruby velvet, to match the dress, all covered with gold embroi- dery,and a bunch of marabouts tipped with gold 79 in front. The shape of this toque was simply a round flat and low pork-pie. Little strings of very narrow velvet ribbon were fastened at the back, and were tied in a bow without ends on one side of the neck. Another was a large-brimmed white felt hat, something in the shape of a flat, leghorn straw hat, in its natural state. This brim was bent low over the eyes in front, and also at the back. In front of the brim a spray of velvet flowers, and on the top, where a crown should be, a bunch of white flowers falling in all directions. Another Mephistophelian model was a rather high-crowned bonnet of scarlet velvet, orna- mented on crown and sides with large open vork discs of b ack jet, appliquéd onto the bonnet with an edge of black chenille, which added a novel softness to the effect; a black osprey aigrette curved backward from the front, and the strings were of black moiré. A dainty little bonnet had a round crown of drawn green velvet, bordered with a narrow edging of the neck feathers of peacock and pheasant, and with a humnfing-bird set in the midst of the little black Chantilly bow in frent, which matched the strings. Another pretty model in the same style was of sea green drawn velvet, with open black jet crown, and a border to the brim threaded with sea-green rib- bon, while a little wired butterfly bow of black lace was set coquettishly in front, But the handsomest of all was a large-brimmed hat of black lace; the large brim, turned up all round, was lined with gathered tulle, with a row of lace, falling like fringe all round the edge, and outside two long and full ostrich feathers, one hanging low on the neck, in front, and the other tipping over the brim, in front. This hat was worn by a lady dressed in black velvet, with jet- ted lace panels in front andon each side. In front, a kind of bib, also of jetted lace, formeda continuation to the front panel, or apron, and a little Zouave jacket, of the same jetted lace, edged all round with a jetted ball-fringe com- pleted this exquisite toilette. For damp weather, ostrich feathers should be replaced by waterfowl wings, otherwise the feathers may be spoiled in one morning’s walk. Lace, indeed is worn on everything. Chan- tilly lace is in the greatest favor for black dres- ses, hats, bonnets, etc. All the most dressy hats, and bonnets, for weddings, theatres, etc., being made of lace on wire shapes. The wire of these

Page 72

80 ; FOREIGN GOSSIP. shapes, however, is not seen. It is of the finest thread imaginalle, and this is made to follow the design of the laceitself. So that large-brimmed hats look as if they were starched, to be able to keep in shape as they do, without their wires be- ing visible. Such a hat, however, costs $1co, Even when made of imitation lace, it costs be- tween $15 and $20. Evening capotes are of very pale velvet, and a few flowers are tolerated on condition that there be plenty oflace. Acraze for lace falls, and thick spiral frills of lace over the face, natur- ally recall the old-fashioned veil. Veils which protect the ears and are drawn together under the chin, should be chenille spotted on black net. Long-haired unprepared felt shapes are to be pin- ned to any rustic form fancied by the wearer ; they are so soft and so pliable that a few gold or silver-headed pins help to turn them up to saucy points, or to a dejected form all aslant, Pink cloth caps mixed with Nile green are fas- cinating, with just one or two quills. Close-fitting shapes are desirable for elderly ladies, especially those with horseshoe crowns, worked all over. They are made in the Suéde colours in millinery, for chaperones. Branches of birds are being purchased for large felt hat shapes ; they consist in a little bird story, or fable about birds, acted by male and female on a natural-looking bough or branch. Whenever a third bird is introduced he is supposed to be a jealous rival, perched in a very inquisitorial or reserved position. The birds are selected with some knowledge of their habits and turn of mind. Exhibitions of the beautiful antique embroid- eries of the East have been so plentiful of late years, and the sale of this decorative needlework so large, that we are constantly being told that the treasure is becoming exhausted, and that very soon it will be impossible toimport more. That we are still some distance from that state of things is abundantly apparent from the unusually rich collection of old Chinese embroideries lately exhibited. The gem of the collection, both as to coloring and workmanship, wasan exquisite robe, bearing the Imperial or five-clawed dragon, with the usual wave border at the bottom; but the robe itself was an intricate mass of the finest silk em- broidery on a brown ground, the blending of the colors and the proportion of gold being far more perfect than we are accustomed to in Chinese embroideries, in which gorgeous effects and masses of glittering metal are aimed at. Another beautiful composition was a robe of gold embroidery on a rich gold-colored satin, shot with red, or rather manufactured with red at the back, which gave a tone to the satin. With the metal work, which was unusually fine, was a design of blues and greens, eminently beautiful. A quieter piece was on an indigo ground, em- broidered with lighter blues, grey, green, and white, in a design like a conventionalised snow- drop, the coloring recalling that flower with its foliage. A Japanese lady’s robe, which found a place here, was exquisite of its kind, and specially in- teresting, as showing the different methods of the two countries, This was on a figured ‘satin of old-gold tint, on which a design of wisteria had been extracted, leaving it white; or it may be that the pattern had been printed in wax be- fore the satin was dyed, so as to produce the same effect. The foliage wasthen painted in with low-toned groons, and the flowers on the upper portion of the robe embroidered in silk, on the whole of the lower portion the flowers were left white. Here and there slight indications of a trellis in fine gold laid work enriched the gen- eral effect without making it heavy. Nothing more perfect than the coloring or more graceful than the des‘gn can be imagined. The exhibition was especially rich in complete sets of embroidered hangings and decorated panels. A set of ten of the latter worked on the darkest indigo satin in shades of blues, with a very small quantity of gold introduced, would be a treasure to anyone seeking beautiful wall dec- oration: and a larger, but much more gorgeous set on red satin, with a mass of fine gold and silk embroidery. Of these there were sufficient for the whole furnishing of a large room, I have only mentioned the most striking of the large number of beautiful specimens collected; it is rarely that one has an opportunity of seeing so many good examples of antique Chinese em- broideries in one exhibition. Apropos, little mention has been made ofa very curious exhibit that deserves at least a notice. It is a show of the feet of crows and of turkeys by which is demonstrated the exact age of a fowl of this kind. The idea is to convey to those who cultivate domestic cookery a bona fide method whereby they may ascertain if the bird carried to them is really tender or tough. It 1s wonder- ful how many ladies are interested in these feet. They crowd round and push forward with a con- viction that the very lines which reveal the age

Page 73

robe of d satin, with red n. With e, Wasa sautiful, nd, em- en, and d snow. with its a place ally in. ods of d ‘satin visteria it may ax be- ice the in with upper on the ore left is of a e gen- othing raceful nplete orated on the vith a ild be ] dec- geous dsilk nt for have large it is 1g SO em- s FOREIGN GOSSIP. 81 of a crow must likewise lead to a knowledge of the same lines or foot marks of time recognized on ladies’ temples. To find out the exact age of a femme du monde by the study of the feet of barn poultry is not an insignificant acquirement in the opinion of other femmes du monde, and since feet have been mentioned I may remind you to inform your readers that skirts are worn longer than they have been, and just as boots have attained perfection, which is rather aggra- vating. Coachmens’ capes are likewise perfected: of these there are three prevailing colors—“ prune de Monsieur,” a reddish plum, navy blue and fawn. All are arranged with Irish point on the neck part, and on that which lies close to the shoulders, while the capes commence lower down, but do not fall much below the elbows. The prettiest afternoon Garibald’s are made of twilled surah, having all the upper or shoulder part laid in tiny plaitings to the semblauce of a yoke; the waistband is gold galoon. Some of these convenient Garibaldi bodices are of two materials—mahogany velvet, for instance, for the yoke and cuffs, and old rose surah for the body part. The long cloaks for the season are especially elaborate, and the richest materials are used. One model in black velvet was made with full plaits at the back, dividing two widths of hand- some green brocade on a matelassé ground; the front was paneled with the brocade from should- er to hem, and turned back with lapels of black fox, Another has a plain green velvet under- coat showing down the front, and inner sleeves reaching to the wrist, the overcoat consisting of brocaded velvet in the same shade of green, with short hanging sleeves ; the outsides of these and two panels in the skirt being braided in fine black soutache. Some of the sleeves cut all in one by being skilfully draped have the appear- ance of a double sleeve, and the additional fuss- iness of these folds are more becoming to many figures than the long straight lines. A short cloak, made of the fashionable dark amethyst cloth, was of novel design; it fitted simply into the waist at the back, but the front was carried across to the left shoulder in draped folds, while from underneaih, on the same side, a wide velvet scarf hung straight down; it was part of a cos- tume in the same color, but it would look well reproduced in black velvet with a scarf of jet embroidery. The opera cloaks are brilliant this year, and consist for the most part of the dark rich shades of plush and velvet, with embroidery, and show- ers of jet ornaments falling from the shoulders. A pretty little sling-sleeved cloak of brown plush was beautifully embroidered in bright Empire shades of color, and a cascade of silk tassels in the same tints fell down each side of the arm, The skirts of walking costumes show plain straight lines; but many have fronts, panels, and revers of exquisite brocades and embroideries. A really remarkable design was in what appeared to be a simple woolen walking costume of the shade known in Paris as “ Corinthe ”—one of the endless varieties of dark heliotrope. By an ar- rangement of hooks, the whole effectis changed ; the sides are turned back in large revers of rich embroidery worked on soie royale, and showing a petticoat to match ; the loose fronts of the bod- ice are artistically managed in the same way, thus suddenly the gown can be converted by the wearer into one suitable for the smartest occa- sions, and is a new form of the surprise costume introduced some months ago. A rich rose-pink satin was made into a lovely ball gown. Breadths of beautiful brocade of begonia sprays on an oyster-white ground formed half of the front and back draperies, and a dull passementerie of fine silk cords trimmed the low bodice, which was made with high Empire epau- lettes. A wordon economy now mesdames. Most of us have a dress or so of last winter to remake in some way or another. Now, what most shows the age of adress are its sleeves, and, as now, only puffs are worn, we must try and make our last year’s tight sleeves look full and puffy to suit this year’s fashion. : For this all that we have to do is to adda short puffed sleeve to the top of the tight sleeve, which will serve as foundation to the puffsleeve, anc we add another puff to match to the bottom of the sleeve at the wrigts. This will at once make the sleeves look quite fashionable. The puffs need not be of the same material as the sleeves, So long as they match some part of the dress, that will suffice. They may be of velvet, plush, lace, passementeries—anything, in fact, if they correspond with any other part of the dress. Perfectly tight sleeves are now unseen, More is the pity, for nothing isso becoming toa pretty arm as a tight sleeve, which designs the shape of the arm in all its plastic perfection and beauty. MARIGOLD,

Page 74

Chat With our Neighbors on Wome Topics. BY LENA RIVERS, To care for our belongings is essentially a wo- man’s ‘duty, and few persons can realize how much comfort can be added to the household by so doing, unless they make a special practice of looking after and using carefully a!l their posses- sions, be they small or great. Girls frequently realize that the careful treat- ment by their mothers of table-linen and household furniture, adds to their comfort, but they do not always know or remember, that great care of their own little possessions will often enable them to dress very nicely on very little money. A friend says: “When I wasa girl, there was one of my young companions who was distin- guished for ‘ making her things last.’ Her dress, hats, gloves, and ribbons, were a marvel of durability, I used to wonder how she managed to make them last so long without their looking shabby, but I ceased to do so after I had visited her atherown home. The reason why her clothes wore so long was, that she took such good care of them. Her dresses were brushed and folded away carefully, and the slightest spot on them was removed as soon as it wasdiscovered, Her hat was wrapped in an old pocket handkerchief, and putaway in its box as soon as done with, the strings and laces being straightened and rolled Her gloves were never folded together, but were pulled out straight, and la.d flat in a box, one upon the other, out most symmetrically each time, each time they were used, the tiniest hole being mended almost before it had time to show itself. But the thing that impressed me most was the care she bestowed onher ribbons. When mak- ing up bows she used to line the upper part ofthe ribbon with white paper, and this not only pre- vented the ribbon from becoming limp and creased, but kept it clean, so that when the bow was soiled on one side she could turn the ribbon, and the part that had been covered came out look- ing new and fresh. That girl married and brought up a large family. Her husband had to fight his way, and did so bravely, and was unusually suc- cessful, for he became wealthy. But his pros- perity was due quite as much to his wife’s care and economy in saving money as it was to his in making it. ; In the present age of canned goods there is pro- bably no article that accumulates more rapidly in a household than empty tin cans; the satisfactory disposal of which isa frequent source of perplex- ity to the thrifty and careful housewife. Toshow how these unsightly tins may be converted into “things of beauty ” is our present object. By their use the expense and trouble of mak- ing cardboard foundations for bags, boxes, and pin-cushions, which can be covered with needle- work, more or less decorative in its character, according to the skill and leisure of the worker, First the cans should have the tops neatly cut off so that there may be no ragged edges. Next thoroughly cleansed with soda and water, and afterward, in order to avoid all chance of rust, thoroughly dried before the fire; the tins when thus prepared, should be put aside upon a shelf, ready for use whenever needed, To make a pincushion, take a square or oblong can that is not very deep, fill it wih bran, have a piece of muslin cut about half an inch larger than the top all around, in which a stout thread has been run; fasten it neatly and smoothly round the upper edge, taking care that the stuff- ing of bran, rises a little above the tin in the cen- tre. This can be done by inserting a little extra bran after the thread has been drawn up, and before finally fastening it off It isa good plan, before decorating the cushion, to gum a strip of paper about half an inch in width round the tin over the edge of the cover; this will effectually keep it from slipping out of position, and pre- vent any bran from escaping. The foundation of the pincushion being now ready, it can be decorated in any style suited to the taste of the maker. A pretty piece of satin may cover the sides and top trimmed with lace. Thin muslin, figured or plain, over colored silesia will form a plainer and less expensive model, while exquisite embroidery or plush can be used if fancy dictates, To makea useful receptacle for odds and ends, take an ordinary tomato or fruit can. Cover the bottom and sides of the tin with sateen for a lin- ing; line also the inside of the tin. The best way to do this is to cut a piece of thin card or stiff paper the depth of the tin, and long « nough to fit round the inside of it; join the two ends together, cover the inside ofthe ring thus formed with lining material, and slip it into the tin ; cover similarly a circular piece of card or paper, put this into the tin, and if well fitted to the size, it will keep in position without fixing inany way. Sew the edge of the inner to that of the outer cover

Page 75

oshow -d into mak- s, and eedle- racter, orker, tly cut Next r, and f rust, when shelf, »blong _ have larger hread oothly stuff- = cen- extra », and plan, ‘ip of 1e tin tually | pre- | now ed to satin lace. ilesia odel, used ends, r the a lin- best ‘d or ough ends rmed over t this will Sew over CHAT WITH OUR NEIGHBORS. 83 of the tin, and proceed with the cover as follows: Take a strip of card about one-quarter of an inch deeper than the tin, join it neatly together into a ring that will just easily slip over the covered tin; cover the card with whatever you are going to use for the decoration—cretonne, satin, etc, Cover similarly with suitable lining material, a second ring, slip it inside the first one, and fix to the top of them two circular pieces of card, cov ered and joined together round the edges; finish off top and bottom with a row of narrow cord, A handle may be added. This is made of two strips of card covered with material, and strength- ened by a piece of stiff bonnet wire placed be- tween them. The result will be a strong and serviceable box, resembling in appearance the cheese stands now so much in use. A handy work bag may be made from the same tins, proceed as for the pincushion, inserting a bag between the lining and the outside made out of silk orsatin. The height of the bag should be in due pro- portion to that of the tin, a hem two inches wide at the top should have double draw-strings of ribbon. Tins prettily painted, with tiny holes perforated in them, here and there, are good receptacles for flowers to be planted in, they also can be used to hold a tumbler containing cut flowers, These can be suspended by cords from the top of a window sash, and add a bit of brightness to a room without any material cost, Add as many trifles for comfort in the house- hold as possible. Fit out the kitchen with a few little inexpen- sive furnishings that the presiding genius can make herself. With stout cords, hang a good- sized pasteboard box upon the wall for holding a little board, wadded and covered with white, for ironing shirt bosoms on. Puta loose pocket in the back of the box for the flat iron standard and holders, room for the ironing sheet and all that is necessary for laundrying ; it can be ornamented or plain. Hang a basket behind the stove to catch the shower of gloves and mittens that fall from chil- dren’s hands to the floor. If wet, they wiil quickly dry there. Have hooks or a rack in some out of the way place for coats and hats. Have-a wooden box, with a lid to lift. Tack oilcloth or leather straps inside, each large and loose enough to hold a pair of shoes or rubbers, and let each member of the family understand that they are expected to put their overshoes where there will be no occa- sion to hunt for them, It is quite desirable to have something with which to sweep carpets, to prevent raising a dust and to brighten the colors. Probably the safest and best way is to take half a package of soft paper and cut or tear it into bits, not over an inch square. Wet it and press out the water; then scatter it over the carpet. It should not fall in large lumps, but be picked apart, so that it will cover almost an entire room. When the broom is used it will roll into little balls and, as it is swept over the carpet, will take the dust up quite thoroughly. Some housekeepers go over the carpet the second time with clean paper. Very coarse salt used dry is good, If the house has damp corners it should be used sparingly, as salt has a tendency to attract moisture. Wet leaves are used by some country families. One old lady has a quantity of cuttings of calico and white goods. These she moistens and throws over the carpet. When she is done, the scraps gh: go into a tub of water, are whirled about, and then thrown upon an old wire screen, where they dry, and are clean for the next time. Brooms should always be hung up by a ring in the fép of the handle. If they are set upon the floor, especially while damp, they get out of shape, and the ends of the brush are curved out, rendering them almost useless. Do not stand them up with the brush uppermost. If they are damp the water will soak into the body of the broom, and not only rust the wire or rot the cord with which the broom is made, but will make the broom straws smell musty and disagreeable, and finally rot them altogether. Mops and window brushes also should be hung up by the handles. How to Curl Feathers. BY MARGARET B, HARVEY, Thereisa right wayto curl ostrich feathers, and there isa wrong way, The wrong way is the one that the amateur almost universally at- tempts. But it is very much more difficult than the right way. The wrong way is to take up each vane of the feather separately, between the right thumb and a knife or scissor-blade, beginning at the shaft of the feather and pulling the vane out tightly to the end. If the amateur perseveres long enough to pull out every vane in this way, she generally finds that she has wasted a great deal of time, or else cut or thinned the feather, perhaps quite enough to spoil it. When she has done what she calls the curling, she usually hangs the feather over a stove or register, to receive a steady current of heat, a few hours or a day.

Page 76

84 CHATS WITH OUR NEIGHBORS. Now, my fair friend, don’t, I beg of you, don’t curl a feather in this way. It is not worth while. If you only knew the true method, you could renovate even what seems a hopelessly old feather, in from five to ten minutes. Never hang a feather in a steady current of hot air. It only dries out the substance and weakens the fibres. Shake the feather briskly over a lamp, over a stove, over a gas-jet, over a tea-kettle, over a register, or in an oven—but shakeit only. Do not let it remain stationary a second—if you do, it will scorch or at least dry. Give it a swift, waving motion, but only for a minute or two—the vanes will begin to fly out even sooner than this. When they do fly out, you may stop shaking and begin curling. If the feather has not fallen much, the heat may restore it sufficiently, so that it wiil scarcely need curling, Too tight a curl is not artistic— it does not look natural. But if the feather has been wet, or is quite old and straight, it wants considerable manipulation—you are not likely to overshoot the mark with too many or too tight curls. Hold the feather right side up in your lett hand, the tip turning downward toward your lap. Pick up a bunch of vanes next the stump of the feather, taking about a dozen vanes at once. Pick them up with your left thumb and forefin- ger, holding them tightly quite near the ends of the vanes, at some distance from the shaft. If you hold them too near the shaft, the feather will look too narrow when curled. You want tokeep it as wide as possible. In your right hand hold the blade, either that of a pen-knife or a pair of scissors, which, must not be very sharp, Place the blade under the bunch of vanes, quite close to the thumb and finger of the left hand holding them, and then press the vanes with the blade firmly against the cushion of the right thumb. Now pull out the vanes with the blade between the blade and the right thumb, clear to the end and out into the air. Repeat three or four times, or until the end of the bunch of vanes forms a decided downward ringlet. There is an art in doing this which can only be learned by practice. The touch must be firm, but so delicate that it will not cut the vane nor the thumb. Every vane forms alittle feather of itself, with a central shaft and tiny vanes like fuzz. If you pull on the vane in one particular way, you scrape off this fuzz, and leave the shaft of the vane like a bare thread, If you pull in another way you broaden the vane, and make \ the fuzz fly out. Endeavor to press on the mid. dle of the shaft underneath, not on either side, There is no danger of your pressing on top, for that is part of the top of the whole feather, which you are holding upward. When the end of the bunch of vanes does form a ringlet, fasten it in shape by making a few hard touches, which are almost cuts, under the vanes at the beginning of the curl, just at the point held by the left forefinger and thumb, These will keep the curl in place. Pick up the next bunch of vanes and proceed in the same way to the tip. Then turn the feather and proceed from tip to stump, on the other side of the shaft. When you have curled the whole feather in this way, lift some of thecurls on top. At the tip, bring up quite a number, sufficient to cover the shaft altogether. Further along bring up onlya few to lay over the shaft in the centre. the stump, let all the curls fall downward, leay- ing the stumpbare. To do this artistically, look at a new feather as a model. If any separate vanes have proved unmanageable, curl them separately and then lay them in place. If any vane looks too thin or thready, cut it off, and hide the remaining short piece—if you cut off every remaining vane /vo close to the stump, it might make the whole feather too thin. If the shaft is broken, mend it by laying under it a piece of mil- linery-wire, fastening with stitches from the un- der side, passing over the shaft like loops. To curve a feather, if desirable, make a few dents with a penknife in the shaft underneath, if nec- ces:ary holding the curve in place by stitches with long threads between, or by a piece of fine Sometimes feathers can be improved by sewing one under another. A poor feather may often be utilized as a lining or foundation for a good one. Some years ago, there was quite a prejudice against a “ made feather,” which consisted of two or threelayers. But the majority of feathers are now “made’’—a natural feather, unless a very large, expensive one, is usually too thin to be effective. So, now that you know how to curl feathers properly, and find that it takes but a few min- utes, don’t despise your odds and ends of old feathers. When you have finished your feather, shakeit a minute or two in the heat as before. It will look almost like a new one, if not quite. Nearer wire. ao z2w0o wl oO

Page 77

1 the mid. ther side, on top, e feather, anes doe cing a few inder the st at the d thumb, 1 proceed turn the p, on the feather in \t the tip, cover the up only a Nearer ard, leay- ally, look separate url them If any off, and 1 cut off stump, it ‘the shaft ce of mil- n the un- ops. To ew dents , if nec- , stitches -e of fine roved by her may ion for a rejudice sisted of feathers unless a o thin to feathers _w min- of old shake it It will Wouseholds Mepartment. - NEW YEAR CANDIES AND CAKES. Candy Drops. AKE one pint of sugar, one-half pint of water ; boil until it cracks when drop- ped in water. Flavor with lemon, and drop in small drops upon buttered paper, Cream Candy. Take one pound of loaf-sugar, one cupful of water, half a teaspoonful of cream of tartar, two teaspoonfuls of vanilla extract, ditto of vinegar, a piece of butter the size of anegg. Boil until dropping into water hardens it; when nearly cold, pull iike molasses candy, Cocoanut Candy. Take two cupfuls of white sugar, one cupful of water; boil six minutes over a quick fire. Stir in grated or desiccated cocoanut, and remove from the fire. Turn into pans, and mark with a knife into bars when partly cold. Cream Walnuts. Take two cupfuls of granulated sugar, half a cupful of water, Boil from five to seven minutes. Take enough of the cream, after boiling and cooling somewhat, to make a flat candy. Put walnut kernels in it, and place on greased paper until cool. Chocolate Caramels. Take half a pound of grated chocolate, two teacupfuls of sugar, half a cupful of milk and water, a large lump of butter. Boil without stir- ring until done, which will usually take twenty minutes, Then pour into pans, and, when nearly cold, mark into squares. Sugared Pop Corn, Take one cupful of sugar, half a cupful of wa- ter, one tablespoonful of vinegar. Let it boil un- tila drop hardens in water. Pile the pop-corn up upon a meat platter, pour syrup over and the corn will stick together. If the syrup is too thick, thin it with hot water. Butter Scotch. One cupful of molasses, one cupful of sugar ; halfa cupful of butter; boil until it snaps in water. Molasses Candy. Take halfa gallon of West India molasses, one pound of sugar, quarter of a pound of butter. Roil it for three hours, and just before it is done, add the juice of one lemon. Try some, by cool- 85 ing it on a plate, to see if it is stiff enough. Pour it off, and pull it as sugar candy. It has to be pulled for halfan hour. A little vinegar on the hands will make the candy crisp. It should be of a light yellow color when pulled. Chocolate Drops. Beat and sift four pounds of sugar, scrape it into one pound of chocolate that has been finely grated. Beat toa froth the whites of four eggs, and add to the sugar and chocolate, beat it as stiffas paste; sugar the paper, and drop the mixture on it the size ofa five-cent piece ; bake in a slow oven. Cocoanut Cakes. Take equal weights of grated cocoanut and powdered sugar, to one pound of each, put the whites of six eggs beaten to a stiff froth; mix them with the sugar and the cocoanut; drop them on buttered pieces of paper, and bake them immediately in a moderate oven until they have hardened, but not become more than a very light brown. Nougat. Take one pound of white sugar,and one pound of soft shell almonds; blanch the almonds, and cut in small pieces; place them on a tin plate in the oven until they are slightly browned; put the sugar in the oven also, on a dish, and let it melt, but do not let it burn ; then stir in the almonds, and while hot, turn out on,dishes, which have been buttered. The almonds must be stirred in very quickly, Peanut Taffy. Take one pound of brown sugar, quarter of a pound of butter, one quart of peanuts, nicely roasted a light brown. Put the sugar and butter in a nice porcelain lined saucepan with two ta- blespoonfuls of water; let them boil until the taffy is of a clear, dark color; then stir in the peanuts; let it boil for fifteen minutes; thenhave ready the griddle upon which breakfast cakes are baked, and drop one spoonful of taffy on at atime. It will cool very quickly, and makes very pretty little cakes. A soapstone.griddle is the best, as it cools the taffy quickly and does not retain the heat. Plain Taffy. Melt in a stewpan three ounces of butter and one pound of moist sugar ; stir well over a slow fire. Boil it one quarter of an hour. Pour out in a buttered dish and mark it out in squares.

Page 78

BSP DETR IY mela 86 New Year’s Cake. Take one pound of sugar, three-quarters of a pound of butter, three eggs, well beaten, three tablespoonfuls of caraway seed, one nutmeg, grated, three pounds of flour, one teaspoonful of baking-powder, half a pint of milk, one gill of rose water. Cream the sugar and butter, add the eggs, caraway seeds, nutmeg and one-third of the flour; mix the milk with the rose-water, and stir into the paste. Add the rest of the flour, and work to a smooth, light dough. Put into round jelly-pans, buttered half an inch deep, and bake in a quick oven. Or cut into small, round cakes, and then bake. New Year Cup Cake. Take half a pint of milk, half a pound of but- ter, four eggs, one and a half pounds of pow- dered sugar, one and a quarter pounds of flour, one nutmeg, grated, one teaspoonful of cinna- mon, one gill of rose-water, one teaspoonful of baking powder. Warm the milk, cut the butter into it, and keep warm until it is melted. Beat the eggs very light, rub the sugar up with them, and stir into the milk by turns with the flour, well sifted, Add the spice, rose-water and baking powder. Stir all very hard, until smooth and light. Butter some small tins, or coffee-cups, half fill them with the butter, and bake in a moderate oven, of an even heat throughout. This is an excellent family cake, Jumbles. Take half a pound of sugar, and cream it with half a pound of butter, three eggs and one pound of flour. First mix in the eggs, beaten light, and then the flour; make the dough as soft as you can handle it; roll out on the board with as little flour as possible, and cut into shapes; bake ina moderate oven. Flavor them with lemon, orange or rose-water. Fruit Cake. Take one pound of flour, one and a half pounds of butter, four pounds of raisins, one and a half pounds of sugar, four pounds of currants, one pound of almonds, one and a half pounds of citron, eighteen eggs, the grated rind and juice of three lemons, one tablespoonful of mace, one wineglassful of wine, and one of brandy. Beat the eggs very light,and add to them the creamed butter and sugar, then the flour, putting in the spices and fruit last; stir it all well together; if baked in a large cake it will take four hours in HCUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT. a moderate oven. The raisins should be stoned, and the currants washed, and well dried and floured, before putting them in the cake. Chocolate Cake. Take one coffee cupful of sugar, two eggs, half a cupful of butter, half a cupful of sweet milk, two cupfuls of fiour, half a teaspoonful of soda, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar. To make the chocolate for the cake, take one and a half cup. fuls of brown sugar, one tablesponful of butter, one tablespoonful of flour, one teacupful of West India molasses, one-quarter of a teaspoonful of soda. Let these ingredients boil for fifteen min- utes, and then stir in half a cake of Baker’s choc- olate; boil until thick; flavor with vanilla, and put it between the cake which has been baked in layers and allowed to get cold. Cocoanut Pound Cake. Take one pound of butter, one pound of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of grated cocoa. nut, one wineglassful of wine, and ten eggs, After grating the cocoanut let it dry; cream the butter; add the sugar; then the beaten yolks; stir in the flour, and then beat in the whites, Then add the grated cocoanut; beat it until it is perfectly light; and then put it in pans to bake for three hours. The oven must be of a moder- ate heat. Imperial Cake. Take one pound of flour, one pound butter, one pound of sugar, ten eggs, one wineglassful of brandy, one of rose water, one pound of raisins, one pound of almonds, three-quarters of a pound of citron, one teaspoonful of mace or cinnamon. Cream together the butter and sugar; beat the whites and yolks of the eggs separately; first stir in the yolks and then the whites; add the seasoning, and then the flour, and put in the fruit last. Blanch the almonds and cut them in small pieces. O & O tea is now to be had at many of the leading grocers’ 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 by a responsible and well-organized association of producers and importers.

Page 79

cnt WORK TABLE ied and . Fig. 5. Crochet Hat for Child. Materials required: 3 oz. white or gs, half colored single Berlin wool, a medium- ‘ ge size bone crochet-hook, a Paris net : al turban hat-shape, and a quarter of a ke yard of white sarsenet for head lin- if cpl 4 | . is a very quickly-made and be- butter, coming hat for a child, and, being on of West a stiff foundation, retains its shape ae well; the crochet is in tuft-stitch; one ’s choc- lla, and aked in of flour, f | cocoa- eggs. Fic. 2, -am the piece for the crown, and another for yolks; the border, whites, For the crown :— til it is Make a chain sixteen inches long. ‘0 bake Ist Row: One double into each moder: stitch. 2nd Row: One double into each of two stitches, draw upa loop through butter, the next stitch, * turn the wool over glassful the hook, draw up a loop through the raisins, same stitch, repeat from * four times pound more, draw through all the loo)s on namon, Figs. 1,2, 3.4. Embroidered Table-cover. eat the ; : y; first Fancy covers for five o clock tea cloths and ‘dd the luncheotis, are so ex'remely fashionable, that any he fruit pretty device for ornamenting them is eagerly » ae sought after. Our model is. extremely effective when completed. The material for this table- cover is cream-colored embroidery linen, on r of the which the design, consisting of alternate embroid- choicest ered octagons and openwork squares, has been erfectly traced. Fig. 2 shows the details of the work, is also which in the octagons is carried out in satin, s more cross, and plaiting stitch (Fig. 3), with white and only in red cotton, the openwork squares being formed . trade- by drawing the necessary number of threads and ners of buttonholing those left standing with white cot- jle and ton. The outer border is embroidered in the rs and same way, following the indications of Fig. 4. M. S. FIG. 3. 87

Page 80

WORK TABLE. Fic. 4. the hook together, close with one chain. Repeat The first and second rows are repeated alter- from the beginning of the row, nately, the second line of tufts coming between those of first row, until you have worked about twelve inches. For the border: Make a chaina little longer than the width of the border, and work in the same pat- tern as the crown for the length re- quired round the head. To make upthe hat, take the piece for the crown, place the edge of the wide side round the, crown

Page 81

Kdbdaa’ a: . Em me cna MMe Fay pai bt Hf ‘ed alter- between first row, uu have about iches, > border: 1 chaina ger than h of the nd work ume pat- e crown ngth re- und the ce upthe he piece crown, edge of e side > crown WORK TABLE. just under the border, sew it to the shape with a needle and cotton, plait the whole of the fulness up in the front as shown in our illustra. tion, sew on the piece for the border, turning the edges in over the shape, place two or three woollen pompons over the plaits in front, and line the inside of the hat with sarsenet. Fig. 6-7. Rustic Frame. There is no more useful as well as ornamental gift than a small frame to hold a picture or photo- graph. When this can be made by the donor, it becomes doubly attractive. This rustic frame is composed of flowers, mosses, and grasses, which Fic, 6. can be collected on walks in fields and woods. All that is wanted besides, is a piece of card- board. For the foundation, with its plush-like appearance, the flower and seed panicles of reeds, rushes, and marsh grasses are the most appropriate,and miniature flowers of many kinds can also be utilized. All the flowers have to be pressed and dried, while the panicles are divided in little bundles, which can be bleached or col- ored. After having cut out of cardboard the shape of the frame, a row of panicles is fixed round the border with gum (Fig. 7). The second row is formed of pressed flowers, overlaying the panicles . in part so as to show only their feathery points. For the third row panicles are used again, and so on alternately until the front of the frame is entirely covered, If the ground of the frame is to be shaded, a good effect can be obtained by mixing grey and white panicles. It is entirely a matter of taste which color to give to the frame, as the panicles and flowers can be stained or dyed to any shade de- sired. For the spray ornament- ing part of the frame it is best to use flowers or fir cones, which need not be pressed, so as preserve the plastic effect. The leaves look well if bronzed over and sprinkled with gold sand. FIG, 7. Fig. 9-10. Gentleman’s Slipper. There is nothing more appreciated asa gift by a gentleman than a handsome pair of dressing slippers. Our model is of a most attractive de- sign, the ground work is either cloth or velvet, with the design appliqued on of a contrasting color, The edges are finished with outlining in col- ored silks and gold thread. The eyes are worked in, and several places are finished in overcast stitch. Judgment must be used in selecting col- ors that harmonize. The design is given in full working size in Fig. 10. oe ig Fancy Articles for New Year Gifts. [See Colored Work Page in Front Part of Book.] Pretty gifts for New Year offerings are always eagerly sought after, and those presented to our readers are not only pretty but serviceable, and within the compass of any neat needle- woman. Fig. 1-5. Satin Corset Sachet. Now that satin waists are so popularly worn, a pretty case in which to keep them is considered a necessity, The case is made of striped garnet brocade, shot with blue and lined with garnet satin. The inside is fitted with pockets to con- tain stays, and the flap in trimmed with Torchon lace. The bow is garnet moire ribbon. Sachets are much u<ed by Parisiennes for gloves, shoes, and stays, and many are made of very rich mate- rials. This sachet is shown open in Fig, 5. Fig. 2. Bag for Opera Glasses made of Reseda Green Velvet and Antique Brocade. The dimensions of the bag must depend on the size of the glasses. The lining of our model is

Page 82

aoe ena Fic. 9. old rose satin, and the foundation at the bottom of the bag is a rounded piece of stiff cardboard, also lined, The velvet top is drawn with a réséda green silk cord. Fig. 3—6. Case for Satin Boots and Shoes. These cases are useful for holding shoes in, and also for carrying them in when going out of an evening. The cover is in pretty printed jaconet muslin, and the lining is machine-quilted satin, The case should be cut larger than the shoes or boots it is intended to contain. The corners of the pocket are rounded, and the ruche at the edge is of nar- row ribbon. This case closed is illus- trated in Fig. 6. Fig. 4. Spectacle Case. This is a useful as well as ornamental article, as every one who has the mis- fortune to be obliged to wear glasses knows what an unfortunate habit they have of becoming lost. The sheath is covered with either embroidery or ancient brocade. It is hung to the waist by gros-grain rib- bon to match the dress, It is made of the size requisite to hold the glasses easily. Fig.7. The Harp Photograph Frame. The shape of the miniature harp is cut out in card-board covered with old gold color plush. A place is cut out in the plush in which to insert the picture, the strings of silk passing over the plush. Large bows of moire ribbon trim it, also garlands of different colored flowers. Fig. 8-10. Traveling Case for Parasols and Umbrellas, This cover is made in either holland or stout grey linen, sufficiently soft, however, to be easily rolled. It is secured with three knotted ribbons or braid. In Fig. 10 the case is spread out to show how the strip of linen is divided into sheaths or cases large enough to allow each WORK TABLE. article to be slipped in. The length and number of divisions depend neces- sarily on individual requirements, Each section is separated by a row of braid similar to the one employed for the binding and the strings; it is ornamented on the overlapping end with a galon wrought with cross stitch in knitting cotton, Fig. 9. Hand Looking Glass for Toilet Table, The outside is covered with satin or plush, on which a spray of bright blossoms is depicted, either in embroidery or painting. Any old glass can be re-covered in this manner. MABEL WARE, In closets which are not provided with drawers and wardrobes where dresses may be hung or laid away from all danger, from dust or crowd- ing, bags which will completely envelop the dress are a necessity. Such bags must be long enough to hold a dress skirt without folding, and wide enough to give room to all kinds of frills and flounces, Cut one side of the bag three inches longer than the other; seam together, bind around the top, work four button-holes across the longest side, which buttons down on the other like a flap. The bottom of the bag now becomes the top, seam it across again and in thé casing so made run a flat, narrow stick; at each upper corner sew tape loops by which to hang the bag on two hooks in the closet. After the dress is carefully pinned in place, pull down th= bag over it and bu ton the flap across the bottom.

Page 83

length | neces- -ments, a row iployed 'S 3 it is ig end $s stitch Dilet ush, on picted, ass can ARE, rawers u hg or crowd- the long and rills ches und gest lap. top, ade ner two illy ind Our Arm=Chair. JANUARY, 18g0. HE old year with i's buried joys and sorrows is passing rapidly away, and soon the last day that holds it to its moorings will have passed, and 1889 will have drifted forth like all be- fore it on the limitless sea of eter- nity. But with the New Year of 1890 we enter upon new hopes, new aspirations, and new joys. What wonderful resolves do we not make at the opening of a New Year, but alas! how few of them are carried out or remembered until the year grows old. We enter upon the New Year of 1890 with the brightest anticipations, and we hope that contributors and patrons are, together with us, all happy, and most cordially wish each other many happy returns of this holiday season, Our arrangements for the coming year have all been completed, each and every department has had new talent engaged to make it full in the completest detail. The two new serials com- menced in the December number, have even now, when so little has been shown to readers of their true merits elicited the warmest commen- dation. Others of rare talent are to follow as the year progresses, while short stories and articles from the pens of numerous authors of merit have been contracted for. We have tried in our arrangements for 1890 to suit all tastes, the old and young, grave and gay, husbands and wives, all can find within the pages of the magazine something to please, charm, instruct, and amuse. Let each household have a copy of «Godey’s Lady’s Book” sent to their address, and find out themselves the many comforts, pleasures, econ- omies, and hints to be gathered from its pages. So far we have welcomed miny new, besides old friends toour side. Let our friends continue the warm interest shown for us, and make the circu- lation of “Godey’s Lady’s Book” for 1890 the largest ever known. To one and all we wish a glad « New Year,” and that all theirs and our fond anticipations may be fully realized is the sincere wish of the EpITor, WHAT THE PRESS SAY OF GODEY’S. Mrs, Olivia Lovell Wilson of this town has written a charming serial, entitled «« A Wheel of Fortune,” which is announced to begin in the Christmas issue of “GopeEy’s LApvy’s Bvuok,” the popular Philadelphia magazine.—Suz, Pitts- field, Mass, Vol. CXX—No. 7. The November number of “ Gopry’s LADY’s Book” (Philade!ph.a) is at hand, and shows up an especially good number. The publishers promise a fine Christmas number for December, when a new serial will be commenced, entitled ‘* $5.000 for a Wife.” The present number is well filled with fashion plates, articles and notes, romance, poetry, and matter of value to house- keepers.— Record Union, Sacramento, Cal, If you are in want of a good fashion magazine, send $200 to the Godey Publishing Company, Philadelphia, Pa., for «*«GoDEY’s LAby’s Book ” for 1890, The December number has just been received, and we cannot see how any one can be without it. The pubiishers have ceitainly suc- ceeded in getting up a most attractive Christmas number, full of good stories, fashions, illustrations, fancy work, etc. There is ne one in the house- hold but what will be pleased with it—LZve Re- publican, Columbus, Ind. *“ Gopey's LapDy’s Book” for December has reached us, and is a veritable Christmas gift, and, like a plum pudding, filled to overflowing with all manner of good things. The illustrations are exquisite, the story matter above par, and each department full of good reading. A new depart- ment, entitled “ The Children's Corner,” is pre- sided over by a veritable Santa Claus who cer- tainly has feasted the little ones royally. Now is the time to subscribe for 1890.—Star, Wazhing- ton, N. J. « GopEy’s LADy’s Book” for December has just arrived, and is chock full of good things and novelties. Handsome illustrations, good stories, two new serials, “ Household and Work,” all are given a position. The little ones are not for- gotten, and a new department called « The Cail- dren’s Corner” is opened for them, Besides all these good things furnished to its readers, elegant premiums are offered to club raisers. Send fifteen cents for December number, if you do not alieady subscribe, and find out the magazine you want for 1890. Godey Publishing Company, Phila- delphia, Pa.—Democrat, Pulaski, Tenn, « GopEy’s Lapy’s Book ” is rarely equalled as a delineator of fashions, and a subscription for 1890 would make a valuable and useful holiday present. We have before us the December num- ber, and it is a gem replete with handsome illus-

Page 84

92 ~ OUR ARM- CHAIR. trations, good stories, household work, etc. Price, $2.00 per annum.— Fournal, Farmville, Va. «*GopDEyY’s LADy’s Book” for December is a genuine Christmas number. A handsome steel plate, “‘Baby’s first Christmas,” is the opening illustration, while numerous other illustrations are scattered through the book. “$5,000 for a Wife” is the title of a new serial begun in this number by the popular author of “ Wedded to Misery ;” it promises to be a thrilling romance, founded upon actual facts, Several good Christ- mas stories, and another serial, «A Wheel of Fortune,” by Olivia Lovell Wilson, makes a book full of good things. Now is the time to subscribe to GoDEy, and secure all the attrac- tions promised for 1890.— Standard, Uniontown, Pa. “GopEy’s LADy’s Book,” the delight of so many of our mothers and grandmothers has now been published sixty years without missing an issue. No better proofcould be given that it meets the wants of its large list ofreaders, The Novem- ber number, now before us, consists of over ninety pages, besides a full-page engraving, a colored fashion-plate and a page of architecture, The fiction consists of a Thanksgiving, a Hallowe’en, and a humorous story, three other short stories, and the closing instalments of two serials: “A Model American Girl” and «A Woman’s Way.” A half-dozen poems, “The Beautiful Home Club, “ Chats with Our Neighbors,” “ Household Department and Work Table,” “ Book Reviews,” etc., fill out the varied contents of the number. The “Work Table” gives an unusually pretty pattern for the new and popular Roman, or Gui- pure, embroidery, The fashions are from the latest Paris models, and by a system of coupons, sent with the magazine, each subscriber has one choice from all the patterns of the month. This month there are twenty-eight to select from. Sample copy, 15 cents. The Godey Publishing Company, Philadelphia—Rural New Yorker, New York, N. Y. ITEMS OF INTEREST. To the Ladies. If you are in want of a good fashion magazine, send $2 to the Godey Publishing Company, Phil- adelphia, Pa., for ««Godey’s Lady’s Book” for 1890. The December number has just been re- ceived, and we cannot see how anyone can be -vithout it. The publishers have certainly suc- ceeded in getting up a most attractive Christmas number, full of good stories, fashions, illustra- tions, fancy work, etc. There is no one in the household but what will be pleased with it.—7he American, Nashville, Tenn. Look Here, Friend, Are You Sick? Do you suffer from dyspepsia, indigestion, sour stomach, liver complaint, nervousness, lost appe- tite, biliousness, exhaustion or tired feeling, pains in chest or lungs, dry coughs, night sweats, or any form of consumption? If so, send to Prof, Hart, 88 Warren street, New York, who will send you free, by mail, a bottle of Floraplexion, which is a sure cure. Send to-day. Catharine I. of Russia had a musical watch. In the interior was the Holy Sepulchre and the Roman guard. By touching a spring the stones moved away from the door of the sepulchre, the guard kneeled down, angels appeared, and the holy women stepped into the tomb and sang the Easter song of the Russian churches. At Wanamaker’s special attractions in novel and appropriate articles of table furnishing, suit- able for Christmas and New Year’s presents, are shown in china, glass and silver ware. Gifts of this character are sure to be appreciated by the worthy housewife. , A Novelty for Housekeepers, We seldom have occasion to call the attention of our readers to a more unique and convenient household article than the Electro-Silicon Plate Cleaning Cabinet, This household treasure con- sists of a neat and substantial polished wood case, in which is fitted a decorated metal tray with compartments, containing a box of Electro- Silicon, that famous Silver Polish; a cake of Electro-Silicon Silver Soap, so useful for washing silverware; a fine Plate Brush, and underneath this tray is found a superior Chamois—the whole making a most complete and practical outft, of the best materials, for the proper care of the household silverware. The Cabinet is sold by leading dealers throughout the United States, at 75 cents each, or will be delivered prepaid by the Electro-Silicon Co., 72 John street, New York, to any address on receipt of $1.00. The Land of Flowers. The pleasure of visiting that garden of the tropics, Florida, is still only possible to the few, but the choicest fragrance of that land of flowers is brought within the reach of all in the genuine Murray & Lanman Florida Water, ‘lo the sick ryom its balmy breath imparts a delicious fresh- ness, ever welcomed by the most delicate invalid, while as an enjoyment to those in health it is

Page 85

n the —The i? 1, Sour appe- pains ts, or Prof. » will Xion, ratch. d the tones e, the d the g the novel , Suit- S, are ifts of y the ntion nient Plate - con- wood tray ctro- ce of shing neath rhole Gt, of f the d by 2s, at d by New f the few, wers uine sick resh- alid, invaluable, whether used in the bath or at the toilet. To distinguish the genuine article from its numerous imitations look out for the “Trade Mark,” a narrow white strip label, bearing the signature of Lanman & Kemp, New York, sole proprietors. Otto Hegner, the boy pianist, who is now vis- iting this country, is an attractive-looking lad, with good manners and a graceful figure. He is said to be thirteen years old, but he is large for his years. His eyes are dark brown, shaded by long lashes, and his shapely head is covered with wavy brown hair, which is worn long. New Year Proverbs of Ye Olden Times, If the grass grows in Janiveer, It grows the worse for ’t all the year. A January spring Is worth naething, Under water, dearth; Under snow, bread, March in Janiveer, January in March, I fear. If January calends be summerly gay, ’T will be winterly weather till the calends of May. The blackest month in all the year Is the month of Janiveer. Catarrh Cured. A clergyman, after years of suffering from that loathsome disease, Catarrh, and vainly try- ing every known remedy, at last found a pre- scription which completely cured and saved him from death. Any sufferer from this dreadful disease sending a self-addressed, stamped envel- ope to Prof. J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren street, New York, will receive the recipe free of charge. How to Make an Xolian Harp. Wax a piece of buttonhole-twist about two and a half feet long, tie each end strongly to a small peg, and thrust the pegs down the crevice be- tween the two sashes of your Southern or Western window, stretching the silk as tight as possible, It will surprise you the sweetness and variety of the tones the wind will bring from it. Having done this, you may be moved to go further and prepare a more elaborate zolian harp. Take some quarter-inch wood and make a box the length of your window-frame, four or five inches deep and six or seven inches wide. Bore a few small holes in a circle near what will be the upper side of the back of the box when OUR ARM- CHAIR. 93 placed in the window with the open side of the box, fasten two bridges like violin bridges, one at each end, and stretch on them several strings of fine catgut, contriving a series of screw pins to aid in the tight stretching necessary, and allow of their being tuned to one note. Then raise your sash on the windy side of the house, and the wind passing through the hole and over the strings will, in its rising and falling, make very sweet music, Digging graves is hardly a woman’s occupa- tion, one would suppose, and yet the sexton of one of the largest cemeteries in Louisville, Ky., is a woman—Mrs, Shelby—who, since the death of her husband, in 1885, has had charge of St, John’s Catholic Cemetery, located at Twenty- sixth and St. Cecilia streets. There are now 13,000 dead resting in this graveyard, the first grave in which was dug by Mrs. Shelby’s hus- band, Mrs. Shelby was born in Ireland, and married there, but came to the United States in 1865. She attends to all the duties of the posi- tion, keeps her own books, records, etc., in a thorough and systematic manner, and has achieved a most creditable success and made hosts of friends. She has a family of five chil- dren, one of whom, a daughter is married. Mrs. Shelby attends to her duties faithfully, though suffering from the effects of a lightning- stroke received some time since. She is the only woman sexton in this city or State, as far as known, and one of the very few in this country. “Capetine” is the name that the French give to all large low-crowned hats. Domestic skeletons are very often formed of the bones of contention. When walking out, the. Empress of Russia always carries a large fan, with which to screen her face from those who stare rudely at her. Supererogation—“And of course you went to Niagara?—and were much impressed by the falls?”—A—no. I’d seen’em in London, you know !”— Punch. A London tradesman advertises that he is “special umbrella maker to the Queen;” and it is supposed that Her Majesty’s long reign must have been profitable to him, «Secret society people help one another won- derfully,” said a man as he went past a brick building in process of erection. ‘See, for in- stance, how those hod-fellows assist the masons.”

Page 86

94 A ban‘ of brigands has been terrorizing Mace- donia, which, when captured, was found to in- clude several priests, a Greek Archimandrite, ” the superi r of a monastery, and three “ ladies. In one of the Seuth Pacific Islands there is a small desert, the sands of which, on being stirred by the t ade breeze, emit a faint tinkling music, that has a soothing effect on the ear. BOOK TABLE. “Ina Fair Country.” Essays from Out-door Papers. by Thomas Wentworth Higginson. _II- Lee & Shepard, Price, $6.00, lustrated Ly Irene E. Jerome. 10 Mi.k street, Boston, Mass, An exquisite gift book, with handsome typo- graphy, upon very elegant paper. The illustra- fions are beautifully rendered, and embrace a variety of out-door scenes, flowers and birds. The selections are all admirably chosen, and afford delicious food for thought, along with a genuine feast for the eyes, “ Our Baby’s Book.” Lee & Shepard, ro Milk street, Boston, Mass. For sale by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.50. This is prettily illustrated, and made an attrac- tive collection of all the events in baby’s hfe- time, Pages are devoted from his birth up to two years of age, which can be filled up with the different events as they happen from day to day, and make a pleasing book of reference. Arranged Lee & Price, “One Merrie Christmas Time.” and illustrated by J. Pauline Sunter. Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. 75 cents. A set of pretty cards, printed in colors, with chain and ribbon fastening them. A beautiful Christmas souvenir. “A Happy New Year to You.” Desigred by J. Pauline Sunter, Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, 75 cents. A glad welcome to the New Year, prettily illustrated, with chain and ribbon to hang it from. “Hurrah for the New Year 1890.” Designed by J. Pauline Sunter. Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, B ston, Mass. Price, 75 cents. A dainty calendar, with chain and rings, with beautiful designs for each month of the year. «*Osborne of Arrochar,’ by Amanda M Dou- glas. Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.50. The hero of the story takes possession of his property under peculiar circumstances, and much OUR ARM CHAIR. wounded feeling from the incumbents. How he works himself into their favor, and the struggles of the deposed residents to maintain their social rsition, is told by the author in the charming manner which she is noted for. «Heroes of the Crusades,” by Amanda M., Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Bos. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Cum- Price, $1.50. Douglas. ton, Mass. pany, Philadelphia, Pa. An interesting and detailed account is given of the heroes, with handsome illustrations, What they suffered, and the patient resignation wih which all their sufferings were borne, is a lesson that could be well learned by allat the present date. “Travels and Adventures of Little Baron Trump and his Wonderful Dog Bulg: r.” By Illustrated by George Lee & Shepard, 10 Mik Price, $200. Ingersoll Lockwood, Wharton Edwards, street, Boston, Mass, This is a romance to delight old as well as young. Group together the hitherto unrivalled and astounding discoveries and adventures of Jules Verne; then gather all of Rider Haggard’s . bewitching and bewi'dering stories, with Baron Munchausen thrown in, and the “Little Baron Trump”’ will be the trump of the lot, and if you will follow him with his wonderful dog Bulger, he will take you along a path of narrative which will actually force you into a condition of mental hilarity and extravagant wonderment ; while Mr, Edwards, the accomplished New York artist, has kept sharp pace with the “adventures,” bya graphic embodiment of some of this book's sen- ments in life-like drawings, true to scenes of the Baron’s “travels.” “Lucile,” by Owen Meredith, with i!lustra- tions by Frank M Gregory. Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fiflh Avenue, New York, N. Y. For sale by John Wanamaker, Philadel- phia, Pa. Price, $1.50. A poem of depth and heauty forcibly expressed, With one hundred beautiful illustrations designed expressly for it, printed upon | andsome paper. “The Awakening of Mary Fenwick,” by Bea- trice Whitby. D. Appleton & Co.: New York, N.Y. Price, 50 cents. This for a first effort, as it apparently is, can- not be considered anything but remarkable, It is an uncommonly good novel. “Pens and Types, or Hints and Helps for those who Write, Print, Read, Teach or Learn,”

Page 87

ARM CHAIR. | EXTRADRDINARY PREMIOM truggles DESCRIPTION OFFERED TO ir soeial ILLUSTRATION aan OF OUR : ORGAN PREMIUM. C.us Raisers. nda M, et, Bos. ut Cum- NY person mp sending oH iy My a. twenty subscrib- ; IS given ers atour regu- s, What lar price of $2 dollarsor 10 subscribers at $2 each and $15. ent date. cash, will re- ceive one of our popular ” By BouDOIR organs George man ge expressly or o = “ig All im- provements be- w on wih a lesson Remit Baron well as = See rivalled -aey ee tures of The case is LU RR aggard’s . solid kiln-dried 2 Codey’ icity Organ 1 Baron walnut. Slid- ; beeeoee » Baron ing lid, lamp : SERRE eee : stands, handles, mr fi ’ d if you music pocket, A Bulger, and rollers. e which Contains one nce & Octave set o7 *., Reeds, Div'ded hile Mr, Octave Coupler, k artist, 7 Stops and 2 s,” bya Knee Swells. h*s anal STOPS. Treblo th Coupler Dul- ‘eo ciana, Echo. Melodia Viol ” deGamba, wee Diapasonand rick A. Bass Coupler. v York, Added to these hiladel- are the latest improvem ents in MEZzZo KNEE SWELLS, MAEs- pressed, Toso PE RCUS- esigned SION. aper. Height, 64 ins. iad Width, 21 ins. Mage Length, 47 ins. vy York, Weight, boxed, = 2 250 Ibs. pW : nas is, can- Freight to be paid by the receiver. ble, It Ons of many unsolicited testimonials received from recipients of this premium lost year. July 7th, 1889, To THE PUBLISHERS OF Gopry’s LADY’s Rook. ‘Ips for We have received our organ, and every «ne is more than pleased, and a great many were surprised to 9 ” . find it such a good instrument, us they did not expect anything so good for what was paid, and I could not carn, be more glad over anything, as you have helped me and your cause more than anything could have dove, by the goodness of the organ. A great many were against it, not believing (hat the orean weuld be worth bringing home. We are all so well pleased with 1t we do not know how to express our satisfaction, and hoping that you are as well pleased as we are, I am, Yours Respectfully, Mrs. D. H. Coates, Coates Bend, Ala.

Page 88

96 by Benjamin Drew, Lee & Shepard, 1o Milk street, Boston, Mass, For sale by J. B. Lippin- cott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.00. Mr, Drew’s long experience has fitted him ina remarkable degree to prepare his work, and no one who is called upon to write extensively and correctly, or who wishes to prepare articles for the press, would wish to be without this valuable addition to the printer’s and the literary person’s library. “Within the Enemy’s Line,” by Oliver Optic. Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.50. This is the second volume of “The Blue and the Grey Series.”’ Its scenes are connected with the war of the Rebellion, written in a pleasing style, suited to all ages. ‘Speaking Pieces,” by Ellen O. Peck, Lee& Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. For sale by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia, Pa, Price, 50 cents, The book consists of original dialogues and recitations, suited to little scholars and older pupils, and is well calculated for school or home use. « Little Miss Weezy’s Sister,” by Penn Shirley, Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, 75 cents. This is a fascinating story for little girls, and those of our young readers who remember “Little Miss Weezy” will be glad to welcome her sister. “With Gauge and Swallow,” by Albion W. Tourgée. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadel- phia, Pa, Price, $1.00, This is a republication of the admirable arti- cles published in Lippincott’s Magazine. They are wonderfully well written, and give able accounts of cases held by these famous attor- neys. They treat of the pathetic and ridiculous, and will repay many perusals. “ Erlach Court.” Translated from the Ger- marr of Ossip Schubin, by Mrs. A. L. Wister. J. B, Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.25. «‘Erlach Court” is not up to the usual stand- ard of the books selected by Mrs. Wister for trans- lation, The excellent work done by her does not relieve it from tameness. The chief charac- ters are German, the scene shifts to Vienna and thence to Paris, where the drama closes in a surprising manner to some of the participants. «« Madame de Maurescamp,’’ by Octave Feuil- OUR ARM- CHAIR. let, translated by Beth Page. J. B. Lippincot, Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, 50 cents, A story of Parisian life, light and trifling with- out much depth or plot. « Adrift: A Story of Niagara,” by Julia Ditto Young. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.25. The reader’s interest is well sustained through- out the book. Many of the scenes described are familiar, and the characters are well developed. “The Story of A Mountain,” by Uncle Law- rence. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia Pa. Price, $1.50. A charming holiday book for a child, of much beauty in printand binding, Under the guise of a pleasing story much useful information and phe- nomena is interwoven that has attracted the attention of ‘geologists and other scientific men; interspersed with beautiful illustrations. “In Search of A Son,” by Uncle Lawrence. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.50. A well told tale with a happy ending. Many important scientific matters are treated upon ina manner that cannot fail to attract and please the youngest reader. The author certainly has the faculty of conveying information in a pleasing garb. «“ Christmas Stories and Poems,” by C. Emma Cheney, Sydney Dayre, Miss V. Stuart Mosby, and others. J. B. Lippincott Company, Phila- delphia, Pa. Price, $1.00. This is a real Christmas book for little folks, it is profusely and handsomely illustrated, with short poems and stories of the most attractive kind calculated to please young readers. ‘© A Dream of Conquest,” by Lloyd Bryce. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa, Re- printed from “ Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine.” Price, 25 cents. “The Bursting of a Boom,” by Frederick R. Sanford, J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadel. phia, Pa. Price, $1.25. The author has laid the scene in California; with the different characters introduced, and the result of the booming faithfully depicted, has written a very readable book. «Arthur Merton,” by Admiral D. Porter, U.S.N. D. Appleton & Co,, New York, N. Y. Price, 50 cents. The matter and manner suggest.a youthful beginner rather than a veteran naval warrior.

Page 89

incot, its, with- Ditto Iphia, ough- d are ped. Law- phia nuch se of phe- the nen ; nce. any ina the the ing ma ila- 2]. The latter part redeems this greatly, however, where Arthur Merton distinguishes himselt py . . - heroic conduct during a mutiny. «Passion’s Slave,” by Richard Ashe King. D. Appleton & Co., New York, N.Y. Price, 50 cents. A powerfully written romance, holding the reade7’s attention unbroken to the end, « Retribution,” by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South- worth. T. B, Peterson & Brothers, 306 Chest- nut street, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, 25 cents. “The Last Assembly Ball,” by Mary Hallock Foote. Houghton, Mifflin & Co , Boston, Mass. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadel- phia, Pa. Price, $1.25. How a voice that promised to its owner much applause from the world was sacrificed for love, is ably told by the author in this book. It is bright and sparkling, showing pleasant glimpses of We.tern life. “Margaret Ellison,” a story of June Valley, by Mary Graham. Philadelphia, Pa. Here the teachings of a saintly mother after many years of doubt secured the Christian wel- fare of her only child, and what noble use she makes of her life is told ina pleasing -naa- ner. The book cannot fail to accoraplish good from its high moral standpoint. “A Knight of Faith,” by Lydia Hoyt Farmer. J. S. Ogilvie, 57 Rose street, New York, N. Y. The book is full of pure and noble aspirations. How the hero proved himself a ¢rue knight is woven into a tale worthy of all commendation. America. “ My Country ’tisof Thee,’’ by Sam- uel F. Smith. Frederick A, Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. For sale by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia, Pa, Price, $1.50. This is bound in a handsome book, profusely illustrated with colored designs of American scenery and noted places. “The Star Spangled Banner.” With music, by Frederick A. St kes & Brother, 182 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. For sale by J. Wana- maker, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.50. “Columbia, The Gem of the Ocean,” by David T. Shaw. Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa, Price, $1.50. These will appeal to all patriotic people, are handsomely gotten up and beautifully illustrated. OUR ARM-CHAIR. 97 «‘ National Songs of America.” Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. For sale by John Wanamaker, Philadel- phia, Pa. Price, $3,50. This is bound in a handsome volume, illustra- ted by a great quantity of highly colored de- signs, and with music, which eannot fail to make it a very attractive holiday gift book. «Gondola.and Palace,’ by Charles Driaste- Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth Ave- nue, New York, N. Y. For sale by John Wana- maker, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $2.00. This is a most charming selection of facsim- ilesof colored photographs of Venice, with selec- tions descriptive of each. It is an exquisitely gotten-up book in every detail. «“ One, Two, Three, Four,”’ illustrated by Maud Humphrey, verses by Helen Gray Cone. Price, $1.00. “Babes of The Nations,” illustrated by Maud Humphrey, verses by Edith M. Thomas, Fred- erick Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. Price, $1.50. Both books are for sale by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. These are two most fascinating books for chil- dren, the illustrations are exquisitely rendered in colors, with charming verses accompanying each one. “ Magdaletic’s Fortunes,’’ by W. Heimburg, translated by Mrs J.W. Davis, illustrated. Worth- ington Company, 747 Broadway, New York, N. Y. For sale by W. ©. Wilson, 115 South Elev- enth street, Philadelphia, Pa. The fortunes of Magdalene are charmingly portrayed, and cannot fail to please the most critical reader. The illustrations and paper are of the finest. «‘ Henriette, or A Corsican Mother,” by Fran- cois Coppée. Translated by Edward Wakefield. Worthington Company, 747 Broadway, New York, N. Y. For sale by J. B. Lippincott Com- pany, Philadelphia, Pa. The name of Francois Coppée has long been famous as that of the author of a number of excel- lent plays. In June last he published « Henriette,” which has been presented in this edition for the first to American readers in their own language. It is a model novel from a purely artistic point of view. It is a book which depends for its interest on the display of emotions common to all man- kind, and it owes very little to any distinctively French qualities of the author.

Page 90

ARCHITECTUR \L. ———3 ahs 7 aa Pa soon HUB Lat tevty Neg #47 AL ee tia &, Kivebey, ae 4 P ez a 4 anise. "ase" - i] . iy s a a 77 BE Bat! SS Nae I ate — Bea Ee ems OS Gi DVioek, Charybey._ f enue’ Cyovtes peiyher: . 12° 64S, a 5 closicion, —- Chanyber x7: Terapades A 1*S¥o vy: 2™ Sto vy CORO HE desire for beautiful homes and surroundings is becoming more manifest every day. People are 2 awakening to the fact that their homes must have more architectural beauty, the embodiment of ideas dictated by a love of the beautiful. Not so much however on the elegance and variety of materials asin the utilizing of things and distributing of parts that tend tosimplicity and harmony. ¢ Many and various are the opportunities that a ready mind may find in the designing of a house. Good taste and industry with a fair amount of ability in designing will work wonders. Good taste is a con- stant requisition and is nowhere more shown than in the designing and decorating of the home. All parts should be appropriate and in keeping with the general design and surroundings. Special Jeatures of Design. A good well lighted cellar under whole house. The three principal rooms and hall are connected by large sliding doors ; a flight of back stairs extend from kitchen to second story, and a flight tocellar, The third story contains three rooms andtank. The finish for hall and stairs is of oak ; the rest of the finish through- out is of white pine natural. The construction of the house is of stone to second floor; above this of frame covered with shingles. The estimated cost is ahout $5.000. Any communications addressed to the Architect, SAMUEL MILLIGAN, 708 Chestuut Street, will receive prompt attention.

Page 91

a e are nt of ‘ty of nony. ouse. _ con- parts exiqn. large third yugh- rame itect,

Page 92

“VEXATION.”

Page 93

Page 94

Page 95

GODEY'S FASHIONS. FOR DESCRIPTION SEE FASHION DEPARTMENT

Page 96

For Descriptiojs See Fashion Department.

Page 97

Pe) S ® | ro) Ll o3 [oy i) =) g 3 a m co Fr, © @ m

Page 98

Page 99

Fig. 8 rtment. poi onan ‘ EDIE il Bp Fig. 7 w Q. ) Q c g c a @ ke é c a2] é ae 2. = 3) 7) ® a Me ° b.

Page 100

For Description : ERS : Fig. 12. see Fashion Department. 4, ae. ee he Cite i ts

Page 101

-f a A; hy — be a eta <= 2 : . a AR SE == BS — ————e Fee Se 00 re r a ) 7 _— ri. = = ake ene = Fig. 13 Fig. 14 For Description See Fashion Department,

Page 102

Fig. 17 Description See Fashion Department.

Page 103

¥

Page 104

‘ le — wa a Z SAGES FI SSG ESS BASS F = A BPBLGLE FPDP FGF SS ee s SA Ba PES aS ESLSES. PAF FFF BAAS LALFE ~~ SS ( Ri Sy) ) de yS))) SS Dp SSS physay § IS BRE AG DIE DBD SO IS IS a * -~ DESIGN FOR TIDY IN LAGE AND EMBROIDERY. (For Description, See Work Table.

Page 105

SOI nosing fFOR TIDY IN LACE AND. EMBROIDERY. For Description, See Work Table

Page 106

ed

Page 107

7 LL LAdahaled > ail Y UY ” Vy Mf, YoOte I wee we yypssiilldles Whee “ht yz thi ttt y fy A Yi, G; ZI, hy 4 (yi teantttiiee Mi, rt c © E t S Q. ® Qa c 2 g n os b © ® ” c ° 3 a. < 9 n o Q — ° G Fig. 19

Page 108

quewjziedeg uolyse. Seg UONdl10Sseq 4104 o_O -- 6 Siz oS “Sia

Page 109

3 c o ‘ £ 2 : tk c 8 — a t 9 7) o Q ~ 0 ti % Fig. 31 For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 110

Fig, &? Fig. 38 For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 111

Sing, Little wird. SING, little bird in the tree. A wind blows over the sea. It wafts my ship to me, Sing, little bird in the tree. Sing, little bird, as you fly, As you soar and float on high, None are so happy as I. Sing, little bird, as you fly. Sing, as you sink to rest, Beside your tiny nest. Waiting will bring the best. Sing, as you sink to rest.— ELLEN .CALLALY.

Page 112

V LEWLLYN’S mind was in a most unhappy state when he left Tally- ho. He believed that Antoin- ette’s present gra- ciousness was due to the change in his circumstances, and this conviction only served to separate him from her still farther. *¢ T would not have her heart if she of- fered it to me,” he said passionately. ‘«it can be bought and sold like a bit of merchandise. She is fickle and mercen- ary, and I am a fool to love her as I do.”’ He battled thus with himself all the way down town till he came in sight of Taunton’s office. Then he threw his thoughts from him with an effort, and walked in with a manner that affected to be gay. Taunton’s office had the air of a place where a great crisis is impending. The clerks were silent and preoccupied, yet there was really very little business going on that morning. When he asked for Taunton, Mr. Eyre pointed silently into the private office, as one might point to the place where a corpse lay enshrouded. ‘* This is business,’’ Llewellyn thought, as he crossed the hard-oiled floor in si- lence. ‘At the first breath of mis- fortune a man’s relations change like the color of the chameleon.” Taunton was sitting at his desk. ‘Come in,” he said briefly. the door. Llewellyn sat down uninvited. ** Well,”’ said the broker, ‘‘ you are in luck it appears. How in the devil did you manage it? Didn’t you know everybody was selling Y. & C. at the time you bought? Or, did you have a pointer on ‘¢ Shut the transaction ?’’ ‘* I knew the road was going to change hands,’’ said Llewellyn coolly. ‘*You did !”’ Taunton shouted. ‘‘ Then why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was short of Y. & C.” $5,000 For A WIFE, By the Author of « Wedded to Misery.” time. 108 ‘You thought the stock was going down, didn’t you?”’ ‘¢Of course I did. Everybody did, It did fall to fourteen and three-quarters, and of course I wasn’t ready for a rise.” ‘¢ Why didn’t you tell me you thought the stock was going down,”’ said Llewellyn sharply, “and why did you foist ten thousand shares upon my shoulders when you thought, in your own heart, it would ruin me?”’ Taunton winced. ‘*That was a mistake. will happen, you know. But you have the best of it,I admit. I am left this How much do I owe you. Let me see.”’ “Fifty-four thousand, less commis- sions.”’ , “A nice little nugget. See here, Llewellyn, while you’re in luck, suppose you come in with me. Iam all tied up, you know, and money is tight as wax. I want five thousand dollars to-day worse than the devil.”’ A peculiar smile came over Llewellyn’s face. If his had been a mean spirit he might have gloried in the turn of fortune that had brought Geoffrey Taunton to such a point. There must be some truth in the rumor that the fellow had sunk every dollar he had in Y. & C. Nothing but desperation could have induced him to prefer such a request. “T have five days yet, you know,’ he said, ‘and if I wasn’t so tied up in one way and another, [ might turn the stock and save myself.’’ Llewellyn got up and walked across the office. He was silent for a few min- utes; then he said suddenly : “TI do not care to go in with you, Taunton, but I have a proposition to make.”’ ‘© Well?” ‘¢T will lend you five thousand dollars, if you like.”’ ‘¢QOn what terms?” asked: Taunton, quickly. Such things

Page 113

ng id. rht > yn en ild igs ive his Let is- ine ich in ery but to ne ck Oss in- ou, to on,

‘‘My terms are rather peculiar,” said Lewellyn, coming over to the desk and resting one arm on it, while he watched Taunton’s face attentively. ‘‘1 will lend you the money on condition that you sign awritten agreement to renounce all claim to the hand of Miss Eyre.’’ He uttered these last words slowly and distinctly, so that there was no mistaking them. ‘Taunton looked up, startled and quite upset. ‘«T want you to agree to leave her alone, not to visit her or make any attempt to see her, or to win her affection. Ina word, I want you to give her up entirely.” Taunton leaned back in his chair and broke into a disagreeable laugh. ‘«My attentions to Miss Eyre annoy you, then?”’ he said, maliciously. ‘¢I do not propose to discuss the mat- ter in detail,’’ said Llewellyn, coldly. ‘<I have made you a plain proposition.”’ ‘* And for all this you offer to lend me five thousand,” said Taunton with asneer. ‘‘Confound your generusity, Llewellyn ! If you want my privileges why don’t you offer to duy them outright ?”’ ‘*T will,’’ said Llewellyn, reaching for apen and drawing towards him a blank sheet of paper on which he began to write after the prescribed formula “for value received’’ the following lines : ‘¢ New York, December 12, 18—, in consideration of the sum of five thousand dollars paid me in full this day by Leigh Llewellyn, I agree to withdraw my suit for the hand of Miss Antoinette Eyre. From this day, I agree not to visit, write to or attempt to see her; not to make directly or indirectly any proposal of Marriage to her, or to try any means whatever of attracting her attention or regard.”’ ‘- Will you sign that?” asked Llewellyn, as he laid the agreement before Taunton. Taunton laughed? feebly as he glanced over it. ‘‘This is a very remarkable paper, Llewellyn,’’ he said. ‘*Unusual, perhaps, but quite legiti- mate,’’ Llewellyn replied. Taunton looked out of the window. He did not care a straw for Antoinette beyond the fact that she was a pretty girl, and that he hated to be foiled in any pur- pose. Whatever feeling he may have had

$5,000-FOR A WIFE. 109 in the matter, was not a credit to him or an honor to her. ‘‘Confound the fellow !’’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘‘I would stick it out, if ruin were not staring me in the face. But, if I were to go out on the street and borrow, it would knock my credit into a cocked hat. Pshaw! What is the agree- ment good for, anyhow? He would never in this world have it published. I can pocket the money—yes, by Jove! I must have it.’ ‘¢ You are a little hard on me, Llewel- lyn,’’ he said aloud ;’’ but I do not con- ceal the fact that I want money badly. Besides,’’ he added, with a covert sneer, , ‘‘Il am not so madly in love as you are. I would look twice at five thousand dol- lars, I think, before I threw it away for any girl.’’ ‘* You will sign, then,”’ said Llewellyn eagerly. ‘¢ Put up the money.” ‘* You shall have it by three o’clock.’’ ‘¢ Make it two, if you can.” ‘Two, then.” It was before that time that Llewellyn was back in Taunton’s office, the money changed hands and Llewellyn pocketed the agreement. Taunton took the money with an in- ward chuckle. ‘‘This is five thousand dollars for a wife,’’ he said with affected pleasantry. ‘*T wish you joy, Llewellyn.” Llewellyn’s face flushed. ‘Miss Eyre is nothing to me,’’ he said quickly. ‘‘I have no claim upon her—absolutely none. And I hope,’’ he added, ‘‘ that you will say nothing about this, Taunton. I should dislike very much to have Miss Eyre’s name get out on the street. This is a private trans- action between ourselves.”’ “Oh certainly !”’ Lewellyn went away with a lighter heart than he had borne for some time. ‘*It may be that I am a fool,” he thought ‘‘She does not deserve any better fate than would be hers if she married Taunton; and yet—I cannot help it!—it makes me very happy to have saved her from that man—even though Iam sure she will never be anything to me.”’ Taunton saw him go away, and laughed again.

ag” ee a ee

Page 114

Iro ‘¢ Poor fool!’’ he said. ‘‘ He thinks he has got me now! And yet—”’ his face darkened, ‘‘I hated to seem to yield to him even for the moment. By Heavens !’’ he muttered in a lower tone. ‘¢ I'll get my heel on his neck yet and crush his life out.’’ IX. Mrs. Tremaine louked uncommonly well in black velvet, and cut rather a conspicuous figure in Mr. Blount’s box at the opera. She was attended only by her maid, a luxury she had a quired very . recently. Taunton was in the house, and came sauntering in at the end of the second act. ‘«¢Oh, I say,”’ he observed with a glance at her superb bouquet and ostrich: feather fan. ‘You are getting to be quite a swell nowadays, but—are you quite sure —ahem !—you are not piling on the agony a little too heavy—just yet ?” Mrs. Tremaine darted a quick glance at him. ‘*You think that housekeepers and bankrupts ought to stay away from the opera ?”’ she said caustically. Taunton winced. ‘« Housekeepers—yes ! But not bank- rupts. You should never let the world know when you are down. By the way,” he added carelessly, ‘‘where are your diamonds? Your used to wear a stun ning bandeau and a bracelet that the Count de Guy gave you.”’ Mrs. Tremaine’s thin red lips curled. **I gave them to Monsieur the Pawn- broker when Mr.—Tremaine departed,’’ she said ina low tone. ‘‘One must live somehow.” ‘« Upon my soul, Nana !’’ he exclaimed, ‘*that is too bad. But Blount will buy you some more—won’t he ?”’ ‘« They are hardly the thing for a house- keeper to wear,’’ she replied. ‘*QOh yes! But you won’t be a house- keeper always.”’ She made a little gesture half of doubt, half of dissent. ‘« By the way,’’ she observed, ‘‘ they say you have lost all your money.”’ *« Do they ?”’ ‘¢ And some one has attached Bonny- brae.”’ ‘It is a lie!’’ said Taunton, angrily. ‘‘Hush! You forget yourself.’’ $5,000 FOR A WIFE. ‘¢Well—confound it, Nana! You would just like to see me down again.” Her eyes blazed up for a moment. ‘«[ never pretended to be friendly with you.’’ she said. ‘I have never forgotten Wolverhampton and the day you married me—or at least I thought you did. I was too fond and foolish then to think there were any ceremonies that were not real.’ Taunton l-aned back and looked un- comfortable. ‘*T thought we had agreed to let all that rest. When I brought you here and got you this place, you promised—”’ ‘¢ Promised !’’ she echoed scornfully. ‘*And what did you not promise me? You forget that I was fool enough to love you. A woman never forgives such an injury.” ‘*So it seems,’’ said Taunton, drily. ‘¢ But, for heaven’s sake, Nana! Your maid is pricking up her ears. She can hear every word you are saying.” Mrs, Tremaine opened her fan with a snap that shattered one of the ivury sticks. Some reply rose to her lips, but there was a sudden blare of the brass instruments and her words were not audible. ‘I think I'd better be going,’’ Taunton said, presently. ‘* You don’t seem to be in an amiable mood.”’ ‘¢ There is Miss Eyre across the way,” Mrs. Tremaine rejoined. ‘‘ You may find her more agreeable.”’ As Taunton left her box, her small white teeth were set firmly on her under lip, and her eyes were blazing. ‘¢ How [ hate him at times! ’’ she said to herself,’’ and then again it all comes back to me like a feverish relapse. But I would not have him know it—not for worlds! I hate him more than I love him—yes! He shall never be happy if I can help it. I will spoil his life, as he spoiled mine. Heavens! What a crash this music is! Iam sick of it. Jessie! lam going home. Come.” Mr. Blount’s carriage was at the door. She drove out to Tally-ho and found the master of the house playing cribbage with Leigh Llewellyn in the library. ‘¢ Not home so early, Mrs. Tremaine !” said the old gentleman glancing at his watch. ‘‘Blessme! It is onlyten o’clock, and, if I am not mistaken, you’ve got @ new gown.”

Page 115

ou th en ed re ” in- all nd ly. e ? ve ily. our can la ks: ton . be y; find nall der said mes But for love s he rash sie! oor. yund bage ! ” 1€ lock, Zot & ‘I am afraid I am getting too old for the opera,” she said with a yawn. ‘‘I like an easy chair and the fire much better.’”’ ‘I'd like to hear anyone else say that said Mr. Blount, moving his peg pre- cisely. ‘‘ There—his nibs, Mr. L. !”’ ‘Jessie was saying you were not so well,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine, sweetly. ‘I thought it quite shabby to leave you alone. You see,’’ she added, with a smile for Llewellyn, ‘‘I did not know he had such good company. Jessie! Here! Take my wraps. You may bring in the tea and —what will you have, Mr. Blount ?”’ ‘‘ Hot Scotch!’ said the old gentle- man. ‘‘ Llewellyn, you'll take a blue blaze with me, won’t you ?”’ ‘¢T thought the doctor said—‘‘inter- d Mrs. Tremaine. “The deuce take the doctor!” said Mr. Blount, quite red in the face. ‘I'll drink what I please.”’ ‘¢Certainly,’?’ was Mrs. Tremaine’s suave rejoinder. ‘‘ You are quite at lib- erty to kill yourself,—if you like.”’ The game of ‘‘ crib’’ went on serenely, while the housekeeper sat toasting her opera boots on a plush ottoman before the fire. She was screening her face with her ostrich fan and watching Mr. Blount. ‘‘If I am not very much mistaken,’ she mused, ‘‘ he is going to have an at- tack. If he drinks that abominable stuff he calls ‘hot Scotch,’ he’ll have one sure! Yes, Jessie, set it right down here.”’ A tray, bearing a spirit lamp and various appointments of a dainty charac- ter, along with a bottle of Scotch whis- key and some lemons, was set down on the table by Mrs. Tremaine. ‘¢T will make it, madame,”’ said Mr. Blount hastily. ‘‘ The game is up, Llew- ellyn. There! Draw the cork, if you please.”’ **You will despise my teapot, I sup- pose,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine, measuring out her portion of Souchong from a Chinese caddy. ‘¢Tea, madam!”’ sniffed Mr. Blount. “Tam not ateetotaler! Llewellyn here drinks it. I have seen him with a cup in his hands at somebody or other’s after- noon teaze.’’ VoL. CXX—No. 9, 1? $5,000 FOR A WIFE. 111 Mrs. Tremaine laughed as she dropped the sugar lumps into her cup. ‘¢Mr. Blount spells it with a z,” she said, and then she gave a little shriek of dismay, for Llewellyn was being coached in the diabolic business of tossing blazing Scotch whiskey back and forth from one glass to the other. ‘¢ Well done,”’ said Mr. Blount, lifting a glass to his lips. ‘‘Ah! That tastes like old times. Llewellyn, here’s to you and your next operation. I wish you luck on ’Change.’’ Llewellyn drank very little. He detested Scotch whiskey, but he did not offend his old friend by declining. Mr. Blount drank freely, growing garrulous. and warm under the spell of ‘‘old John Barleycorn.”’ ‘¢ Don’t let him drink any more,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine in an undertone. ‘‘What’s that, madame?’’ cried the old gentleman. ‘‘What’s that—that— that—?”’ A peculiar cry and a twitching of the eyelids, then his glass fell with a crash on the tiled hearth, and he slipped off his. chair onto the floor. Mrs. Tremaine cried out in dismay. There was a hurrying to and fro of ser- vants. Llewellyn bathed his head with ice water, and the old man was finally carried off to his room. Two hours later Mrs. Tremaine and Llewellyn were once more in the library. ‘¢ This is the worst attack he has ever had’’ she remarked. Llewellyn shook his head. ‘He is terribly prostrated, poor old gentleman,” he observed. ‘‘ He oughtn’t to have taken anything.” “Oh, well. You can’t do anything with him,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine with a shrug, and then, with a sudden move- ment, she walked towards her own pri- vate secretary, which stood in an alcove. ‘*Mr. Llewellyn,’’ she said, turning around sharply with one hand on the lock, ‘‘as you are a gentleman, I suppose you can keep a secret ?”’ ‘* Trust me,” he answered bowing. ‘There is something I want to show you,”’ she said, as she opened the drawer. ‘If anything should happen to Mr Blount I should like you to know of the— the existence of this document. It is Pe Te sees Pete OF Fo lw

Page 116

112 $5,000 FOR A WIFE. Mr. Blount’s wish, I believe, that it should be kept a secret. 1 do not know exactly why, but he has some avaricious relatives, I believe, who are rather build- ing upon his wealth, and he wants them to have a surprise.” Llewellyn looked up expectantly as she untied a bundle of papers, and, withdrawing one, handed it to him, It was brief and to the point—a certificate of marriage between Richard Henry Blount, Esq. and Nana Meredith Tre- maine, dated some months back. ‘‘Upon my soul!’ he cried, ‘‘ You surprise me, Mrs, Tremaine—I mean Mrs. Blount.”’ ‘‘No, no,’ she exclaimed, glancing around in alarm, ‘“do not call me that. We were 1aarried in June, but Mr. Blount would be very angry if he thought I had spoken of it. You know he is very pe- culiar; but I thought that if anything happened it would be necessary for me to make this marriage known and—”’ ‘«Certainly. In that case, you would ; but I think it is rather a mistake to wait so long. If you will allow me to say a word to Mr. Blount—”’ ** No, indeed !”’ she said emphatically. ‘<Not for world’s! I hope I can trust you, Mr. Llewellyn.” ‘* Certainly, Mrs. Tremaine,’’ he said somewhat coldly, as he handed her back the certificate. ‘‘I lay claim to being a gentleman.”’ He bade her good-night then and left the house, not, however, without some wonderment at the meaning of this secret marriage. ‘‘ There is no fool like an old one,’’ he said as he walked in town thinking of his aged friend’s strange freak. The streets were brightly lighted, and the opera-goers were just going home after their late suppers. Llewellyn passed a famous restaurateur’s on his way home just as a party of three had crossed the pavement to enter a carriage. ‘‘T am very glad you enjoyed it,’’ he heard a familiar voice say, and then the perfume of violets drifted towards him with sweet subtlety. ‘¢ He turned and saw Geoffrey Taunton standing with his foot on the step of a coupé in which Mrs. Eyre and Antoniette were already seated. X. When Llewellyn left Mrs. Tremaine, she sat down again at her secretary and took out the paper she had just shown him. ‘‘This marriage took place at Canajo- harie,’”’ she said, tapping the paper with her delicate forefinger. ‘‘ That is a long way off. lf any one—but, of course not !”’ she added with a gesture which seemed to thrust from her a disagreeable fancy. * It was past midnight, and the fire was smoldering sleepily on the hearth. ‘“‘It is getting cold here!” Mrs, Tremaine ovserved with a slight shiver, and she rose with the intention of putting some wood on the fire. The servants had all been dismissed for the night, and she was quite alone. ‘<] wonder what makes me such a owl,” she thought, and then, as she stooped for the willow basket, she started up again at the sound of a low half-singing whistle. ‘¢ What was that ?’’ she exclaimed, and then a involuntary’ cry burst from her lips. There was a man’s face pressed against the French window that -led from the library out on the porch, ‘‘Nana!’’ said a low voice in well- spoken Spanish. “ Let me in, carita/”’ Mrs. Tremaine stood as if fascinated till the man laid his hand upon the win- dow-catch with a gesture of impatience. ‘‘Be quick!’’ he said peremptorily. ‘It is cold.”’ ; She moved slowly toward the window, and opened it like one in a trance. A shabby foreign-looking man in a long cloak stepped into the room. ‘¢ Bah !’’ he exclaimed, shivering with cold. ‘‘What a cursed climate! Nana! Why do you look at me so? Are you not glad to see your long-lost brother ?” He looked at her with a grimace which ended in a mocking smile. “Edouardo!” she murmured. ‘I thought you were—”’ «In jail?” he added, flinging himself into a chair. ‘‘So I was, but you can't expect a man of my genius to rest con- tentedly behind iron bars forever.”’ *¢ You escaped ?” ‘*You behold me!” he said with a shrug. ‘I have had enough of Oporto. I am an American citizen. But—for heaven’s sake ! get me something to warm me up. Have you any American whiskey?”

‘é 7 tient] sister moth: was j other. 6 j lation to tel ‘cc y 6é if certifi “ce V quick the ce less to ‘cc E like a and h back. ‘é Y she s: you in ‘<é I “Tha He Mrs. 7 ‘cc G his coz you, n

Page 117

ne, ind im. 4jO- rith ong tr ned was {rs. yer, ing had she vl,” for n at stle. and her ssed rom vell- y9? ated win- nce. rily. low, 1 s0ng with ana ! you er ?”” hich se] self can’t con- th a orto. —for warm q ey?”

$5,000 FOR A WIFE. ‘¢ There are plenty of logs,’’ she said, pointing to the basket. At the same time she pushed aside the portiére that led into the dining room and brought from the buffet, a flagon of brandy. The strange man drank a glass of it without a breath. ‘¢Not so bad!”’ he said, handing her the empty glass. ‘‘ Come and sit down, Nana. Let us talk awhile. You must have a great deal to tell me.”’ Mrs. Tremaine dropped the curtains at the windows and then sat down. ‘‘You have not told me you were glad to seé me,’’ said the man who called him- self her brother. ‘‘T can’t say I am,”’ she said coldly He smiled, showing a set of sharp white teeth that somehow reminded one of a wolf. ‘You were always the plague of my life,’’ she continued. ‘‘ What is it you want now !” ‘‘Ah!’’ said the Spaniard, sighing. “What do I not want? But you are not a very loving sister, Nana.’’ ‘« It is all nonsense !”’ she cried, impa- tiently. ‘‘Why do you call me your sister? When my father married your mother you were eight years old and I was just five. We are nothing to each other—nothing at all.”’ ‘¢ You are not anxious to claim the re- lationship—séa’ don / I have something to tell you.”’ “« Weil ?” ‘*It is about Tremaine. Your marriage certificate——’’ ‘Was stolen !’’ said Mrs. Tremaine, quickly. ‘‘ And when he declared that the ceremony was a false one, I was power- less to refute his statement.’’ ‘*Exactly! But you had treated me like a dog, Nana—turned me out of house and home. So I determined to pay you back. It was I who took the certificate.”’ ‘*You always were my evil genius,’’ she said, shortly. ‘‘ What motive had you in destroying it ?”’ ‘«T did not destroy it,’’ he answered. “T have it here with me, now.”’ He tapped his breast significantly, and Mrs. Tremaine sprang out of her chair. ‘¢ Give it to me !”’ she cried, clutching his coat. ‘‘Edouardo! It is nothing to you, now. Give it to me!”’ \ ‘¢ Not so fast!’’ he said folding his arms deliberately. ‘I have no intention of giving it to you. Bah! After all these years, what do you care for Tremaine now ?”’ ‘<It is not that I care for him,’’ she said, nervously,’’ ‘‘ but that certificate— do you know—has it any significance ?”’ The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. ‘« Do you take me for a fool ?’”’ he said, with a short laugh.’’ The certificate is forsale. 1 have just been to see Tremaine. He was out, but I will go again. I will sell it to the highest bidder.” Mrs. Tremaine burst out laughing. ‘Oh !” she said quite gaily. ‘Give it to him—by all means. I should ask nothing better than to have it destroyed —now.”’ The Spaniard looked some what cha- grined. Tremaine has some money,” he sug- gested. “Tf he has not lost it all in stocks.” “If you had this certificate—”’ ‘*Oh, keep it, by all means,” she replied with a counterfeit yawn. The Spaniard was at loss to understand her. ‘¢T will sell the paper for a thousand dollars,’ he hazarded. Mrs. Tremaine looked into the fire. She had no money to give him. She could not possibly command a thousand dollars for such a purpose. ‘* Your terms are high,” she said slowly. “Tam only a housekeeper here. Where should I get the m ney ?”’ ‘You always had money when you wanted it.”’ She was silent for a moment. “| will see you again,’’ she said, dis- missing him with a gesture. ‘‘ You ought not to stay here.”’ ‘¢ Very well,” he said, rising and walk- ing to the table where he poured out a glass of brandy and drank it. “Adios, my sister! Iam stopping intown. You shall hear from me again.’’ He left the room as he had entered it —by the window, which Mrs. Tremaine locked after him. ‘¢Tt is almost two o’clock,’’ she mur- mured, glancing at the time-piece on the mantel, as she turned out the light. Softly she ascended the stairway and Il3 ; ‘ : ee. Se NN PEI I eg

Page 118

ee waren ewe on a a ee 114 TWO VALENTINES. glided along the corridor that led past Mr. Blount’s room. His door was half ajar and, as she approached it, she stopped to listen. Everything was perfectly still. She pushed the door softly open and peered in. There was a light burning low alongside of Mr. Blount’s bed, and she could see him lying there with his eyes closed. ‘¢ He must be all right now,’’ said Mrs. Tremaine, and, to assure herself, she stepped inside. There was not a stirin the room. The low gaslight shed a weird illumination about the room. ‘“* Mr. Blount !’’ she whispered. ‘‘ How are you feeling ?”’ There was no reply. She reached out her hand and softly touched his fingers which were twisted in the counterpane. They were icy cold. ‘*Mr. Blount !’’ she exclaimed more sharply and. turned up the light, which broke over a face that was already white and growing rigid. He had been dead for two hours at least. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Two Walentines. T. H. FARNHAM. ¢O WO little dimples set in cheeks Of soft and rosy hue; A tender pair of rose-bud lips, And eyes of clearest blue. A wavy mass of golden hair, And teeth of pearly white ; A dainty little hand and foot, And form sylph-like and slight. The tyrant of our household—she, Of undisputed sway ; Whose slightest wish or least command No one may disobey. Her picture came the other day. A valentine for me, And of the treasures I possess, None is so fair to see. This tiny wizard of my heart, The sweetest maid alive ;— This valentine, dear reader, is A little miss of five. The very jewel of mine eye— A pearl of purest water; And do you ask who she may be? She is—my little daughter. A few stray locks of frizzled gray, And brow all furrowed o’er With wrinkles deep, nose long and sharp, And visage lean and sour. A cuticle like mummy’s skin, Or parchment faded yellow, To tell which it resembled most Would puzzle any fellow. The terror of our hearthstone—she, Till to our joy she’d flown, Beneath whose sway we scarce dared claim Our noses for our own, Of such a valentine why I Recipient should be, I cannot guess, unless some one Has played a joke on me. But truth to tell, I much suspect, A certain roguish elf Sent it to show which prettier was, Her grandma, or herself. . Perhaps in tender tones you breathe The name with filial awe; She was my mother, do you ask? My mother, yes—in-law. if lau the but ef eve SO | anc me wit gir you wa’ tin Frz val an} her anc tho

Page 119

tow out gers ane. nore hich rhite east. aim DARE you to doit!” The speaker was one of a group of young girls gathered round the button counter of a large retail establishment during the early morning hour before the rush of business began. Shop girls, every one of them, yet as bright and pretty in their careless youth as any circle of the fairest society belies. The floor manager, Mr. Fraser, had just passed them with a grave incli- nation of his dignified head, and a for- mal ‘*Good morning, ladies,’’ and the conversation had turned instantly in his direction. ‘¢What a cross face that man has,”’’ said one of the girls. ‘*‘ Was he ever known to smile, I wonder?”’ *¢ Oh, I don’t think he is really cross,”’ replied one of her companions, a bright, piquant little girl, with large brown eyes overflowing with merriment. ‘‘ He isa Scotchman, you know, and I fancy they are always a little stiff and awkward.” ‘¢ Milly always stands up for every- body,’’ was the reply; ‘‘ but I never ex- pected to hear her arguing in favor of the redoubtable Fraser.”’ And there was a general chorus of laughter at Milly’s expense, who, never- theless, did not seem at all disconcerted, but answered, gaily: -‘*«T hate to be too hard on people, and everyone does seem to dislike Mr. Fraser so much ; everyone but my cousin Jack, and he declares he’s one of the nicest men he knows. He is quite intimate withhim. But as forme, why, you know, girls, I don’t think him any nicer than you do, though he is so polite. By the way,’’ she added, ‘‘ to-morrow is Valen- tine’s Day. What do you suppose Mr. Fraser would think if anyone sent him a valentine? Oh, do you suppose that anyone ever did?’”’ Then it was that Ida Munson said, in her superior manner : ‘¢T dare you to do it ”’ Milly turned and looked at her. . She and Ida were not the best of friends, al- though there had never been any real trouble between them; but somehow An Original Walentine. 115 BY L. A. He Milly could not like Ida. She had tried her best to do so, being of a lovable dis- position and a general favorite among her companions, but Ida would respond to none of her friendly overtures. Milly would not, perhaps, have noticed her re- mark now had not the other girls taken it up as a good joke. ‘¢ Oh, do, Milly,” they cried. ‘‘ What fun it will be to get a rise out of stately Fraser. Do send him one; oh, you must.”’ ‘*T don’t see any special fun in it,’’ Milly answered rather gravely. ‘‘We should not know how he received it, even if I sent him one, and I don’t think I shall. Why should I be the one to send it more than the rest of you?”’ ‘Oh, because you always can manage those things best. None of us could do it half so well, and, of course, he’ll never know who it comes from. Come, Milly, we'll all help select it; but you must direct it.’’ ‘*No,’’ said Milly, ‘‘I think it would be a silly thing todo. I cannot see any point in it at all, and I do not like to run the risk of offending Mr. Fraser. Jack says he is very shy and sensitive, and he might be annoyed, even if he did know who sent it.”’ ‘*Why, Milly, I do believe you are afraid,’’ said one of the girls teasingly, ‘cand I never thought you could be afraid of anything, much less Fraser.”’ Here Ida Munson’s sarcastic voice broke in: ‘« Haven’t I just said that I dared you to send it ?”’ Now Milly had plenty of spunk in her composition ; and with it a fair amount of temper, and this was quite too much for her. ‘¢ Oh,” she said, turning and looking Ida fully in the face with her sparkling brown eyes, ‘‘of course I shall not be dared. I will send the valentine, girls, if it will give you any pleasure; but I think it is a very foolish proceeding.” Something in her tone made the girls feel that she was very much annoyed. ‘‘Don’t do it, Milly, of course, if you

Page 120

16 AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. really would rather not. We only thought it would be a good joke.”’ But Milly caught a glimpse of the half sneer on Ida Munson’s face, and answered quickly : ‘© Yes, I have said that | would send it. We'll select it when we go out to lunch, Helen, and I'll post it to-night.”’ Then she turned quietly to her work. Ida Munson moved away to the farther end of the counter, where her duty placed her. Her soul was full of venom towards little Milly Briggs. Why was it? Be- cause Milly was so popular (which Miss Munson certainly was not), or because she dimly realized that Milly had divined her (Ida’s) secret liking for Jack Briggs, Milly’s handsome cousin? Whatever it was Miss Munson heartily disliked Miss Briggs with a dislike almost amounting to hatred, and had it in her mind to an- noy her when she dared her to send the ‘« valentine.” It so happened that the two girls boarded in the same house, and had fre- quent opportunities of observing each other. Thus Ida knew that, under all Milly’s gay and sometimes careless man- ner, was hidden a very sensitive nature ; and had also heard her say that she de- tested practical jokes. Ida chose to fancy that it was Milly’s influerce that pre- vented Jack Briggs from showing her at- tention (whereas the young man had not the slightest desire to show her any), and had resolved to punish her in some way if she could. In suggesting the ‘‘ valentine’”’ plan her intention had been, if possible, to en- trap Milly into sending it, and then, in some way, to allow the fat to become known to Mr. Fraser. In selecting him, she had thought only of some one who would be most annoyed by such a joke. Mr. Fraser, being manager of their de- partment, and having his attention drawn to Miss Briggs in this fooli:hly unpleasant manner, might make her position dis- agreeable to her in some way, or, if not, she could trust to Milly’s feelings being cruelly wounded when she knew herself to be found out, as Miss Munson fully intended she should know. But how to make it apparent that Milly was the sender of the ‘‘ valentine ” was the question. Mr. Fraser would not, of course, recognize her

handwriting, and Miss Munson could not see her way clearly to telling him the joke outright ; therefore she was puzzled. But fortune favored her. The morning mail brought a package to Miss Briggs from the photographers. At first she left it unnoticed, lying at her elbow, as the rush of business kept her at her post ; but at last she found an opportunity to open it. ‘* Look, Helen,’’ she said to her friend, attracting Miss Munson’s attention with the words. ‘‘ Here are my photos. See if you think they are good.”’ Good they certainly were. The pict- ured face wore Milly’s brightest expres- sion, and Helen was loud in her praise. ‘*You will give me one, Milly, of course ?”’ ‘*Oh, yes,’’ replied Milly, carelessly. ‘¢ T shan’t know what to do with them all. I only had them taken to please mother, and she is the only person I know of who wants one, except yourself; so you are welcome to it.”’ ‘*T don’t believe your pictures would ever go begging,’ answered her friend, with a caressing touch on her shoulder, ‘*if you would ever let anyone have a chance to ask for them. I know two or three people who wouldn’t consider it a punishment to have one,”’ she added, with a sly laugh. Milly blushed slightly, as she replied : ‘<1 do not believe in giving away my pho- tographs promiscuou-ly.”’ ‘¢That means,” said Helen, ‘‘ you’ do not believe in bestowing them on men? Well, I think you are quite right.” ‘¢[ know I am right,’’ answered Milly. ‘«That sort of thing only cheapens a girl. I do not know a man, except my cousin, to whom I would give my picture.” Ida Munson heard this conversation as she stood near, quite unnoticed by the other girls, and instantly her tertile brain conceived a neat little scheme. Could she but in some way secure one of those photographs, and change it for the ‘* val- entine’’ Milly was to send Mr. Fraser, her revenge would be complete. ‘That was what she said to herself, as she moved softly away trom the girls; but how to accomplish this. It would not be easy, as Milly might seal the ‘‘ valentine ” and mail it at once; but, again, she might

Page 121

could m the zzled. rnin Brigg’ ie left is the t; but ) open riend, with See pict- xpres- ise. y, of essly. m all, ther, f who u are vould lend, Ider, ive a VO oF it a with ‘ied : pho- n° do nen ? lilly. girl. isin, Mn as the rain ould hose val- ser, Phat ved y to asy, and ight

bring it back to the store to show the other girls, thereby giving Miss Munson an opportunity to put the picture in its place. She wished the envelope to be directed by Milly’s own hand, otherwise it would have been a very simple thing to have possessed herself of one of the pict- ures, and sent it to Mr. Fraser. Miss Munson’s sense of honor was anything but acute, but she had no wish to be dis- covered in her little game; therefore the picture must be sent by Milly herself. When Helen and Milly went out to lunch, the latter left her package of pho- tos lying under her cash bock, very near Miss Munson’s corner. As the two girls who were left at the counter were both occupied, Ida soon found an opportunity to withdraw one of the pictures and con- ceal it. Thus far all had gone smoothly ; but the difficult part was yet to come. How could she get it into the envelope destined for the valentine? But Miss Munson knew how to wait, and again fortune favored her. On her return from lunch, Milly brought with her the valentine—a dainty little perfumed trifle, altogether too pret- ty, the girls declared, as they gathered round her to look at it, Miss Munson among them. But Milly insisted that she would send nothing else. She would not violate good taste, even in fun, But she also said that she should enclose it in a yellow business envelope, so that he would think it a bill. Having undertaken the piece of mis- chief, Milly entered intq the spirit of it ; for she had argued with herselt that if it was foolish it was quite innocent amuse- ment, and that Mr. Fraser could never discover the perpetrator of the joke, and was half ashamed of her former annoy- ance. ‘Therefore, there was a good deal of fun on the addressing of the envelope, which Milly accomplished in a bold, dashing hand. ‘< It does not look like my writing, does it, girls ?’’ she asked, anxiously. ‘*Not a bit, they all cried. would ever guess it to be yours.’’ ‘‘ Well, then,’’ said Milly, ‘‘we have only to seal it ;’’ but, as she spoke, several customers came to the counter, and Milly, ever attentive to her duty, sprang to at- tend to them, as did the others, leaving None AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE.

117

the envelope unsealed. Now or never was Miss Munson’s opportunity. She, also, had turned to her work, but was almost immediately released, and was careful not to attract attention when she hurried back to the de:k where Milly had been writing. Drawing tie photograph from its hiding- place, she glanced quickly around to be sure that none noticed her, and taking the valentine from its cover, she laid the photograph in its place, enclcsing the whole in the yellow envelope and putting the valentine in her pocket. It was all done so quickly that it was quite impos- sible for any of her companions to ha¥e seen her, and her only fear now was, that Milly might chance to open the envelope again ; but this did not happen. They were very busy all the afternoon, and Milly seized the only unoccupied moment she had to seal the envelope, without ex- amining its cortents. Could anything have happened more delightfully! Ida congratulated herself heartily upon her success. The next morning the girls waited eagerly for the arrival of the postman. Of course it was highly improbable that he would happen to come in just as Mr. Fraser made his visit to their counter; but there was a chance, and, as they had hoped, he really did appear a moment after Mr. Fraser had paused at the counter next theirs. Among two or three letters which he received, the girls’ sharp eyes discovered the yellow envelope. He was talking with one of the clerks when the letters were handed to him, and theretore held them unopened for several minutes ; but greatly to the girls’ delight he did not move away, and finally they saw him pre- pare to open them. He glanced at them carelessly until he came to the yellow en- velope, which he studied closely for a second, as if puzzled by its appearance. Then he tore it open. The girls, of course, could not see its contents, only the expression of his face, which, much to their astonishment, he ateonce turned towards them, causing them all to drop their eyes and turn away—all, that is, ex- cept Miss Munson, who was interested to see what he would do next. She alone could understand his glance at them, or guess his amazement upon drawing out the photograph, and she delighted in-

Page 122

118 AN’ ORIGINAL VALENTINE. wardly over the success of her scheme, as, with a searching look at poor Milly, who, however, did not notice it, he moved hastily away. No sooner were the girls aware that he had gone, than they drew together in dismay. “Why, girls!’ cried Milly, ‘‘ did you see him look at us ?”’ ‘* What did that mean?”’ ‘How can he suspect ws of sending it ?”’ ‘¢Oh! Idon’t know,’’ answered Helen, excitedly. ‘‘I never was so surprised in my life! Who would have thought of his turning on us? But did you see his face? Wasn’t it funny, such utter amazement ?”’ ‘Funny !’’ quoth Milly, in disgust ; ‘<it will not be funny if he has found us out.” ‘‘Oh! but, Milly, how could he ?”’ ‘* Well,’’ remarked Miss Munson, cool- ly, ‘it will be remarkable if he does not suspect us, when he caught us all watch- ing him.” ‘¢ That is true,’’ said Milly. ‘* What can we do, and what can he have seen about that wretched envelope to make him think of us? Girls!’’ she went on, in tragic tones, ‘‘ what shall I do? He will never forgive such a silly joke.’’ ‘¢Oh, never mind,” said Ida, sooth- ingly. ‘‘He probably does not suspect you more than the rest of us, and, though why he should have thought of us at all passes my comprehension ; still he will have to visit his anger on all of us.”’ Milly received Ida’s consolation grate- fully. She could not understand what made her so nice all at once, though she fancied it might be because Ida had dared her into sending the ‘‘ valentine,’’ which bade fair now to prove a source of trouble. The girls all laughed it off, and declared Mr. Fraser to be a surly creature, if he could not take a little fun pleasantly ; al- though, somehow, the fun had not been all they had anticipated. In the mean- time, Mr. Fraser, quite lost in astonish- ment at the’receipt of the photograph, was racking his brains to find some pos- sible reason for its having been sent. At first he fancied there must be some mis- take ; but the address on the envelope was quiteclear. ‘Mr. PhilipS. Fraser’ stood out in the large, bold handwriting, giv- ing not the slightest possibility for an

error in the name. As he looked at it, he smiled involuntarily, thinking how absurdly the attempted masculine hand contrasted with the little woman, whom he supposed must be responsible for it. He scarcely knew Miss Briggs; not at all, in fact, beyond the recognition that busi- ness and politeness demanded. Although, as she happened to be the cousin of his only intimate friend, he had noticed her rather more than the other young ladies. But Phil. Fraser was not at all a ladies’ man. He had never had anything to do with ladies, and knew absolutely nothing about them. An orphan, without any near relatives, he had lived for ten years a very solitary life, working steadily at his business until he had been promoted to his present position. Milly had been quite correct in her judgment—he was a Scotchman, both shy and awkward, although the latter charac- teristics had grown upon him more from his manner of living, than because they were natural to him—and he was, also, as Jack Briggs enthusiastically declared, ‘‘a thorough-going good fellow !’’ When he returned to his lodgings that night, and settled himself as usual for a solitary evening, it was with an odd sense of excitement that he drew the yellow envelope from -his pocket, and proceeded to study the pictured face within its cover. It was a pretty face, there was no denying that (and if Fraser was a recluse, he was certainly no blind to beauty in any form). It had large, laughing, brown eyes, and a pair of ripe rosy lips that seemed to smile at him as he gazed. ‘‘ Well,” he soliloquized, after a long, silent study of the picture, ‘‘I confess I don’t understand it. Why on earth Miss Briggs should send me her picture, or why she should even think of me at all, [cannot conceive. I never exchanged a dozen words with her—’’ and Phil. felt a pleasant little thrill pass through him, as any man might who had been singled out as the object of such a pretty girl’s attention. He would not have liked to confess how long he sat idle, gazing at Milly’s sweet face, and thinking of nothing but the mystery of his having it to gaze at. At last, however, he arose, without being any nearer a solution than when he sat down, and proceeded in his usual

Page 123

t it, how 1and hom rit all, Dusi- ugh, his her lies. lies’ > do 1ing any ears y at »ted her shy rac- rom hey sha hat or a nse low ded yer. ing was tile ng, Liss re, at zed felt im, led rl’s at ing ize put methodical style to note the receipt of the “ photograph,”’ with his other letters. In doing so, however, he happened to no- tice the date, The 14th of February, and a light flashed upon him—St. Valentine’s day! Would not that account for the sending of the picture? It was a joke, of course ; but somehow Phil. did not feel so pleased as he had before. ceTe rae og very silly joke, and he should not have supposed any girl capable of sending her own likeness to a stranger, even in fun. A very unlady-like thing to do, and especially for Miss Briggs, the cousin of his intimate friend.’ Allthis while, the “ photograph,’’ safely hidden from view, lay on his desk in front of him. Thinking thus and waxing wroth as he thought, he mechanically drew it out to the light again, and almost instantly his feelings underwent a change. Under the influence of those bright eyes, which returned his gaze so frankly, he began to frame excuses for the pretty offender. She was evidently very young, and therefore thoughtless. From the'superiority of his twenty-five years, Phil. began to feel quite tenderly toward Milly’s inexperienced youth. Doubtless there were many reasons why she had perpetrated the joke. It was probably a concoction of all the girls, and she had been over-persuaded (little think- ing how nearly he touched the truth). In short, Phil. forgot his anger of a moment before, and instead of destroying the picture, as he had half intended doing, he slipped it inside the big book he was read- ing, where, it must be owned, it received far more attention than the book. After much cogitation he decided that he was not at all sorry to have the picture, and that his best plan was to ignore the matter entirely. What it could have been intended to elicit from him, he could not imagine ; but to let things take their own course was certainly the best way. He thought to himself that it was fortunate he had so few acquaintances, for there would be no danger of his talk- ing the affair over with anyone. ‘*No,”’’ he said, “ I will take care it never comes out from me. I should not enjoy hearing Miss Briggs discussed, and I am quite sure Jack would not. I know he is as fond of her as of a sister. Fonder, AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. 119 perhaps,’ with a half sigh. ‘*I will not let him know about it. He would not care to hear she had made a goose of her- self,” Certainly, could the girls have known what an impression their ‘‘ valentine’’ had made on Mr. Fraser, they might have been quite satisfied; for Milly’s face haunted his dreams, and he woke in the morning with a pleasant sense of some- thing very unusual having happened. However, there was not a trace of any- thing unusual in his manner when he bade the young ladies good-morning, and except that he only remained a moment near their counter, they noticed no devia- tion from his usual routine. ‘Pooh!’ laughed Helen, after he had passed them. ‘‘We might have saved ourselves that scare. I do not believe he even thought of suspecting us; you are quite safe, Milly.”’ Milly, who had not raised her eyes while Mr. Fraser was near (a fact of which that gentleman had been conscious), now felt much relieved at Helen’s words, and cheered up accordingly. But Ida Munson was not so much pleased. ‘What a dolt the man is!’’ she mut- tered angrily to herself. ‘‘ The idea of wasting all that powder on him! He is evidently quite too superior to notice it ; but there’s one comfort, he won’t hold Miss Briggs in very high estimation after this,’’ and she hugged this slight consola- tion to herself with a venomous little laugh. For several days nothing was heard of the ‘‘ valentine”’ affair, and Milly would very likely have forgotten it, had it not been for the shy consciousness which seized her whenever she happened to see Mr. Fraser, and caused her color to rise when she felt his eyes upon her, and it was strange how often she found him looking at her. Phil. Fraser could not have told why he caught himself watching her so often and so intently. He could not help seeing her embarrassment when he was near her, and put it down in her favor ; for in spite of his admiration of her beauty, he heartily disliked the idea of her forgetting her maidenly dignity so-far as to have sent him the ‘‘ photograph,’’ and would have been very sorry to see her show no feeling.

Page 124

120 AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. In the meantime, quite unknown to himself, he was becoming very much interested in her. Several times he found himself contrasting the “ photograph” with the original, not at all in favor of the former. elt aid not do her justice,” he said tr himself ; indeed he doubted if any pho- tographer could catch that varying expres- sion of hers with any truth. It will be seen, therefore, that Mr. Philip Fraser (utterly unimpressionable as he had atiways considered himself) was no more impervious to bright eyes and red lips than other members of his sex. But quite unconscious of his danger he continued to make his pleasant little study of Miss Briggs without any attempt to become better acquainted with her. Thus matters might have gone on indefi- nitely had it not been for a certain visit of Jack Briggs to Mr. Fraser’s room, abouta week after the receipt of the ‘‘photo- graph.” How it had happened that careless, good-looking Jack Briggs had became so friendly with that queer fellow Fraser was still a matter of astonishment to those who knew them both; and it was true that to a casual observer they appeared utterly unsuited to one another; but it was not so in reality. In spite of Jack’s fun- loving nature, which made him a universal favorite, there was a good deal of depth to his character. He was not altogether devoted to pleasure, but was very earnest in his work, fond of books, and had a strong appreciation of Fraser’s sterling good sense; while under Phil.’s stern outer- crust there was a current of quiet humcr, which responded pleasantly enough to Jack’s lighter vein. The two had grown to be very warm friends, though Jack had made all the advances towards friendship. But he was as sure of Fraser now (he often said) as of himself. Thus he frequented Phil.’s room at all times, certain of a wel- come. Upon this evening, having no other engagement, he had strolled in and seated himself in Phil.’s comfortable arm- chair, with a cigar, prepared for a long chat. They had been discussing all sorts of things, and the talk had turned upon books, as it often did (Phil being a great reader), and Fraser picked up the volume he was reading to show his friend a certain passage. In doing so, the ‘‘ photograph” slipped from between its leaves and fell face downwards at Jack’s feet. He picked it up mechanically (Phil. had not noticed it) and held it in his hand while his friend was reading. As Fraser closed the book his glance fell non the picture. Starting eagerly forward, he would have taken it from Jack’s hand; but too late, for Jack, not seeing his movement, had turned it to the light. His look of utter amazement was too much for Fraser. After all, though he was annoyed at the mishap, it hada ridiculous side, and he could hardly restrain a smile as Jack, too astonished for the moment to speak, sat staring at his cousin’s face. Raising his eyes at last to Fraser, he asked in his most frigidly digni- fied tone: ‘May I inquire how you came into possession of this?” Fraser could see that he was much annoyed, and did not wonder at it, for he knew how fond Jack was of his cousin and how jealously he regarded her name. It was a very sore point with Jack that any of his women-kind should be obliged to work for their living, and if it had been possible to persuade his aunt and Milly to allow him to support them, he would have strained every nerve to do so; but neither of them would listen to such a thing. ‘*No,’’ said Milly, ‘‘ you are not my brother, and if you were, I should nut think of allowing you to bear the burden of supporting the family. We are all poor together, but we ought to be thankful, you and I, Jack, that we can earn our own living; and never fear,’’ she added, with a quick appreciation of his warm heart, ‘¢ if ever mother and I need anything, we will not hesitate to come to you for help.”’ So all Jack could do was to secure a lodging in the same house with his aunt and cousin, take Milly about a little ina quiet way, and watch carefully over their interests. He was very fond of Milly’s beauty, and had a great admiration for the manner in which she conducted her- self, and for her aristocratic ideas which made her somewhat reserved toward his sex. Jack had not a shade of warmer feeling for his pretty cousin than that of brotherly affection. But he did admire pic di

Page 125

h ” fell ked ced end ook ing 1 It ick, t to ent ugh da dly for his t to ni- nto ach sin ne. hat sed vad ind 50 } ich my nut the We xht hat nd ick ver 10t a int 1a eir y’s for be ch er of ire and believe her all that a woman should be. To find her picture there in the pos- session of a man almost a stranger to her not only startled but displeased him thor- oughly. At first Phil. was puzzled how to answer him; but he decided finally to tell him the simple truth ‘‘] am sorry, Jack,” he began, ‘that you should have seen that. 1 ought not to have left it about so carelessly.”’ ‘‘Never mind that,”’ Jack interrupted him sharply. ‘‘ How you came by it is what I wish to know.”’ ‘Then half ashamed of his anger, as he caught his friend’s look, he added: ‘I beg your pardon, Fraser, but you know, confound it, 1 don’t understand it !”’ ‘No, of course you don’t, Jack,’’ replied Phil.; ‘‘neitherdoI. I am quite willing to tell you how I came by it; but I hardly think it will give you much information.”’ Thereupon he related the whole story. Jack listened intently, while the surprise deepened on his face. When Fraser had ended, Jack picked up the ‘‘photograph’”’ again and studied it as if he expected to see the likeness change under his gaze. ‘See here, Fraser, there must be some mistake. This is a picture of Milly, certainly. I have one like it, but as for her ever having sent it to you, why it’s impossible, you know. Why, what do you take her for ?’’ glaring angrily at Phil. ‘‘ did not say your cousin sent it,”’ said his friend calmly; ‘‘ but, as you say your- self, there is no doubt as to whom the picture represents, and, excuse me, Jack, but can vou tell me who did send it, if she did not ?”’ ‘It is not her handwriting,’’ went on Jack, not noticing the question. ‘It is not her writing on the envelope.”’ ‘*No,”’ replied Fraser, ‘‘I suppose not.”’ “I say,’’ cried Jack, struck by the sarcastic tone, ‘‘Fraser, you do not for one instant suppose that my cousin sent you that picture?) Why she is utterly inca- pable of such athing! She is the most timid, modest little girl you ever knew. Why hang it, man! Don’t you suppose I know what I am talking about ?”’ As aslight smile hovered on Phil.’s lips: AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. 12k «¢ My dear fellow,’’ he replied, ‘‘I have not the slightest doubt that Miss Briggs is everything you say. The whcle thing is evidently intended only as a joke, and had I only been more careful, | might have spared you this annoyance.”’ ‘‘Annoyance,”’ burst out Jack, ‘‘ my annoyance is a very small thing when I think what her feelings would be could she know of this. I must sift this matter to the bottom. I cannot allow anyone to hold an erroneous impression of my cousin,” he went on proudly. ‘* You will permit me to take this photograph, Fraser. 1 should like to return it to its rightful owner.”’ Now this did not please Mr. Fraser at all. He had not the slightest desire to solve all this mystery, if in doing so, or allowing it to be done for him, be must part with the cherished picture. He did not like that term, ‘rightful owner.’ Whom did it belong to if not tohim? It had certainly been intended for him by some one, and remembering Milly’s blushes and downcast face, he could not but teel that she was the sender. Still it would never do to let Jack know his feel- ings, so he answered quietly : ‘¢ Why, certainly, Briggs, if you think it necessary to trouble yourself in this matter, do so by all means; but it seems to me hardly worth while. As you say, it will probably annoy Miss Briggs beyond measure, and really the affair is quite safe with me. Ishould never have mentioned it even to you, had you not discovered it for yourself. You know I am no gossip, Jack ?” ‘Indeed, Fraser,’’ Jack replied heartily, ‘¢T am quite sure of that; but, neverthe- less, | am not satisfied to let the matter rest here, su, with your permission, I will keep this.’’ And, suiting the action to the word, Fe placed ‘‘ photograph ”’ and ‘envelope ’’ in his pocket-book. What more could Fraser say? He swallowed his vexation as best he could, and very soon Jack bade him good night. However, it was a day cr two before he could muster courage to tell Milly his story or attempt to trace the mystery. ‘Thus there was time for another event to occur. On the morning of the day on which Jack made his visit to Fraser, Ida Munson

Page 126

announced to her companions that she should leave them at the end of the week. ‘« She was tired of a ‘shop-girl’s’ life, she said, ‘‘and, as there was really no necessity for her remaining, she was going to her home in a distant town, where, she hinted, affairs of matrimonial natureawaited her.”’ It must be owned that the girls evinced a very mild regret at her communication. She had never been a favorite among them, so, though they were all polite enough to her, she could not but feel that their politeness was rather lukewarm. ‘I fancy,”’ said Helen to Milly, ‘‘ that Miss Munson has seen the fallacy of human hopes in your cousin’s direction.” Milly laughed her gleeful little laugh as she answered : ‘7 cannot believe she is so ab-urd as to have supposed he would really become interested in her. I should not like her to know it, of course, but Jack really dis- likes her. I am sorry she makes herself so disagreeable. She has been one of us here so long that we ought to miss her very much.”’ ‘* Don’t waste any sympathy on her, Milly. I really do not think she is worth it. She does not care a snap for any of us, and I think she has been especially unpleasant to you.” Milly sighed a little. Possibly one fault in her nature was her desire to possess every one’s good-will, but Miss Munson’s departure could not be a very heavy cross to her. Ida was to leave on Saturday, and on Friday evening Jack made up his mind to question his cousin on the subject of the ‘¢ photograph.” Milly had been unusually light-hearted through the week, for Mr. Fraser appeared to have quite forgotten to watch her, and thus she was relieved of much of her embarrassment, when she thought of the valentine. She could not know, of course, that he avoided her only because he feared that Jack might have already spoken to her, and dreaded the effect of his story. Therefore, when Jack very seriously requested a few words in private with her, Milly laughed at his sober face, and saucily told him that he looked like a Father Confessor with something on his mind. « ‘IT have something on my mind,’’ Jack AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE replied gravely, ‘‘and it has been there several days. Milly, will you be kind enough to account to me for this?’’ he added, producing the yellow envelope, and handing it to her. Mil!y’s color rose, and Jack’s heart fell in equal proportion, as they stood looking at one another. Milly was the first to speak. ‘€Oh, Jack !”’ she cried, ‘* how did you find out that I sent it?” Jack groaned inwardly. it was true then she did send it, and his pride must have a decided fall. ‘¢ Milly,’’ he said severely, ‘‘I did not suppose it possible for you to do such a thing as this. How in the world did it happen? Why,’ cried Jack, his anger increasing as he watched her pretty, blushing face, conscience-stricken before him, ‘it is utterly unlike you, such a forward, unmaidenly thing to do. Iam sure I cannot imagine what Fraser must think of it all.”’ Milly’s anger rose to’ meet his as he uttered these last words, ‘* unmaidenly.” ‘¢ Jack, what do you mean ?”’ she cried. ‘‘ How dare you say that to me, or apply it to such a little joke as this, which, though it may be foolish, is quite. harm- less, and in which I am not alone con- cerned? As for Mr. Fraser,’’ she went on, growing hotter in her first excitement, ‘*he is more of a stick than we all thought him, if he is so terribly shocked at this !” ‘*Why, Milly,’ answered astonished Jack, ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you. Ibeg your pardon if I called this by too hard a name; perhaps I went too far; but surely it is a little out of the common course of things for a young lady to give her photograph, unasked, to a man with whom she is very slightly acquainted.” The murder was out. Milly literally gasped in her surprise. ‘Jack, are you crazy ? My photograph! I never gave my photograph to any man but you.”’ Jack flung up both hands in a trans- ort. “ Well, either I must be crazy, or you certainly are. Milly, open that envelope and tell me if that is your likeness, or if you have a double ?”’ Milly did as he bade her, and drew out her own smiling photograph to the light.

Page 127

here <ind ” he ope, - fell <ing t to you ns- you r if out ht.

In utter bewilderment the picture fell from her hands as she stared blankly at Jack, who had expected to find her over- whelmed with contusion. ‘¢ Well,’’ he said, as she did not speak, “now suppose you tell me what it all means.’ ‘«T don’t know,”’’ faltered Milly. ‘Don’t know!” Jack cried, almost fiercely, advancing close to her. ‘‘ Milly, did you or did you not send that picture to Fraser ?”’ Anger again took possession of Milly at this queston, and flinging off the hand he had laid on her shoulder, she sprang to her feet and faced him. ‘Jack, I will never forgive you! Of course I did not send it! Howcould you think 1 would?’ went on poor Milby, bursting into tears. ‘‘ I never could have believed you would think such a thing of me ” This was too much for Jack, who placed Milly in her chair again, and soothed her griet as best he could with great com- punction, protesting that he did not believe it, never had and never could, with much irrelevancy. At last Milly dried her tears and became equal to the occasion once more. ‘Listen, Jack,’’ she said, ‘‘I cannot account for the presence of this photo- graph in any way whatever; but that I addressed that envelope is quite true, though how Mr. Fraser could have guessed it 1 don’t see.”’ ‘It would have been strange if he hadn’t,’’ muttered Jack, ‘‘ as your picture was inside,”’ ‘But it wasn’t inside,’’ cried Milly, “or that is I certainly did not put it there.’’ ‘The plot thickens. Shall we ever know how it got there?’ groaned her cousin ; ‘‘but explain about the envelope, please; let me know what you did do, if possible.”’ Thereupon Milly related the whole story of the ‘‘ valentine,’ adding that she had thought it extremely foolish; but had no idea of hearing anything more about it. ‘‘The amount of it all is,’’ said Jack, after hearing the whole, ‘that some one substituted the ‘photograph’ for the ‘valentine.’ Tt is our business now to

AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. 123 find out who that some one is, and I must set the affair straight with Fraser.’’ ‘¢Oh,’’ moaned Milly, ‘* what does he think; what does he say? Oh, Jack, I shall have to leave the store. I can never look him in the face again.”’ ‘** Nonsense !”? answered Jack, who was more thoroughly angry than he had ever been in his lite. ‘‘Fraser isn’t a fool. When the matter is explained he will be ready to apologize to you for believing you capable of such a piece of idiocy. You cannot blame him, Milly,”’ as she moaned again. ‘‘ He doesn’t know you, or much about women, anyway.”’ ‘Oh, I don’t blame him,”’ she sobbed. ‘‘It is my own fault. 1 ought never to have given in when they urged me, but they were so persistent, and Ida Munson dared me.”’ “€QOh !’’ cried Jack. dared you, did she?”’ Then he said no more, but a quiet opinion began to form in his mind as he remembered how often he had noticed Ida’s apparent maliciousness toward Milly. But his cousin had borne enough for one evening, so bidding her cheer up and he would see that it was all right, he left her to gostraight to Fraser. That gentle- man received him with ready sympathy, and expressed deep regret for the extreme annoyance it must have caused Miss Briggs—of whom he said so many pretty things that Jack’s feelings were decidedly comforted, and he left him with a heartier liking for him than ever before. In the midst of his pleasure at the matter being thus cleared up, Fraser could not but feel one regret, and that was the loss of his ‘* valentine,’’ which was, of course, gone forever, never having been intended for him. As for poor Milly, she passed a sleep- less night, and found herself the next morning with a severe headache and far too much exhausted mentally to under- take her duties at thestore. She managed to pen a tearful little note to Helen, tell- ing her the circumstances, and begging her to help her solve the mystery. When the story was disclosed to the other girls, great was the excitement and universal sympathy expressed for Milly. Miss Munson stood by and listened to it all without remark; but the others scarcély ‘¢Miss Munson

Page 128

124 AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. noticed her silence in their eag: rness to discover the truth. ‘They recalled all the circumstances of the day the ‘‘ valentine”’ was sent, and among them Helen remem- bered the tact of Miully’s counting but eleven pictures where there should have been twelve. ‘*Wouldn’t I like to find the villain that did it?’ shecried. ‘I never sup- posed Milly had an enemy in the world !”’ Ida Munson was delighted. ‘The suc- cess of her scheme had come just in time, as this was her last day at the store, and evidently none had the least suspicion of her having had ahandin it. But here she reckoned without her host, for toward noon Jack Briggs entered the store and came up to their counter. Helen, whom he knew well, he greeted cordially ; but, beyond a slight inclination, he hardly noticed Miss Munson, although he stopped close to her to talk with Helen. ‘*My cousin has written to you, I think,’’ he saidto her. ‘* Have you been able to discover anything about this un- fortunate affair ?”’ ‘No,’ she answered, ‘‘nothing. Weare all at a loss to imagine who could have been mean and cruel enough to do such a thing to Milly.”’ ‘Well, it issurprising’’ said Jack, ‘but some one is to blame fur it, and | propose to find out who it is.”’ Here he turned suddenly upon Ida; «* You have no idea, I suppose, Miss Mun- son?” For a moment she was utterly discon- certed. It flashed upon her at once, from the expression of his face, that he had guessed her secret ; but she had no inten- tion of owning it. ‘‘ Pray, how should I know, Mr. Briggs?’’ shecried, bridling and looking at him haughtily. ‘‘I1 am not sufficiently in your cousin’s confidence to know hei friends cr her enemies! ”’ ‘*QOh,”’ said Jack, coolly, returning her indignant glance with interest, ‘* I fancied you might be posted with regard to the latter ;’’ Ida was sure now that hesuspected her, but she cared very little now if she were found out; only she meant to be safely away before it was openly known ; so she replied, ‘‘ I do not blame you, Mr. Briggs, for your anxiety to discover the truth of this matter. It is a most unfor- A thing of this kind tunate occurrence. always clings toagirls». Ishould be very sorry it had got about as it has. Were [ Miss Briggs, it would be much better to hush it up.’? The cool insolence of her words and manner stung Jack into greater anger than ever; but she was a woman, and therefore not to be answered in her owncvoin. So, he only glared at her, and then turned to juin Mr. Fraser, who at that moment approached. Ida felt sure that Jack communicated his suspicions to him, for she could see them look at her as they talked; but she cared nothing for trat. It would be long, she knew, before Milly recovered from the mortification of the affair, even though her innocence were entirely proved, and Mi-s Munson, feeling herself to be discovered, determined to write a parting note to Milly and disclose the whole, thereby adding another sting to her trouble by showing her that she had such an unscrupulous enemy. So it chanced that on the following Monday morning, Milly, with soul and body girded to face the affair as calmly as she could, was met by this letter, in which Miss Munson confessed the whole, and which quite overwhelmed poor Milly. In spite of the unqualified sympathy of her friends, she could not get over it. It seemed to her that she was disgraced forever, and by no fault of her own. She stood at her post all day, with a white, woe-stricken, little face, that filled Phil. Fraser’s heart with pity as he gazed at her from a distance; for, with true delicacy, he refrained from approaching the counter. Late that after- noon he had occasion to go down into the packing room of the establishment, and upon descending the stairs into the rather dark room below, he was surprised to hear sounds of distress proceeding from some unknown quarter. For a moment he stood, uncertain whether to retire, or to attempt to discover who the person was in such apparent grief. Deciding upon the latter course, he passed around a pile of boxes, which stood in his way, and came upon a sight which transfixed him at once. Upon a big packing case, her face buried in her handkerchief, and her figure quite convulsed with woe, sat poor Milly, quite unconscious that any one was observing her grief, to which she was giving perfect freedom. Fraser stood and gazed at her until he could bear it no tro

Page 129

very re [ r to her ater dan, her and > at sure Ss to her for fore 1 of rere ing | to lose to she 0 it lay led Id, Liss ich ite ds, her ost tle ith 7m er- ito at, he ed ym nt or ‘as on le id er er or as id. 10 longer. That she should be in such trouble, and that he, however unwittingly, should be the chief cause of it, was too much for him; therefore he spoke, which was exactly what he should not have done. ‘‘ Miss Briggs,’’ he said, ‘* I—’’ At the sound of his voice, Milly tore the handkerchief from her eyes and sprang to her feet. Foran instant she cou'd not distinguish his face in the dimness of the room; but the moment she recognized him she gave him one look of horror mingled with anger, and without a word dashed past him up the stairs. Utterly dumfounded, Phil. took a seat in his turn on the case and pondered. What a fool he had been to speak to her. It was quite true that he did not under- stand women, as Jack had so often told him. For a day or two nothing happened. Milly came to the store as usual, and Jack had made Fraser ac- quainted with all the facts. ‘The affair seemed to be dying out; but not without leaving some effect, for Phil. Fraser had been obliged to own to himself that he had not only learned to admire Miss Briggs and wish to know her better, but that, in short, he had fallen completely in love with the pretty original of his ‘‘valentine.’’ As for Milly, in spite of herself, she could not but appreciate his true manli- ness and delicacy all through the trouble, and she caught herself watching and ad- miring him often as he attended strictly to his business, apparently without any other thought. However, although these two were be- coming so interested in one another, they might never have come any nearer to- gether but tor one blissful rainy night, when Milly was without her umbrella. She had been detained at the store later than usual, and had hurried out at last just as they were closing only to find it raining hard—a steady, persistent rain. Her companions had all gone before her, and she found she must face it alone, at least until the car she needed should over- take her. It was blowing hard, and she had gone but a few steps before she found herself getting thoroughly drenched. In despair she stopped under a street lamp, to draw her wrappings more closely about her and listen for the sound of an accom- AN ORIGINAL VALENTINE. 125 modating car, when a gentleman came up to her, passed her, then stupped and looked back. It was Mr. Fraser. Seeing her predicament, he joined her at once, and without hesitation said, ‘‘ Miss Briggs, excuse me, but have you no umbrella? Milly faltered something to the effect that she had not known it was raining so hard and had expected to take a car, at the same time insisting that she could not deprive him of his umbrella. ‘* Then,” said Mr. Fraser, ‘‘you must allow me to share it with you and escoft you home. Indeed you must,’’ he went on more deci- dedly as Milly hesitated, ** you will take cold.” It is not right for you to be out on such a night.’’ Something of uncon- scious tenderness in his tone made itself felt by Milly, and caused her color torise unseen by him. Without more ado she accepted his kindness and even took the arm he offered her. For a few blocks they walked in silence, which Mr. Fraser broke at last. He had been screwing up his courage all the way to touch upon the subject of which he knew both their minds to be full, and finally he said: ‘Miss Briggs, you must forgive me for bringing up what I know must be to you a very disagreeable subject, but 1 cannot allow this opportunity to pass without expressing my regret for all the annoy- ance I have been the means of causing you.”’ Now certainly this was magnani- mous, and such Milly felt it to be. She could only murmur out a few confused words of her own regret and the hope that he would try to forget it all. «I cannot forget it,’’ said Fraser, warmed to his subject by the touch of the little fin- gers on his arm; and perhaps carried too far by his feeling for Milly, he »ent on to expatiate on his sorrow, until Milly, quite overcome by his kindness, the dismal wet night, and possibly by her own feelings, disgraced herself by bursting into tears, as 1f there were not moisture enough in the air. But this was the climax. What happened next neither of the two could exactly tell; but certain it was that when they arrived at Milly’s lodgings, after a walk in which Miss Munson’s sins, the rain, tearsand all were forgotten, Fraser was the happiest man in the world, aod before he parted from Milly, he was again the proud possessor of his ‘‘ valentine.”’

Page 130

sMajor and Mrs. Wannival Wawkins. No. 2. AMONG BY BELLE HEN we ’rived at Cousin Landsdown’s house in Bo- hemy, he opened the front door with his latch-key and begun stridin’ up the stairs, two or three steps to a time, ‘shoutin’ at the top of his voice: ‘¢ Hullo’, there, Kate! Hullo, Blos- som! where are you? Hullo! hullo!’’ and Hannibal and me we follered along after, luggin’ the green bolster bag be- tween us. In a minute a door flew open and two wimmin sprung out at him, and the youngest one, his darter, I took her to be, grabbed him around the neck, huggin’ him like all persess’t, not mindin’ anybody was with him. ‘The other woman came for’rards more quiet like, smilin’ and holdin’ out both hands real corjul ’fore she even knew who we was. ‘« Hold on, hold on, little one !”’ says Cousin Landsdown to the girl, laughin’ and extractin’ himself away from her as quickly as he could. ‘* Don’t you see we’ve got company? Kate,”’ (to his wife); ‘‘here’s Major Hannibal Hawkins and his new wife from Punkinville, and they’ve come tothe city on their bridal toor! I met’em inthe carand brought’emstraight home to you—knew you'd be glad to see “em!” laughin’ and rubbin’ his hands. ‘* Here, Bloss,’’ he says to the girl, ‘‘come and kiss your new cousins.”” And ’cordinly Bloss did kiss us, tacklin’ Hannibal fust, and kissin’ him as he never was kissed afore, I guess; flingin’ her two arms round his neck, and half chokin’ him and frouzlin’ his hair all up; so it took him some little time ter rekiver and git smootbed down afterwards, I noticed. I didn’t exactly ’prove of sech a great, growed up girl makin’ so free with a strange man, if he was her cousin. Our Car’line wouldn’t a’ done so. Car’- line would a blushed and hung back kinder bashful, watin’ ter be kissed fust. And they was bout of an age, I should judge, Car’line bein’ jest sixteen. Wall, they showed us into the parler, 126 THE BOHEMIANS. C. GREENE. and I begun to take off my things, while they stood by waitin’ on me and askin’ questions, My land! that girl, Blossom, as they called her, could ask more ques tions in five minutes than our Car’line could in a week! And when she see the green bolster-bag she couldn’t rest till she knew all about it; what was in it, where we got it and everything ? I told her our bridal trewso was in it, and then, as brief as possible, I give a sort of account o’ the hull matter. Oh, how she laughed and hollered and hild on tew her sides, as. if she’d die! “Oh, mar! Oh, par!’ she screamed, ‘isn’t it tew awful derlicious! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”’ Cousin Landsdown and his wife laughed tew, though they didn’t make quite sech a fuss as she did, and they told her to go up in the garret charmber and fetch down the brown luther valise, and she done so, and they persented it tew us on the spot. We was pleased enough, not only because it was a harnsome and valewable present; but now we could send the trumboon man’s bag back, which we ’cordinly did that very afternoon with our best respecks, and an invite for him fer ter come up to Punkinville and see us next summer. The girl, Blossom, seemed ter take a wonderful shine to me from the fust. She was a dretful lovin’ little thing, and hung round me, huggin’ and kissin’ me half the time. I wa’n’t used tew it, and didn’t hardly know what ter meake on’t. ‘‘Oh, mar !’’ she would ’peal to her mother every once in a while, ‘aint she jest sweet. Ain’t she derlicious (mean- in’ me, you know).”’ Finalty I said to her : ‘« Blossom,”’ says I, “‘ seems ter me you have a curi’s use o’ words here in Bohemy. Up home we ginerally apply the word ‘derlicious’ to somethin’ good to eat, a pie or a puddin’—never to folks.” “ But you look good enough to eat,” she answers, laughin; ‘‘ you dew look jest tew sweet for anything.” an¢ an¢ bat gia say Is, pal vel we pre . fgy

Page 131

ned, wife nake told and and W US igh, and yuld rich oon _ for and There was mirrors hangin’ all round the room everywheres, and when she said this, naterally I looked up intew one, kinder on the sly, ter see how I did look anyway, and she ketched me at it, and grabbed me round the waist and kissed me agin. ‘There !’’ she says, ‘‘don’t you see what a darlin’ you be. You look like a dear, little strong-minded dove. Yes, you are jest derlicious. That’s what you be!’ I laughed and kissed her back, There wa’n’t no harm in her likin’ my looks, and I wa’n’t goin’ to pertend ter be mad. But more ter see what she would say than anything else, | says: “ My face may be well enough, but my clo’es—I aint much fixed up ’side o’ you and your mar,’’ and I looked down at my gray alerpaccy disapprovin’. ‘‘T gon’t care! Your’e lovely, clo’es and all,’’ she answers, ‘*And your hus- band, he is lovely tew! A great lovely giant! And oh, sech aname! A/ajor Hannibal Hawkins! Keebus ! as par says, what a name! But the best on’t is, you shall be the lions at our dinner- party to night. You came jest in the very nick o’ time !”’ ‘Dinner party !’’ says I, ‘‘oh, I guess we can’t go to no party; we didn’t come prepared—”’ “But you are here. “so there aint no go about it, here, don’t you see !”’ ‘What do you call it a dinner-party for if you have it in the night time?’ says I. ‘I should think it would be more of a supper.”’ “Oh, we turn night into day, and day into night, here in Bohemy,”’ she an- swered, “Bohemy ? Bohemy?”’ says I, ‘‘what a name! I never heard o’ no sech place nigh New York city before. Is it a sub- bub, or what ?” ‘‘The name Bohemy don’t apply to the place where we live, but to the serciety we go in,’’ says she. ‘It’s the name of a class o’ folks, you know,”’ “Oh! kind of a religious seck,”’ says I. ‘‘There’s lots o’ new ones nowadays.” She laughed and shrugged up her Shoulders. ‘‘Oh, dear me, no!’’ she says; but jest then her mar come in to call us to breakfast. VoL. CXX—No, Io. po? she says, laughin’, You are MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. 127 ‘¢ Breakfast,’’ thinks I, ‘‘ at ten o’clock in the forenoon !’’ But I was glad enough to go, for 1 begun ter feel kinder faint and hungry. Wall, we went out to breakfast, and I must say, they was as kind and hospitable folks as I bout ever see; but they were curi’s. As I say, they was kind, only they didn’t treat us as if we was one of ’em, but more as if we was some sort of interestin’ curiosities, Feejy Islanders, or circus monstrosities, you know. I could see that they was studyin’ and watchin’ on us all the time, and enjoyin’ themselves oncommon well a dewin’ of it. I don’t think Hannibal minded ; but it riled me. Ididn’t fancy bein’ treated like a menagery. Come night, me and Hannibal put on our best clo’es and went down to the parlors. When Biossom come in I didn’t hardly know what ter think. I’d read ’bout ‘‘decollity’’ dresses and seen pict- eres of ’em in the fashion books, but Blossom’s dress was ‘‘terrible decollity!” It did beat all, and I hoped when her mar see it she’d make her go right up stairs and change it. But la! I found out her mar’s was wuss yet, if possible ! As a woman, and step-mother to Car’- line, I felt that I orter pertest and I did ’cordin’ly. ‘¢ Blossom,”’ says I, ‘show can you go tew a party in that shape! Why! me and Car’line wouldn’t think o’ goin’ round so, not even ter home ona hot day with all the blinds shet and the doors locked !’”” She seemed surprised. She looked down at her pretty bare shoulders and her white arms without the sign of a sleeve to kiver ’em. ‘‘Everybody dresses so here, for evenin’. It is full dress, you know,” she said, and I couldn’t discover as_ she blushed or even winked at the thought on’t. ‘‘T should call it anything but /w// dress,’’ says I. ‘‘Why! you ain’t half dressed, not half !”’ She bu’st out laughin’. ‘‘Oh! you funny, funny cousin !’’ she says, and ran away, to tell her mar what I’d said, I reckoned. All the ladies at that party was dressed the same way. I didn’t have a chance ter free my mind to Hannibal about it,

Page 132

128 MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. but I hoped he knew me well enough to understand that I wouldn’t ’prove o’ no sech fashions, in Bohemy or out o’ Bo- hemy. Pretty soon we went out ter dinner and set down to the table. Cousin Landsdown put me on his right hand, which I took ter be the proper place, though, naterally, I’d ruther a’ set side o’ Hannibal. I was so ’shamed and embarissed at fust (on ’count o’ the ‘‘ deco/dity’’ dresses, you know), that I didn’t feel like look- in’ round much; but bimeby I began ter be so took up with what the folks was dewin’ and sayin’ that [ forgot all about their clo’es. Funny, how quick we get used ter things, ain’t it ? But it did beat all, the strange stories them Bohemidners had to tell bout one ‘nother! Why! up in Punkinville you go toa party, and the wust you hear is how somebody (that ain’t there, of course) is stingy, or extravagant, or de- saitful, or homely, or tryin’ to ketch a beau; but here in Bohemy, ! declare, they actilly took my breath away! Sech terri- ble things as everybody seemed ter be a dewin’ of ! ’Cordin’ ter their tell, ’bout all the married folks fit with one ’nother, or get divorced, or run away with some- body’s else pardner; and the young folks was cuttin’ up jest as bad. And _ here they was, laughin’ and jokin’ about it, as if it was all a matter of course But in jestice tew ’em I must say it wa'n’t all gossip and scandal, No! Sech high-toned and intellectible subjecks as they discursed on, I never see! Sicol- ergy, Agnostycism, Boodism, and a lot more that I can’t remember correck. They all appeared ter be edicated. Oh! terrible edicated, and I says to Cousin Landsdown : ‘For the laud’s sake, cousin, how do you Bohemianers happen ter know so much! I should jedge everyone of you had swallered a Webster’s Unabridged and a full Encyclopedy ter boot!” ‘6Oh,”’ he answers, Jaughin’, ‘in Bohemy nobedy is tolerated ‘less he knows somethin’. Ignorance and stupid- ity is unpardonable sins, while even a talent for lyin’ about our neighbors is ap- preciated, as you may have obsarved,” and he turned to answer the woman that set on the other side of him. ‘‘What did you think of my article on ‘*Microscopy In Fiction?’’ she was askin’. ‘‘ Capital, capital!’’ he answers; “| fancy it must a’ made old Rowells and his follerers squirm! Keen, keen as a razor, Mis’ Van Allen !’’ The woman laughed out loud, and they both laughed; then, happenin’ to lean for’rard alittle, she ketched me lookin’ at her. ‘¢ Have you read it ?”’ she asks, smilin’, *€No, [ haint,” says 1. ‘* What is it about ? What does ‘microscopy’ mean?” She looked at cousin Landsdown, and said somethin’ in a furrin’ tongue that sounded ter me like ‘‘ Arlerbungtown” (oh, 4 fin temps /), and I naterally con- cluded she was askin’ if I came from that place ‘¢No, I reside in Punkinville,’”’ says I. Cousin J.andsdown laughed. ‘‘Mis’ Van Allen,’’ says he, * let me interduce my cousin, Mis’ Hannibal Hawkins, from Punkinville.” *«] hope ter see ye well,’’ says I, and in reachin’ acrost cousin’s plate ter shake hands with her Il knocked over one of my wine glasses and two o’ his’n, and the contenks went into his plate mostly. Mis’ Van Allen give me the tip ends of her fingers. “ Charmed, I am sure, Mis’ Hawkins,” says she (which may be the correck way ter answer an interduction in Bohemy, but it wouldn’t be considered very civil up our way). ‘You were askin’ what ‘ microscopy’ meant,’’ says she; ‘‘ perhaps Mr. Lands- down will be kind enough ter tell you,” and she looked at him with her great laughin’ eyes, as if she was on the pint of enjoyin’ somethin’ amazing. *¢Micrescopy,’”’ says he, looking down at his plate full o’ wine, kinder meditat- in’, ‘means, literally, examination with t he microscope, aud ‘ microscopy in Fic- tion’ is where an author takes his char- acters all ter pieces, mentally, morally and physically, and examines ’em with the microscope (of his mind, you know), scientific. For instance, in writin’ of a woman, he tells how she looks and feels, acts and thinks; tells why she does this or that leastest thing, tracin’ the motives and causes way back ter the fall o’ man, ome eye este t de

Page 133

ticle Te | and as a they lean n’ at lin’, is it ne” and that vn” con- that

if necessary, and so goes on, in and out, back’ards and for’ards, till the reader’s head swims ”’ ‘« How queer,’’says I. ‘‘ But what in nater do they dew it for? It can’t be in- terestin’, and it must be hard work—’”’ ‘*The Lord only knows what they do it for, I don’t,’’ says he. ‘Now, if I was goin’ ter write a story,” says 1, ‘1 should make it lively. I don’t believe in meanderin’ or microscopin’ tew much. I guess | should tell howa woman loved a man and couldn't git him for some time, how she worked and contrived, and how, when she did man- age to git him, they proved to be incom- paterable to one ’nother, and was both miserable; but how, finally, after a good deal of bickerin’ and wranglin,’ a good many sighs and tears on her part, and some considerable perfane language on his'n, they learn ter git along ter- gether and lived middlin’ comfortable ever after. Sech a story would be inter- estin’ and instructive,’ says I. Jest at this point we dropped the sub- ject, for a young lady they called Saiffo begun ter say some poitry she made up herself as she went along, and we all kep’ still ter listen. I don’t remember but just this one verse of it. Here it is: When I am dead : ] No €ruel word can wound, No false friends injure or betray The heart that is but dust, Ah! Wella day! Every verse begun with ‘‘When I am dead,’’ and ended with “Ah! well a day!’ and it was awful harrowin’, no misiake. I took it that she’d been disappinted and treated shameful by some good for nothin’ man, and I felt real sorry for her. I reached under the table kiver and pressed her hand and drawed down my face sympathizin’, but 1 had my labor for my pairs. She only scowled and stared back at meas cold asastone. If she had died the next day 1 wouldn’t a gone to her funeral. All this time I hadn’t kep’ track of Hannibal. I’d been so took up with one thing ’n ’nother, you know, and then he set way down on the other side o’ the table from me. But now I looked at him ter see how Saffo’s poitry ’fe-ted him,

MAJOR AND MRS, HANNIBAL HAWKINS. 129 and—my land! you might’a knocked me over with a feather. He was all settled down in a heap in his chair, and seemed ter be slip, slippin’, as if he was goin’ out of sight under the table eventewally. ‘‘Boozy, if not intoxticated,’’ thinks I ter myself, ‘‘and me, his wife, president o’ the ‘W. C. T. U. o’ P.!’ More’n that Hannibal himself was considered a strick temperance prohibitioner up home. But, you see, six liker glasses o’ different sizes and shapes standin’ all round his plate had been tew much fer him. Some- thin’ had got ter be done at once, but I reckoned I was equil tew the ‘cosion. I whispered tew a waiter and told him to carry Major Hawkins a cup of coffy, extry strong, immejitly, ‘‘avd no more wine,’’savs 1, emphatic. Wall, he carried the coffy, and Hanni- bal drunk it and begun ter straighten up and ’pear better right off. nd now | observed that the hull com- pany was in pretty much the same fix, 1aving had took more’n what was good for ’em. ‘They was beginnin’ ter be noisy. Ladies and all was laughin’, tellin’ stories, singin’ song-, and every perpose what they called a ‘‘¢oast.”’ A ‘*toast’’ was an excuse for takin’ another glass o’ wine or liker. While I was watchin’ Hannibal, still kinder anxivus, all of a sudden a young man settin’ beside on him that they called Fitz James, springs tew his feet and lifts his alass high ibove his head, his eyes flashia’ and his harnsome face all of aflame. ‘Drink, ¢ ts, *‘ drink, drink once more to our guest’s fair dar- ter. Car'line is her name, and, ’cordin’ tew her paternal relatives’s modest ester- she must be charmin’. Drink, tlemen. Drink to Car’line!”’ In a minute every glass was filled and raised, but almost simultanyous Hanni- bal riz tew, and stiddyin’ himself with one hand on the table, he lifted the other in sollum protest, as it were. ‘‘Gentlemen,’’ says he, ‘<I objeck ! Upon that he straightened himself up gradewal to his full hight 0’ six feet two, and when he was all up and had got his bearins’, he looked round on ’em, carm and stiddy as a clock. few minutes somebody’d entlemen,’’ hes] ”

Page 134

130 MAJOR AND MRS. HANNIBAL HAWKINS. “(My young friend here, Mister Fitz James, means well,’’ he continues. ‘‘1 am ter blame jor the liberty he’s took with my darter’sname. You know, some men, when they’e drinked a drop too much, begin ter brag, and I guess mebby I’m one of that kind. ’Tany rate, I bragged—bragyed like a gump and a fvol —about my darter’s gocd looks and in- nercent, winnin’ ways! Gentlemen, —some on ye must be payrents—”’ Here he stopped and rubbed his head as he alwers does when he is a good deal disturbed, and the company havin’ re- kivered from their momentary surprise, took advantage o’ the pause ter pound the table and huller ‘‘ Car’line! Car’line! Drink to Car’line !”’ Hannibal waved his hand as if he was goin’ ter speak agin, and they changed their tune. ‘‘Hear! hear !”’ they shouted, laughin’ as if they considered the hull thing an awful good joke. But Hannibal stood there firm as the rock o’ Dundee and I see his jaw set. **Yes!”? you ‘hear’ all on ye!’’ he says between his teeth. ‘‘I say it shan’t be done! I forbid it! What!” says he, ‘put my little girl “long with the women you've toasted here in Bohemy to-night! Gen’lemen, it can’t be—”’ all ot asuddin he choked up and stopped agin. The thought o’ Car’line seemed ter ’fect him powerful. ‘If you knew her, gen’le- men,’’ he said, finally, his voice shakin’, “If yere knew my little girl, you wouldn’t think o’ sech a thing—as it is, I, her payrent, must forbid it.”’ He looked round on ’em, and lifted one hand appealin’; then dropped it tew his side in helpless elerquence, and set down. For a minute you could a’ heard a pin drop, it was so still. Some looked sober and sume lcoked mad, and Cousin Landsdown looked both. His face was red as a beet, but he smiled dretful sor- castic, as he turned to Hannibal, tryin’ to speak careless and unconsarned. ‘All right, Major, jest as you say, of course. I am sure the gentlemen are satisfied,”’ says he. But I was sure they wa’n’t, and I knew Hannibal and me must ’pear terrible dis- aggreeable and onaccommodatin’ to Cousin Landsdown’s folks and to the hull company. Ncet that I would a had Hannibal done a mite different! No, I was proud on him! But I hated ter have "em feel hard toward us—and what ier dew that was the question. I thought a minute, and then laid my hand on cousin’s arm and looked at him as friendly and beseechin’ as I knew how, and says I: ‘*Cousin Landsdown, I feel as if we hadn’t done our parts towards entertainin’ the company ter night ; what say to my repeatin’ some poitry I made up bout Car’line, seein’ they seem to be so interested in her ?’’ He brightened up in a minute. ‘‘Good, good !’’ says he, and when he "nounced ter ’em that Mis’ Hawkins would recite a poim, they was all smilin’ and good-natered in a minute. Them Bohemianers ’peared for all the world jest hike children. All they wanted was ter be amused. Wall, I began the poim (there was five verses), and went through from the first line to the last without a single mis- take. Here is tne poitry as | composed it, and as I said it off ter °em in Bohemy that night. OUR CAR’LINE. She may be harnsome—our Car’line, Of that I won’t pertend to say; 1 only know she’s sweeter, brighter, Than pinks and rosies, any day ! She neither short nor tall—our Car’line; Her hair is yellower than gold ; A frozzly halo round her for’rid, Like some sweet pictered saint of old! And two sech eyes she has—our Car’line! Beseechin’, tender, sober, true— Until she smiles, and then you wonder Whether the rogue aint foolin’ you! Her voice so sweet and clear—our Car’- line’s ; Her motions graceful as a bird’s— Here’s Car’line nigh as | can gither, I only fail for lack o’ words! Sixteen year old—a child, our Car’line, Let not the world that lays beyond, E’en spile or mar, or make her suffer, Our Car’line, that we love so fond!

Page 135

the had D, I ave ler my 1m ow feel rds hat ade . be ins jin’ jest ter was the 1is- sed my ec; When I got done they all praised me, and Cousin Landsdown took my hand in his’n and squeezed it, and says he: ‘¢By my faith! fair cousin, you have true poitry in your soul! You would be an ornyment to onr gild. 1! would we might keep you in Bohemy.”’ ‘‘] ’bleeged ter ye, I’m sure,”’ says I, ‘but I guess I’m more fit for Punkin- ville than Bohemy.’’ And I couldn’t help blushin’ ter think o’ myself in one o’ them ere decollity dresses ! ‘*Not but what I like you all real well,’’ I continered, ‘‘and I’m sure no folks could be better natered, nor better edicated, and I dew feel honored and ’bleeged ter ye,’’ says I agin, bowin’ fust to Cousin Landsdown and then right and left round the table. ‘‘And now,”’ says Hannibal at this A LETTER. 131 juncter, ‘‘if you'll excuse Mis’ Hawkins and me, I guess we’ll have to take our leaves. We didn’t git much rest on the boat last night, and we feel pretty well tuckered out.’’ (1 seen Hannibal gapin’ while I was sayin’ the poitry.) When we riz up tergether, | made a kerchey and Hannibal made a bow, and lockin’ arms we perceeded to go. When we got along to where Blossom set at the table, she ketched hold o’ my hand and whispers : ‘¢Cousin, cousin! will you tell me all about Car’line in the mornin’ ?” ‘¢ Yes, child; yes, I will,’’ says I, and I stooped down and kissed her, resolvin’ in my own mind that I’d take her back to Punkinville with us when we went, and Jet Car’line larn her ter be happy in more nateral and innercent ways. A Letter. L. R. BAKER. cy2 EFORE me young Cupid stands smiling, OC’ 5) My letter right willing to take, yo And I ween that the fellow will tarry In that dull little town on the lake, If it’s only to glance at her blushes While the seal she doth lingeringly break. Ah, the rogue knows the whole of my letter, Its rapturous rose-color tone, Its kisses so fervent and plenty They might furnish the pages alone ; Its hint of blue heavens half hidden, Where none fairer ever have shone, There’s a wee cottage, too, in my letter, Trailed o’er with a wonderful vine, Though the winter winds beat on my casement With their shiver and whistle and whine, There’s a blossoming grove in my letter That is hers and is mine. Cupid, you rogue, you are ready, Fluttering and smiling you stand, Your three little dimples grown deeper, Outstretching your fat little hand ; And now the address? O, you mischief! The loveliest maid in the lard.

Page 136

» ERHAPS the gayest winter ever \y known in London city was that of 1683-4— Jin the reign of King Charles the ~ Second. from the beginning of December to the fifth of the following February the river Thames, from London bridge to Westminster, was so completely frozen that another city was created upon the ice, and furnished with all the commodities, carriages, fes- tivities and entertainments of the city proper; and a state of things prevailed which never had been seen within its limits; for, free from all the restraints of rank, all classes of people intermingled freely in a long carnival called the Blanket Fair, whilst for three months the fair, while it lasted, was the great attrac- tion of the day, the printing presses erect- ed on the ice being kept constantly busy registering the names of troops of visitors. During this winter a solitary man, tall, dark, and of foreign appearance, engaged a lonely hovel on the worst part of the Bankside, a locality enjoying no good reputation, as many a midnight cry from the victims of robbery frequently at- tested. But as the stranger placed in the hands of the owner of the house a sum amounting to more than its full value, his object in seeking a home in such a situa- tion was not narrowly questioned, though the only information he gave concerning himself was that he had spent much of his life abroad, where he had acquired the Dutch title of Hans in Kelder, or Jack in the Cellar. His employment was found to be that of an herbalist to the apothecaries, and he was often absent days at a time from his solitary abode; yet, strange to say, he was never seen to cross the bridge into the city and none ever saw food carried into his house. Moreover, he was never known to min- gle in the sports of the Fair, nor even to approach the great public fires, around which, by day and night, the people gathered with song and jest; and it was said that even the roasting of an entire Ox over a great iron pan on the ice on the gala day of the season failed to bring a Wans in, Relder.—A Legend of the Great Frost of 683. BY K. 132 M. He him from his dreary dwelling so remote from the scenes of the festivities. ‘Surely something must be wrong with this man,”’ said the gossips, one and all. But as Master Hans neither dis. covered plots nor plotted himself, minded his own concerns and was no gossiper, they were obliged to content themselves by denouncing him in accordance with their own prejudices as Papist or Puritan, madman or wizard. Yet Hans lived through it all after his own peculiar fash- ion, and it was even a matter of doubt whether any of their abuse ever reached his ears. ‘This state of things, however, could not fail in time’to excite the alarm of the worshipful Master Bedral, Beadle of St. Magnus Church, a dignitary full of zeal in the discharge of his office, and a fine specimen of an ancient city parish officer, deeply solicitous for the welfare of his Majesty’s realm. ‘«There be plotters abroad, we know,” said he, with a solemn shake of his head, ‘and of such shrewd tales as these we of the legality must take due note.” ‘«Surely, Master Bedral,”’ replied his crony, David Saunders, to whom this re- mark was addressed, ‘‘and it may well chance that we have among us a notable spy. God save the king!” ‘«¢ Aye, by my faith,” said the beadle, ‘‘and his majesty’s poor servant must look well into the matter of this fellow— Sam in a Skelter, I think they call him, or some other heathenish name. He shall be watched for on the ice every night, and if caught he shall give a better account of himself, I promise you, those telling me that Sam’s in a Skelter.” ‘« By certie, I wonder we can sleep in our beds of a night.”’ ‘¢ Aye, aye, Master Bedral; but I tell you there are worse things to be seen of a night than a poor fellow like that,”’ and glancing cautiously around as if to guard himself from an unseen enemy, Saunders drew near to his old crony and confided to him in low tones a tale fit to freeze even the blood of a beadle warmed by the great feast-day fire and many asteam- ing tankard.

Page 137

a) emote vrong e and - dis. inded si per, selves with ritan, lived fash- loubt iched ever, larm eadle y full , and arish re of ow,” 1ead, e we 1 his 5 re- well table adle, must w— n, or shall ght, etter hose p in - tell of a and nard ders ided eeZe | by am- “One night, of late,’’ said he, ‘‘as I left a goodly company at the Royal Oak, no earlier than twelve by the clock, it was a bitter night, too, not fit for a dog to be out; and I begrudged to go home even then; as I drew near London bridze what should I hear but such an awesome muaiiiig and groanip g as never my ears heard before. Now it is well known to all and Sandy that I ’ae a tender heart, and so, though my teeth chattered in my head, I drew near to the place where the sound came from. And there true as I live, on a high starling of the bridge, sat one in a white sheet like a tall man, grinning and groaning as it were making a lament for his sins. My word,though, I heard not much of it, for I just dropped as if dead, and there I lay till a good neighbor coming that way helped me on tomy feet and saw me home. You may well believe I could but scarce walk.” ‘‘You don’t think it was the ale of the Royal Oak, do you, Savie!”’ said the beadle. ‘‘No, for I was forced to be content that night with very little for lack of ready money, and I was full sober, I trow.”’ ‘‘Ne’ertheless, my man, I’m none so sure about the sight ye saw; but if it was a pestilent fellow that took on such a likeness, (and stranger things have been, ye know), we'll deal with him right speedily. This very night we are to seek all evil-doers—beshrew them. These be no sights for an orderly parish.’’ The evening of the day on which this conversation was held was near the end of the time appointed for holding Blanket Fair, and consequently the encampments received even a larger number of visitors than usual, and the double lines of tents which formed the two long streets of the city on the ice were gaily decorated with signs and garlands, while everywhere the tavernmen’s bushes called attention to the good wine mine host of the tavern was ready to dispense to his guests. It was a brilliant scene. Soon after the lighting of the lamps a foot-passenger might have been seen wending his solitary way toward the tents—a tall, dark man with hard fea- tures, enveloped in a large cloak, his broad hat slouched over his face. He HANS IN KELDER.—A LEGEND oF THE GreaT FRostT oF 1683. 133 seemed unfamiliar with his surroundings and hesitated as to which way to bend his steps. Perceiving his uncertainty one of the throng of merry-makers stepped promptly forward and _ bade him welcome to Blanket Fair and its goodly sights. The welcome was courteously received by the stranger, who, noticing the sol- dierly bearing of the man, promptly inquired by what title he should address his new found friend. ‘‘Merely as a poor captain of Rupert’s, sir, cast aside like a piece of rusty armor now that the king—God save his majesty —enjoys his own again. And you, sir, how shall I call you?” The new comer seemed slightly em- barrassed by the question. ‘For me,”’ he replied somewhat hesitatingly, ‘‘the title of Hans in Kelder will suffice. I traveled under that name in Holland. But now that lam in mine own land let us hie to some honest house of en- tertainment where I may feel that lam in Merrie England once more.”’ ‘¢ With all my heart,”’ said the captain. ‘Here is the Royal Oak.” ‘‘I attend you, captain,’ said the stranger. ‘‘It is not the first time I have found the Royal Oak a good shelter,’ and the two men entered together, the company assembled in the square tent, and, settling themselves at its hospitable board, called for the best Canary the hovse could supply. With many a gay toast and merry song the hours sped quickly away, till finally the jovial band called upon the captain for that favorite called ««Rv- -* — ymn.” se’ said he, *‘you who never heard it just before a charge of Rupert’s men will never know it as it really was ; but I’ll give it with all my heart,” and he led off with such spirit that soon all were shouting with him that wonderful battle hymn of the Cavaliers. The hard features of Hans lost their harshness as he became flushed and animated, and he too at length joined in the rushing tide of the chorus with as much ardor as if he had that moment his foot in the stirrup on the field of Naseby with theroyal army in full charge behind him. There was but one silent voice in the company, that of a sailor who had hardly

Page 138

134 HANS IN KELDER.—A LEGEND oF THE GREAT FRostT oF 1683. been noticed at his entrance, and who seemed by the ferocity of his features and the arms he carried to be ‘of the rudest class of pirates, though few would have dared to ask him the question. The applause and excitement produced by the song was still at its height, when there broke upon the ears of the company a most unexpected sound, namely, the loud and pompous tones of the Beadle of St. Magnus, who pressed into their midst, quite suddenly, followed by a party of watchmen. ‘* Make way here, make way here, good people !’’ he cried, ‘‘ for us of the legal ity, who have come to look for hidden enormities. We have warrant for what we do, as shall be manifested.’’ He cast a scrutinizing glance around the tent, which rested chiefly on the sailor, the captain and his companion, Hans. Then turning quickly tothe latter he said, ‘*I pray you, friend, how may you be called, for | am looking for a man of your description?’ glancing as he spoke at a paper in his hand. ‘Yes, yes; long-bodied, dark haired, foreign- looking. How may you be named ?” ‘* You may call me Hans in Kelder,”’ was the reply. ‘*In sooth, way 1? If you call your- self that it is enough, for you are known by it tor a Ruane, whom I shall this night show the inside of the bridge watch- house.”’ ‘* Not without my consent,’’ said the stranger, coolly. ‘‘Nor without mine,’ tain. ‘« Fellows, fellows,’’ said the beadle, ‘¢ we are not to be bullied in our lawful work. You will answer for this to your superiors. And who may you be, master mariner ?”’ ‘The devil !’’ cried the sailor, start- ing from his seat. For an instant the valiant officer of the law recoiled, and then, recovering himself, answered, ‘‘ Then | charge the watch with you in the name of King Charles and of St. Magnus; but speak, knave, | am not to be trifled with. What is thy name, I say ?” ‘*See here now, friend,’’ said the sailor, ‘‘sheer off and be content with a civil answer, will you? When we sailors , said the cap- ’ don’t chose to give our names we too answer to that of Hans in Kelder.”’ “Oh, ho! a plot! a plot! my mas. ters,’’ shouted the beadle, ‘‘ there is 4 villain of this name there in every parish, and there will be the firing of London again.” ‘¢ Who was it spake of firing London,” exclaimed the sailor; ‘‘ who said I threw the first fire ball,’’ and starting up ina frenzy, he rushed out into the night. Appalled, the little company gazed at each other breathless, when in the midst of the excitement the door of the tent was flung open and in rushed David Saun. ders, his face pale with terror. ‘‘ Come along all of you,’”’ he said, ‘‘ come along and see the devil himself, clad in a white sheet, rampaging and crying on London bridge,’’ and he, too, rushed out of the tent, followed by all present. Far away in the distance, toward the bridge, they heard the sharp report of pis- tolshots. ‘‘Some poor benighted wretch,” thought the captain, ‘‘ mayhaps we will be in time to rescue him,’’ and pressed valiantly forward. ‘True enough, when they arrived at the bridge, there lay on one of the starlings the figure which had so terrified poor Saunders; but it was plain to be seen that it was that of a wounded man. ‘the good captain staid for no words, but mounting by the blocks of ice the broad flat of wood extending from the pier, he stooped to lift the man. But what was his surprise to find himself in a strong grasp, and turning his head to recognize the ferocious features of the sailor who had left them so abruptly, ‘‘Hello there! let go, comrade,”’ said he, ‘‘ we come to rescue the man.”’ «‘Yes, and learn my secret. [ll have your life first. I have the lives of two men at my belt yet,’’ was the savage reply. ‘‘What ho! Gentlemen! gentlemen! wake up! here is a secret worth a king’s ransom,”’ cried the captain. ‘* Nay,’”’ faintly murmured the wounded man, ‘ say rather worth a nation’s curse.” The sailor raised his pistol as if to fire at him, but instead pointed it at his own breast, fired, and fell lifeless into the river below. The wounded man, slightly raising him- self, gazed after him. ‘‘Gone! Gone!” he said, ‘‘and I too must svon follow.

Page 139

ve too mas- > isa arish, mndon lon,” threw ) in a ed at midst tent Saun- Come along vhite ndon f the 1 the f pis- ich,” - will essed when y on had was of a staid locks ding man. nself head f the ptly, said have two eply. nen! ing’s nded se.” re at own river him- ec : low. HANS IN KELDER.—A LEGEND oF THE Great FROST OF 1683. 135 Nay, do not strive to aid me, but listen while I have yet strength to speak. That man who has just sank from your sight was Hubert Cloudesly, the infamous wretch whose hand first fired London, and I was hisaccomplice! Aye, you may well shrink from me,’’ for, in horror, the men-who were holding him dropped him again; ‘‘ but ye are all avenged, for even they who lost friends and fortune in that avful burning in the wildest moment of horror were in Paradise compared to me, even from that hour. Afterarestless wan- dering life in all the earth, came back here to die in penance. ‘This night, for the first time since we set London in flames, Hubert and I met, and to preserve his secret he attempted totake my life. It is ebbing faster now than the tide beneath me. This has been my penance, that every night as London slept I watched here in my grave clothes, bemoaning my sin. My ill-gotten wealth I have scattered among the unfortunate. O, London! thy name shall rise in glory from thine ashes, live forever, while I die accursed and unknown.”’ Exhausted, his little remnant of strength gone, he, too, like his companion 1n guilt, his life ended—fell backwards beneath the bridge As he sunk, however, the wind blew the sheet from his face, and Saunders, catching a glimpse of it, ex- claimed, ‘‘Mycertie! but it’sthe wizard Carl they called Hans in Kelder, who lived in yon hovel on the bankside.’’ ‘« Surely, surely,’’ said Bedral, bustling up and grasping the collar of the tall stranger, ‘* and there’s a family of them, the rogues ; but this one shall not escape me, by St. Magnus.”’ ‘Hold there!’’ cried the captain; “hands off this loyal gentleman. I'll be surety for him that he’s no rogue, or go to prison with him.”’ “To prison with you, then, if you will,”’ said the beadle ; ‘* but you shall not hinder me in my duty. Come on, sirrah, and stop these struggles,’’ as the stranger strove to free himself from his grasp. But now the most bewildering sight he had yet encountered met the eyes of the zealous servant of the law. Suddenly the cloak which enveloped the tall form, yielding to his grasp, flew open and disclosed nothing less.than the silver star of the Garter suspended by a blue ribbon round the neck of the wearer. His hat falling off, too, at the same mo- ment discovered the full features of Charles the Second himself, surrounded by that fine dark hair which so strongly characterized him, ‘¢God save the king,’’ exclaimed his donchty defender, swinging off the con- stable by his collar, ‘‘ and now who goes to prison to night, my man ?”’ ‘*Fear not,’ said the merry monarch, ‘¢fear not my worthy and zealous friend. Death and disguises make all men equal, and you did but your duty. Odds fish, gentlemen, this good man can surely terrify a knave with such a bailiff in Christendom, as you have seen, and moreover this night hath shown us that which kings may well be iistructed by. And now, captain, let’s back to the Royal Oak and finish our night, and in the morning you shall have both reward and employment. Believe me, my heart is grateful to all my old defenders, but mine eyes are not all-seeing, nor is my treasury without a bottom.” Such was one of the romantic occur- rences of that strange winter of the yreat frost, and for a long time there was extant a bill printed on the ice on which were found the names of the royal family, one of whom was designated by the singular title of Hans in Kelder. The following are the words of the celebrated Rupert’s hymn : ’ “Mount, gallants, mount, for the rays of the morn- ing Are gilding your arms on the tent-covered plain, Movnt, gallants, mount, for the day that is dawn- ing Must shine on us victors or shine on us as slain. Mount, cavaliers! it is loyalty speeds you ; Mount, cavaliers! it is Rupert who leads you ; Mount, cavaliers! let the flag which precedes you Be covered with blood or with glory again.” “ Draw, gallants, draw ! on the enemy dashing Full on his ranks, irresistibly pour. On, gallants, on! when the sabres are flashing, Remember King Charles—and remember no more! On, cavaliers! it is vengeance that speeds you; On, cavaliers! it is Rupert who leads you ; On, cavaliers! let the flag which precedes you Be covered with glory or covered with gore.”

Page 140

A ¥ear in the Pome. BY AUGUSTA SALISBURY PRESCOTT. FEBRUARY. What are you going to do this year to tine? Do you know who he was and why he is peculiarly entitled to be held in lov- ing family remembrance ? He was a bishop who dwelt in Rome, and who made it his special care to look after the happiness of married couples, and to assist the young in their match- making. So it would be more than a pity ‘if we were toallow the good old custom of celebrating his birthday to fall into desuetude. And then, too, the early months of the year are so long, and oft- times tedious, that one may be glad to en- liven them by taking advantage of every festival possible. The old idea of sending a valentine in the form of a painted square of paper, con- taining a sentimental verse and, mayhap, a little looking-glass, has entirely gone out. But in place of thisstyle have come others that make of valentine offerings, things of beauty and a joy as long as they last. ‘They aresouvenirs similar to those of Christmas, birthday and Easter, save that they differ in the sentiment, having on them a light line or two, or even no inscription at all save the date. They can, of course be bought ready- made in the stores. But they are expen- sive, if one gets nice ones, and cheap substitutes are not permissible. The alter- native is to make them, and this can be easily and satisfactorily done at home if one is at all clever. And, besides, the work will form a pleasant diversion for the dull monotony into which one is apt to sink after the Christmas festivities. A pretty little valentine, and one easy to make, is fashioned in this wise : Take a piece of celluloid, four by six inches, and in the upper right hand cor- ner trace the date in dainty lettering. Fasten a narrow strip of celluloid across the lower left hand corner, securing it in place with bits of ‘‘baby’’ ribbon. Un- der this strip slip a card on which are the words ‘‘ My Valentine,’’ done in old Eng- lish or Roman text. 136 A very beautiful little remembrance is of rough paper cut in the shape of a rose and painted to represent one. Petals and stamens are all represented, and inside the painted rose is a slip of paper bearing the verse : The days are long and dreary, Outside the cold wind blows; So I will send my greeting In the heart of a rose. Another, though more perishable offer. ing, is of roses and callas. Mass them to. gether in such a way that a calla, the largest one of all, shall form the centre, On the big, white sheath of this calla, trace delicately with a pin the words ‘*Saint Valentine, 18g90.’’ Should the letters not come out sufficiently clear, dust a little pink powder, or diamond dust over them. Still another way may be added to the apparently endless number of ways of using calendars. Fasten a small one near the end of a broad piece of satin ribbon, and on the end of the ribbon inscribe the verse : That winter joys may be with you, That summer joys may be thine, I send a year of good wishes To you as a valentine. A cunning little valentine, that may be sent as a reminder to a remiss correspond. ent, is a square of birch bark, securely tacked to a thin strip of wood. On this another piece of bark is fastened to form a pocket for postage stamps. On the bark is the lettering : Sing a song of love, dear, Is what I ask of thee. I send a nest of little birds To bring your words to me. A valentine party is something of a novelty and, whenever tried, is sure to be a success, because its very nature furnishes an excuse for informality and merry-mak- ing. ‘The invitation may read thus: Miss ANNA GRIFFIN, At Home, No, 618 NoRTH CLINTON STREET, February 14th, 1890. At 8 o'clock, A Valentine Party, SX.Q)

Page 141

ance is a Tose ils and inside earing > offer. em to: a, the entre, calla, words d the clear, mond to the ys of e near bbon, be the ay be pond. surely n this form 1 the of a to be ishes mak- clock, When the guests are all assembled, each one is given a card on which there is an incomplete quotation, the remainder of which is held by some one else in the party. The one having the first line be- ing a gentleman and the one having the second line, a lady; or vice versa. It is the duty, then, of each gentleman to look up the other half of his quotation, and to act as escort to the young lady having it. A great deal of amusement is found in thus hunting up one’s mate. Sometimes, if the quotations are unfamiliar ones, it will be difficult t>» decide which is the correct accompanying one; and the hostess must be called upon to unravel the mystery. For example, one card will bear the line: «Beaming with light as those young features are,”’ and its mate will read, “There is a light round thy heart which is love- lier far,” Another card will say: “My soul like some dark spot is haunted,” and its companion will say : “‘ By thee, thee, only thee,” Other verses, such as the following, may be so divided : “ Hither come and gaily twine Brightest herbs and flower of thine, Into wreaths for those who rule us. Those who rule and (some say) fool us.” “Tis woman whose sweetness beameth O’er all that we feel or see. And if man of Heaven e’er dreameth Tis when he thinks purely of thee.” A VALENTINE. 137 “But lips though blooming must still be fed. And not even love can live on flowers,” “‘ Sweet love of mine, my life and thine Are linked by hidden chains.’’ And an endless number of others. The cards should be made pretty enough to be Kept as s¢ "Nvenirs. For a supper menu one may be as elab- orate or as simple as possible. A happy medium is this : Menu. Oysters on the Half-shell, Chicken Salad. Tea Biscuit. Olives. Wafers. Pickles. Cheese. Ice Cream. Kisses. Macaroons. Lady Fingers. Pineapple Jelly. Fruit. Coffee. At each plate place a little fancy basket filled with candied rose leaves, violets and sugared nuts. After the confections are eaten, the baskets may be taken home by the guests. Many pretty little variations may be made upon a valentine party, so as to adapt it to suit all cases. And should ever any party at all be deemed too giddy for the household, the quietest of families can, at least, celebrate the day by having a better dinner than usual, thus adding one to the list of yearly feasts. A Walentine. MRS. S. L, OBERHOLTZER. 6) gy" EN hyacinths were flinging 2 Their fragrance on the air, x Y I wandered through the garden, And sought you everywhere. When wild azalias clustered, And summer days were fair, [ lingered in the woodlands, And thought to find you there. When sacrificial Autumn Made leaflet lanterns glare, The gold and scarlet glimmer, I hoped to touch your hair, When snow-flakes broke the lanterns, . And warmth and light were spare, I groped almost discouraged In shadows of despair. Sut Winter’s cheeks are blushing To Spring most debonair; Saint Valentine discovers To me your beauty rare.

Page 142

A CAheel of Fortune. BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON, Author of “A Legal Fetter,” «* A Social Dagger,” « Luck of Ashmead,” etc., etc. V. SYLVIA GOES TO MEET THE RIVAL HEIR, AND MEETS WITH HEARTY SUP- PORT FROM MR. HALSTEAD. HE following day word came from Mr. Marchant that the interview with Mr. Denmead was to be post- poned until the following week. He set the day, and a request that the meeting should take place at his home, Elmwood. Sylvia’s old life of drudgery seemed to have recommenced, save that Mr. May- thorne treated her with deference, and Mrs. Maythorne preserved a sullen si- lence. Sylvia strove to hear from Greytower every day, by going to the lodge at the end of the Park. Here inan honored old age dwelt Diadema Hall, late housekeeper at Greytover. She received Sylvia kindly, but showed such a desire to be rid of her presence, when she saw Robert coming through the park, that Sylvia, now morbidly sensitive, felt she was in Mrs. Myddleton’s confidence, and that she would never be forgiven for her esca- pade with the Myddleton heir. Sylvia blushed deeply when Diadema said : ‘*The boy has been sorely punished for his folly, yet, as Solomon sayeth, ‘Open rebuke is better than secret love.’ And it would be well to remember in youthful days that ‘he whoso causeth the righteous to go astray in an evil way, he shall fall himself into his own pit.’”’ Sylvia returned from these visits very sore at heart. Faith was only a little better, or worse, and there was little en- couragement to hope for. She wondered why Robert stayed away from her. She felt his defection keenly. But Poor Robert was undergoing the torture of self-reproach and the fulfil- ment of a promise made his father. He had made his confession, and to his surprise found his father had no reproach forhim. He did not look at his son dur- ing the recital, When Robert had quite finished he said, coldly:

8 ‘‘T have heard you with patience. | only exact one condition from you. You return to college next week. You will not again see this Wendell girl, or Miss Carstone.”’ ‘*T cannot promise that, father.’’ ‘You will accept my conditions or you are no son of mine henceforth _ Itis no time for resistance on your part. Only the humblest conduct can exonerate you now, in the cours? you have pursued. | thought a young girl beneath my roof sacred, at least, from such sentimental fully as has been perpetrated by my own son. You know my terms, Robert. Abide by them.” ‘‘Father, I cavnot / I love Faith. It is no foolish, boyish nonsense. I’ve done wrong, [ know, to speak to her—but you wrong mz, if you fancy 1—” «¢ Robert, you are going to forget your- self. Believe me I am sorry for you. | am also grieved, disappointed, ashamed of you. If you wish to retain any por- tion of my love and respect, you will regard my wishes.”’ Robert bowed, and left the room, and Mr. Myddleton leaning back in his chair with a halfsigh, and a smile, mur mured : ‘*Poor lad! but he will recover. | went through it myself once.’’ But Guy Myddleton had failed in fathoming his son’s character. His love for Faith Car- stone had in it neither vanity nor pride, and remorse was every hour riveting the fetters of his love. So Robert struggled to obey his father, and Sylvia watched and wondered at his failing to come to her. Mr. Bowman came, however, and whiled away an even- ing very pleasantly. He came to <e mind her of the hour of the meeting, and the day, he said. He made a long stride up Friendship’s Lane and departed well satisfied. Sylvia was surprised by a call from Mr. Marchant the next day, manifestly on the same errand. She quietly said Mr. Bowman had told her of the hour, when Mr. Marchant looked vexed. But he sat

ey' col the ani be: ity wi ‘64 cul ne ity fel wi ha ot out see My sus ess for in Ser dec tie oft abc ¢ her wh wo alo coa hac ert she shi kin WO!

Page 143

nce. | m you. . Veo girl, or ” ions or 1 tis . Only ate you ued. | ny roof imental ny own Abide h. It is e done but you t your: rou. | shamed LY por: yu will n, and s chair mur- er. I it Guy ng his h Car- pride, ng the ather, at his wman even- Oo re eting, 1 long arted from festly 1 Mr. and talked some time, touched by her sad eyes, and gentle dignity, and at a loss to comprehend her determination to have the estate intact. She was so utterly free of the coquetry he had expected to see, and was so refined in her attractive beauty, that he was puzzled at her temer- ity in holding to this purpose. «‘* | have need for all this money,’’ she said once. ‘*I wish to repair a great wrong.” He looked at her in amazement. “You!’’ he said, incredulously. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, flushing painfully ; “now, do you understand me ?”’ ‘¢] wish I did,” he returned. He mused on his way home on the pe- culiar grace of frankness in Sylvia’s man- ner. It was not a usual feminine qual- ity. It made a man feel a thrill of good fellowship for her at once, and a desire to place implicit faith in her truth. Louis Marchant knewthat with his own wife it was as natural with her to coquette as to breathe. Eight years ot wedded life had not been entirely a bed of roses, and he had been quick to see, with many others, that Faith Carstone was not with- out this feminine prerogative. He had seen how things were going for Robert Myddleton, long before the fond mother suspected how attractive the little govern- ess had proved. But this Miss Wendell was a relative. The following day Sylvia clad herself for the ordeal of meeting Mr. Denmead, in much trepidation. At the last moment Serepta Ann Carson had been forced to decline going with her. Her school du- ties interfered with her friendship very often, and this slavery Sylvia wished to abolish. Sylvia felt, at this moment of all oth- ers, she should have a female friend with her. Her heart sank, as she thought of what Mrs. Marchant and Mrs. Myddleton would say to her meeting this emergency alone. They already thought her bold and coarse. She feared her visits to the lodge had been misinterpreted. She felt Rob- ert’s mother and Diadema thought she cared too much for Robert. And truly she did love him, with the truest friend- when 1e sat won her generous affection. ship ever bestowed ; for he had been too kind to her in her loneliness not to have But Sylvia THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 139 knew it was not the regard of a lover she sought in him. Yet Sylvia had lived among the conventionalities of life, and she knew her conduct the day of the Fair laid her open to stern criticism. She started on her way to Elmwood then, alone, slowly, and much downcast. Peter, ever faithful, strove to follow her, and she was forced to the stern measure of a stone to drive him back. Poor Peter stood gazing after her with tears in his eyes, and Sylvia felt heart stricken. She had been forced to refuse her only friend. When a goodly distance on the way,a crackling in the hedge roused her from painful thoughts, and there stood Peter again, abashed, with drooping tail, but pleading eyes. ‘* Well, Peter,’’ said Sylvia, patting his ugly head. ‘* You shad/ go. You are faithful, at any rate, and—a gentleman.”’ But she had only proceeded a short distance under this escort, when someone hailed her with hearty gusto. She glanced up, and coming toward her was Perry Halsted, smiling cheerfully and _ resplen- dent in a toilette that would have as- tounded a more prosaic mind than hers. A pair of light trousers encased his legs, and a blue coat and flowered vest adorned his upper person. A bunch of large seals dangled from his watch chain, and his tall silk hat, dating at least nine years back, was placed jauntily on his grey head. Hewore white cotton gloves a size too small, and although the sun shone brightly, carried a green cotton umbrella. He beamed upon Sylvia with complacent satisfaction. ‘‘!’m goin’ with you, my dear. Se- repty said she couldn’t go, and I be’ant a goin’ to let you strive alone with men and fortun’. Itain’t proper for so young a gal, so I’m goin’ with you!” VI. SYLVIA DEMANDS, DENMEAD REPUDIATES AND MR. MARCHANT UPHOLDs, FORTUNE. If Sylvia hesitated a moment, appalled at the splendor of Mr. Halsted’s toilette, she swiftly overcome her surprise and in- clination to both laugh and cry. She took that quick step from the ridiculous to the sublime. She put her arms about the old man’s neck, and feeling only the kindness

Page 144

a ae eee 140 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. that prompted him to support and com- fort her, she astonished him by a kiss pressed on his withered cheek. ‘¢Q! steady now, steady,” said Perry, winking away a tear drop, for his stiff New England training had never prepared him for demonstration. ‘‘ I’m right glad you are willin’ I should ’scort you, for Serepty kind of discouraged me. Of course I ain’t much to go on, for it ain’t as if l’d kept up with the styles; but these togs, are not so bad, be they ?”’ And he rattled his seals, importantly. ‘*You are very smart, indeed, Uncle Perry,’’ said Sylvia, smiling, while her lip quivered, for she was more touched by this friendly overture, than by any anxiety or trouble she had borne. She would not have disturbed his complacency for the world. ‘The light touch of absurd- ity was blotted out by the loving geod will. ‘¢ You see Sylvia, Eldridge wasa friend of mine. We played marbles together when he was so high. My father’s old bull hooked him over the fence into the frog pond once,and my ! wasn’t heasight! But Steve, he hada rich father, and he went away and made a heap more. And then he married Rosy Denmead, and took to rovin’ furrin lands. But the very last time he was home, nigh onto fifteen years ago, we chawed flag-root together sittin’ on my stoop. He wasn’t proud no more ’an you are, Sylvia. Money didn’t puif him up, but his wife was sorter proud. It’s her nephew as wants to divide with you, ain’t it, Sylvia?”’ ‘*T suppose it must be. His name is Denmead. If 7 werea man Vd make a fortune for myseif.”’ ‘But you’re not a man, my dear, said Perry, “and some times the best of us is poor sticks. Not but you’d make a good man, Sylvia, because you've plenty of back-bone. I should like to see the young man, though. He’s been at Grey- tower fur some days,and some of the women says he’s handsome. Women is so took ? with a man’s looks! And he was dread- fully cut about Miss Carstone’s accident. Sylvia winced, and dropped the sub- ject, but she wondered if this youth was also in love with Faith Carstone. Sne never fora moment associated the iden- tity of Denmead, ‘‘ and Faith’s sprig of a brother,’’ as Robert had called him. In after days she wondered at her own stu- pidity. Now her thoughts were filled by the stooping middle-aged figure she had conjured up as the rival heir. ‘* Here comes your divinity, Ted,” said Mrs. Marchant, as she caught sight of Sylvia, Uncle Perry, and Peter ap. proaching the house. ‘‘ As Louis is not here, we may agree she is rather capti- vating. She seems to have brought Un- cle Sam along.”’ ‘‘Thought she had no relatives,” growled Bowman. ‘* Where do you sup- pose she picked up that old duffer? But, Kate—isn’t her coloring perfect? ”’ ‘If she is a dairy maid, ‘Good sooth she is The queen of curds of cream.’ Oh, Ted? But do not be foolish about her, for Louis will not like it.” ‘‘Should you care, Kate?’’ with an eagerness that receives its prompt reward. “1? Why should / care? Cousin Teddy, I am_ positively rusty when it comes to flirting, and tien the baby al- ways cries at the most interesting point. i must go now and see these people a moment. ‘Take gocd care of your heart, Ted, or what is left of it.” And she leit the room laughing. Sylvia was ina painful tremor of nervousness, as, after a tew kind words from Mrs. Mar- chant, Mr. Marchant ushered her into A tall, powerfully built man was stand- ing at the window, and he turned and advanced as Mr. Marchant said: ‘(Mr. Denmead, let me present to you Miss Wendell.” Sylvia raised her eyes slowly and saw her hero cr the torn sleeve. As their glances met his was full of surprise; hers of confusion ‘The recognition was un- mistakable. Bowman observed it with chagrin. Mr. Marchant sought with quick tact to make use of it. ‘¢I see that you have met before. Let us argue from this that our interview may end favorably.”’ But even ready tact will not conquer a situation when the perversity of women is in the case. Denmead’s glance aroused in Sylvia rebellious thoughts. She saw in his surprise reproach and disapproba- tion, and ail the bitter criticism she had

Page 145

ut d. d- nd ou eir TS in- ith ith et ow en ed Ja- ad

A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 141 attributed in the soreness of her heart, to Mrs. Myddleton. A longing to crush and hurt Denmead and turn his surprise to mortification, making him suffer as she had suffered, took possession of her. Instinct gave her the weapon. “T have never met Mr. Denmead before,’’ she said with cold emphasis. Denmead flushed to his hair and bowed an assent, and Bowman, devoured with jealous curiosity, had no doubt that Sylvia was hiding behind the letter of her words. ‘“T am sorry to have misunderstood what seemed a recognition,”’ said Mr. Marchant in rather an annoyed tone. Mr. Halstead was then introduced by Sylvia as an old friend of Stephen Eldridge, and the old gentleman shook hands cordially with ali present, and then sat down on the edge of a chair, looking very uncomfortable and jingling his seals occasionally as if to keep up his courage ‘¢ Peter,” with that innate respect that had made Sylvia dub him a -< gentle- man,’’ had stopped on the lawn where he received the attentions of a small pug and huge mastiff with equa} indifference Mr. Marchant : then stated In clea terms the case of inheritan:e as it stood He concluded by saying:

‘I need not say it is sad to me to have to thus settle the affairs of Stephen Eldridze. We have ouly met once or twice in all the time I have Jooked after the estate; dur- ing my consulate in Berlin he was there with “— wife. It remains with you to decide whether the estate shall be divided or remain intact, one of you relinquish- ing all claims. I cannot believe this last to be the desire of either of you, for it involves a selfish interest incompatible with my knowledge of Mr. Denmead, aud I hope out of question with Miss Wendell. After amoment’s silence Sylvia spoke, coldly. She was really crushing down her nervous tremors with a firm hand, but no one would have suspected the riot beneath the calm face, with its slight touch of scorn and anxiety. ‘‘] understood, Mr. Marchant, that this was a matter quite beyond our juris- diction—I think that is the law term? That the court would decide this question of the inheritance.”’ . Mr. fully. ‘‘ Don’t you give up, Sylvie; hang to the fortune,’’ he said in a stage whisper; then subsided, checked by her annoyed glance. ‘«The court need not interfere with this question, Miss Wendell, if you and Mr. Denmead agree to a partition of the estate. It is with this hope, we meet to- day.”’ ‘‘T am sorry to disappoint you,”’ said Sylvia turning her face toward Denmead, but not looking at him, ‘‘ but it is a ques- tion I refuse to decide myself.”’ ‘*Then I understand,”’ said Denmead, stepping toward her and resting his quiet eyes upon her face, ‘‘that you come here to day to assert your claim to the whole estate ?”’ ‘*I certainly do not think either of us so free of selfish motives as to be compe- tent to decide such a question between us. One or the other of us is Mr. Eldridge’s heir. If I am his heir, I certainly no desire to divide my cousin’s estate. I may be judged selfish and grasping, but I am pre no more than human atany time eC. Sylvia spoke with a little slow, languid air, that was only a cloak for the embar- Halstead’s seals clattered cheer- have | pared to be ” ‘ } 1 rassment she felt under that steady gaze. It sounded so coldly unlike Sylvia, that Uncle Perry said : ‘« Steady—steady—now,” and involun- tarily his hand soug! jack knife. ‘¢ Tet me set Miss Wendell’s fears at rest,’’ said with quiet dignity. ‘©] shall z¢ claim any share in this es- tate. Lo ly caine to learn her views, and } I known when I came here that vou it his pocket for his rm Denmead o desire fora compromise, we should have been s While I feel there 1s an injustice in your claim, since you are no more nearly related to Mr. Ejidridge than | am, still lam re- solved never to go to law regarding the inheritance. I congratulate you on ac- quiring the fortune.”’ Despite his calmness, his lips were white and twitched nervously as he con- cluded. Sylvia listened in surprise, while Marchant exclaimed : ‘¢ Nonsense, Denmead, this is folly. It cannot proceed. In case youcome to no pared this interview.

Page 146

agreement, the matter must be brought before the courts.” Sylvia spoke, then, with an indignant glance: ‘¢Mr. Denmead, you misunderstand me, if you think I will submit to this in silence. Ido not ask you to yield your claim tome. I demand that the courts shall decide the matter, and justice lift the decision from us both.’’ ‘‘And I shall not go into any court of so-called justice in this land,’’ replied the young man, gently. ‘‘ I am sorry to deny you the cloak of justice for what in my eyes must seem the sin of avarice. But 1 do not wish to reproach you. If Mr. Marchant will permit me, I will with- draw.”’ ‘*Denmead, I beg you to remain. There must be an amicable result in all this —’’ ‘¢ That is zow impossible,’’ said Sylvia; “there is no common ground remaining upon which Mr. Denmead and I can meet amicably. He has already found me lacking in gratitude, and to that he adds the charge of avarice. I think we may part now, without further parley.’’ ‘¢ Miss Wendell,’’ cried Denmead, ‘I beg your pardon. I believe 1 forgot my- self just now. Forgive, if you can, those miserable hasty words, wrung from me in the first pain of disappointment. I fancied this fortune might be arranged between us. I was surprised into momen- tary anger. It is past. I cheerfully re- linquish my claim. If I give one sigh to a vanished hope, believe me it is for the interests of another and not my own.” ‘You need not apologize, Mr. Den- mead. I think I understand your mo- tive. I hope we shall not meet again, and hardly think Mr. Marchant will even deem it necessary.”’ Denmead bowed and stepped back, biting his lip; but Uncle Perry sprang up restlessly. ‘¢ Come,” said he, ‘¢ Mr. Marchant, I ain’t no lawyer, but I could a settled it better myself than this. ‘‘ Both of ’em’s right. Of course, the court has got to put ’em straight, and Sylvie, it ain’t no good your sassin’ the young man and making him look like ¢ha¢. Why ef he ain’t the very fellar that saved you an arm at the fair, I’ll be booted! Give 142 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. me your hand, sir, let’s shake agen. And now, Sylvie, you thank him, my dear, thank him !”’ The old man’s hearty good will and the determined way in which he drew Sylvia’s hand toward Denmead’s, left them no alternative. For a moment Sylvia’s little slender hand laid in Den- mead’s large strong grasp, and as their eyes met, amusement and annoyance struggling in his glance, Sylvia unveiled those sweet mysterious eyes of her’s for his gaze a moment, and said in _ her natural tones: ‘¢ Believe me, I do thank you.”’ But Mr. Marchant was not granted the satisfaction of this one moment of free- dom during this uncomfortable, con- strained interview, for Uncle Percy had seized upon him and he was forced to listen to a tirade anything but compli- mentary to lawyers. And Sylvia left the house feeling that Mr. Marchant was thoroughly vexed with both herself and Denmead, and sorry to lose his championship at a moment when she felt a mistrust in herself. For the quick, warm clasp of that large hand had made her suddenly conscious of her own smallness during the last scene. Or was Uncle Perry cheerful as he parted with her. “It’s them lawyers, as spiled things, Sylvie,”’ he said, watching her downcast face; ‘*they make trouble just to patch it up. Marchant could have just chosen you heir. You’re next in kin anyway. But Mr. Denmead’s a likely young man. Serepty wasn’t fur wrong when she said he was good lookin’.’’ *¢ Don’t speak of him,’ cried Sylvia shortly, worn out after her hard day, and the light in which she had stood. ‘‘I— I think I haze him.” Which so disconcerted Mr. Halstead that he walked away whistling ‘‘ Bonnie Doon,”’’ dismally. Sylvia sped to the house, Peter slowly following, where to her disgust, were gathered Mrs. Maythorne’s favorite cro- nies. She waited wearily upon the table scarcely hearing what was said, until she heard Miss Carstone’s name. ‘‘T hear Miss Carstone is much worse to-night. They say she will never get about again, and young Myddleton looks ’ Ss et eotm

Page 147

ren, the rew left ent en- \eir nce led for her the ee- on- ad sli- lat ith en he ad wn he y Sy ist A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 143 as if ready to commit suicide. Sylvia, you did not cut out the little teacher after all.”’ ‘‘What did you say about Miss Car- stone ?’’ demanded Sylvia, pausing with a pale face. ‘¢They had her reported dying when I left the post-office, but folks ¢a/k so. Have you seen Bob Myddleton lately? Guess you finished up your business the day of the Cattle Show. No more show for you there, Sylvie.”’ But Sylvia was gone. Deaf to the laughter following the rude sally; blind to the mocking eyes. She only saw once more Faith Carstone’s white face and Robert’s despair. She snatched up her hat and, still clad in the thin white dress she had worn all day, sped toward Greytower. She must see Robert. His neglect was forgotten in her generous, affectionate impulse. In the hour of darkness coming upon him she would not—nay, she could not stand aside. She murmured his name _ tenderly, “Rob! oh, my Joor Rob !’’ she said, as she ran through the dewy fields to the highway that led to Greytower. VII. DENMEAD OFFENDS HIS LAWYER AND FRIEND, AND SYLVIA OFFENDS GOOD TASTE, Walter Denmead knew by the straight line in Louis Marchant’s chin that he should be called to account for the scene now transpiring, and he waited in silence after the exit of Sylvia, attended by Mr. Bowman and Uncle Perry. Denmead had been long a favorite of Mr. Marchant, and he knew the signs of his displeasure. But it had been some years since their relations had been inti- mate, and the elder had been made to feel during the late interview that Den- mead was no longer the youth he had patronized. He also felt, however, a yearning fondness for the friend whom he had known to so bravely battle with poverty and overcome the circumstances of his hard life. The quiet way in which ‘he had accepted the disappointment of the last few hours only made him the more to be respected and admired. Yet, Vor, CXX.—No, 11. as Louis looked at the fine physique and clean, clear face of his companion, he felt an impatient desire to shake him from the steady calm, and learn his reason for so promptly renouncing all claim to the Eldridge inheritance. ‘*Waiter, Iam at a loss to understand you. Have you lost your heart to that young woman that you treat me to such a scene?” The other smiled a little. ‘I never saw her save once before, or have known her save as Mrs. Myddleton’s déte noir,’’ he replied. ‘No, I have never seen the woman yet I wished to marry. Like Benedict, I say, ‘till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.’ ”’ ‘I’m not ina jesting mood, Walter. Tell me what you mean by renouncing this inheritance? What folly prompts you?” ‘Pardon me, my friend, but I never intended to acquire this fortune through the chicanery of the law—’’ ‘¢Denmead ! You are dangerously per- sonal.’’ ‘¢ Your patience, Louis! Let us talk as man to man, and forget your profession. The law or so-called courts of justice are distasteful to me. Ido not believe in them, in this, or any other country. What cannot be amicably arranged be- tween individuals had best be met with the scriptural injunction: ‘ But I say un- to you, that ye resist not evil, but whoso- ever shall smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also.’ j ‘¢And when did thee turn Outen, friend Denmead ?”’ asked Louis Marchant with cool sarcasm. Denmead flushed at the tone. “Tam nota Quaker in any sense of the term. I merely embrace a philosophy that seems clearer th: an any religious creed I have ever known. ‘And unlike most men you eal ap- ply it to your daily life. But, come, my young fanatic, is it to cost you a for- tune ?”’ ‘¢ Marchant, it is not like you to deride an honest conviction. You know what my life has been. How I have struggled against doubt, and tried to fit men’s creeds toa practical and reasonable Chris- tianity. But this year I have found the

Page 148

REE Si oe plain views of a literal interpretation of the Scripture all satisfying. I have fol- lowed, in fact, the wonderful thoughts of Count Tolstoi, and it has brought me pa- tience and peace with the world’s way. I confess the prospect of the money, of making my poor Faith independent, daz zled me. I longed tc be able, like others, to do my share in the world’s work fas- ter, by reason of this money. But it was only money to me, nothing more. It evi- dently zs more to that young woman. I shall not go tolaw about it, for I believe in no law or justice that has not Christ in it, andthere is no court in this or any land qualified to more than decide the matter, as Miss Wendell or I would decide =.” There was a moment’s pause during which Marchant looked helplessly at the firm earnest tace of his friend. ‘‘ We used to hear,’’ he said, ‘‘ that the welfare of the individual must yield to the general good. Christ himself in- terfered with none of the laws of the country in which he taught. His lessons applied to our spiritual life, and he said himself, ‘‘ Render unto Cesar, the things that are Czesars, and unto God the things that are God’s.”’ ‘* Do you think, then, you can live one hour for heaven, and the next for earth ? That is too much the general idea of Christianity. One day in church to six of rendering the tribute to Cesar, or Mam- mon, in our case. No, 1 hold if we all followed Christ in resisting no evil, there would be no necessity of courts of justice.” ‘¢ And do you look for that millenium soon, Walter ?”’ ‘¢ Laugh as you will, Louis; no.” **] was wondering if, to follow out your quotation, you would share your cloak also with Miss Wendell, and even if she should compel you to go a mile or more her way, if you are prepared to go twain? She is a charming girl, and | think Bow- man is quite ready now to follow any scriptural injunction such as loving one’s neighbor as one’s self, and so forth.”’ ‘¢Marchant! you—you are profane.” ‘¢ Possibly your views appear to me a little strained, also.’’ ‘‘ Have I ever been other than honest with you? I tell you the girl is a total 144 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. stranger to me, save that I dragged her from a machine in time to save her arm from being hurt at the Fair.” “Ont ‘*Do not persist in misunderstanding me. I could no more accept that inheri- tance through the law, than I can profess to believe Christ meant we should never appeal to such a grossly unjust law to de- cide any question. And if, believing this I swerve from it, 1 am a worse Chris- tian than they who profess a firm belief in creeds more orthodox.” ‘« Then you have forsworn all your for- mer views ?”’ ‘¢J]_-]_-have been in no church for three years. I could not continue in a path of what seemed to me hypocrisy.” ‘« This is incredible. 1 cannot under- stand it, and you must permit me to ex- press my disappointment in you. It shows a weakness of character that is appal- ling in one I deemed a tower of strength. If your struggle with life-issues has brought you to this impractical philoso- phy, born of a barbarous country and the outrages of its despotic government, lam sincerely sorry for you, Walter, and hope the day may come when you will see your error. I can understand a Tolstoi and his philosophy being the direct out- growth of generations of evil govern- ment, that has already given birth to Nihilism and socialistic societies of all kinds and conditions. But that anyone brought up among the people in America can foolishly uphold such a philosophy, or look upon it as a reasonable reform, is incredible. Do you subscribe to all Tol- stoi’s ideas? Do you doubt the divinity of Christ ? the atonement, the immortal- ity of the soul ?”’ ‘*Do not push me further, Marchant, it is only painful to us both.” ‘« Nay, as friend to friend, Denmead, I demand more of you than a mere shad- owy idea of this change in you.”’ ‘¢ There are some truths, that seem so born with us, that we can no more reject them, than forget mother-love. I must still believe in Christ’s divine mission, and the Hereafter.”’ Marchant drew a breath of relief. ‘«Then all you have said is only an example of what strange ideas often feed the intellect at the expense of the soul. ~~ ODM eS Onc ts fh QO s* = ©

Page 149

146 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. say that as Mr. Eldridge’s friend and lawyer, / will represent this case in the courts. I regard it as asacred duty to my late client.” Denmead bowed, but he felt as keenly as Miss Wendell, the extreme displeasure of the lawyer in this strange case. It is only fair to aclear understanding of Walter Denmead’s peculiar views to give a brief glimpse into his past. Only daily intercourse could acquaint one with the lovable qualities that swayed him ever to a kindly reverence for others’ desires and, wishes. No one would have judged from the calm gaze of his pleasant brown eyes, what torture of doubt, and to what a verge of despair his past had drawn him. At five-and-twenty he had fought the battle many men never encounter, but rush to the extreme of orthodoxy rather than confront. Half atruth would not content Walter Denmead. And his life had not been free of many temptations not always nobly resisted. He was pain- fully, if not morbidly conscious of his shortcomings, and had striven to conquer them, and Louis Marchant could have chosen no words more calculated to wound him than those in which he lamented his weakness. Denmead had long fancied he had attained a high plane of truth in hungrily accepting the ideas of Tolstoi on Christ’s teachings. As he said this code made him at peace, at least, with his fellowmen, and more satisfied | with his life as it reflected upon others. His had, perforce, been a life of sacrifice to others. Perhaps the selfishness innate in him had made the battle a harder one, for, one by one, his ambitions had been relinquished to the sharp tooth of pov- erty, and he was now nursing a philoso- phy, that seemed to hush the cries of desire. It was not in him to believe any- thing and act up to a partial fulfilment. He was but just beyond the point, where hard work brought its reward, and had felt his position secure, when his sister had fallen a victim to this accident. Poor Faith! he sighed as he thought of her. Perhaps, poor child, she was better lying there, than to have brought the dishonor upon him of having so illy repaid Mrs. Myddleton’s kindness. Den- mead had always condemned in his half- the traits he despised in his step father, who never had a strong desire of his own, or resisted a weak one. The moment Walter saw his sister’s glance seek Robert Myddleton, he knew she loved him, and had never striven to check—May Denmead felt she had en- sister couraged Robert’s advances. He had inspired her at once, by his vehement pro- test, with an abhorrence of a clandestine attachment. The accident followed, and since then, Denmead felt that Mr. and Mrs. Myddleton’s eyes had been opened. Robert’s downcast face told the story only too plainly. And miserable as Walter felt the situation to be, he resolved to remain silent, thinking this the course Mr. and Mrs. Myddleton intended to pursue. But the misery of Robert’s heart was to be lightened in a way no one could foresee. A higher power seemed guiding the lives of the youthful lovers, and awa- kening in Walter Denmead the iron force of pride, he thought pushed aside by his new philosophy. ; While Mr. Marchant and Denmead rode toward Greytower, Robert Myddleton and his father were exchanging the harshest words of their lives. Robert after vainly striving to obey his father, felt he could not overcome the restless love and misery if he was doomed to leave Greytower while Faith was so ill. His mother was unable to help him, even had he not felt it was wrong to pain her further by an appeal. He knew she was wretched in watching his suffering, and both felt that the only natural way out of his present difficulty lay in thecon- sent of his father to countenance his love for Faith, and upon this point they knew the father would be inexorable. A week of gloomy silence resulted in Robert’s seeking his father, and uttering in a quiet, but firm tone, his final resolu- tion. Mr. Myddleton was as much grieved as displeased at Robert’s words, but he made no allowance for what the youth - had endured in striving to obey him. Robert was not quick tempered; of a sweet disposition, slow to anger, when once roused the storm burst with double fury, The first word of rebuke sent the fire through his veins, and the bitter un- fe een See Oe” ae at tee One he ak ei ae oe ee ee eee ee

Page 150

was yuld ling wa- orce his ode and hest his the ned ill. im, ain she ing, way on- love new | in ring olu- ved - he uth . of a hen uble the A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. 147 forgiving spirit of his words left his father shaken and white, as Robert flung himself from the room. What could he do? how tell Florence, the fond mother, what had passed ? The father stood, blaming himself, with his son’s last words ringing in his ears. No, Guy Myddleton could not go to his wife yet. He paced the floor, and fought against the angel of love, over- coming the demon of pride and anger within him. The arrival of Denmead and Marchant roused him to shake off these tormenting thoughts, but on being left alone with Louis Marchant, Myd- dleton suddenly burst forth with the story of his struggle with his son. And seeing how shaken he was from his usual reserve, Marchant listened with grave sympathy, trying in every way to lighten his triend’s burden. He knew how keenly Guy Myddleton was suffering through this attachment-for his son, for Robert’s very youth was cal- culated to make the blow a bitter one, even had the girl been less dependent upon their patronage. Neither father or mother had deemed such an attach- ment within the range of possibilities, and ashame for the manner of wooing stung the Myddleton pride to the quick. Know- ing his friend to be proud almost to ar- rogance, Louis Marchant found himself in the embarrassing position of a great sympathy for both sides. And while they talked, the evening shadows grew longer, and a slender white figure was speeding its way toward Grey- tower. Weary indeed were the steps, and as she reached the park and passed the little lodge, her heart began to beat with apprehension. Once more she was acting t )on aa impulse that would in all proba- bility cause censure. Would not they say she sought Robert Myddleton because she loved him? The hot blood surged to her forehead, and she clasped her hands to her heart with a quick cry. Perhaps Robert thought this, too. Perhaps he had kept away from her, knowing how she had coaxed him to take her to the Fair, and had been instrumental in bringing about his unutterable misery. The wretchedness of this thought sent the blood back to her heart again, and a blank despair seemed to fall upon her. Sylvia Wendell had grown up with none of the restraint of a New England train- ing. Her emotions had never been cata- logued to appear at proper moments, under the conscious direction of a slow- beating heart. She felt and acted froma warm, impulsive nature, that had known only a father’s doting fondness, until she faced a new and curious world. But her prompt and unerring judgment told her she was wrong in thus seeking Robert. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples, and stood irresolute. At the same moment her name was called, and she turned, with a quick gasp, to find Robe:t Myddleton coming swiftly toward her. He came so eagerly she had no time to recoil. ‘«Sylvia,”’ he cried, in a glad voice, ‘«T was coming to you. Have you thought me basely ungrateful? Did you under- stand my silence ?”’ ‘¢ [do not know—perhaps you—oh, no, Robert, I cannot think yow would mis- understand me. I—came—to know—tell me is Miss Carstone worse ?”’ ‘*No, no; better, we hope. have you heard ?”’ ‘¢T should not be here, but they said —she was dying !”’ ‘«No, they have told me every day she was no worse. Mother would not de- ceive me. But she is no better, and oh! Sylvia, the long weary days I’ve spent !”’ ‘Why did you keep away, Robert? Tell me, even if you have to hurt me. I can bear the truth, better than to think you would try and make it easier for me. For I’ve trusted you, Robert. Have you thought harshly of me? Have you heard what they say of me?” She shivered as she put the question, and searched his face for confirmation of her fears; but for reply he drew her down to a seat on a low wooden bench between some sheltering trees, and answered her in quick abrupt sentences. He seemed panting still from his interview with his father. He locked worn and ill to Sylvia. ‘¢T could notcome toyou. I promised my father. I could not keep such a promise. I was a fool to try.” ‘¢ Tell me, tell me all about it; oh, if I could only help you.”’ The sweet eager tone was balm in it- self to Robert’s troubled spirit, and he What

Page 151

148 A WHEEL OF FORTUNE. poured out the story of the week. He did not fully realize what the estrange- ‘ment from Sylvia’s frank friendship had been, until he once more felt her glance upon him. He know in that hour, that while he loved Faith Carstone with all. his being, he had in Sylvia Wendell that rare thing, a friend true to the core of her heart. And he was to learn it still more deeply before they parted, for as he rushed on with his recital, repeating his father’s words, Sylvia’s head drooped lower and lower. Her eyes sank beneath his gaze, and when he had finished, to his distress, her shining head was bowed upon her hands. ~ ‘«What have I said? have I been rough ? did I repeat a// he said? What a brute Iam!”’ he cried. She lifted her face then, and he saw a change had swept over it, more pitiful than tears could make it. She drew away from his light touch, and a hard sobbing sigh broke from her. ‘« Let me tell you what I feel, Robert. Then you must let me go. Go quite away. even if you never see me again.”’ ‘* What do you mean ?”’ he demanded. ‘© You must do as I tell you, no matter how hard it seems. I see it all now, and know how wrong we have been. Your father has seemed harsh and cruel, but he is right.” ‘« Sylvia, how can you tell me—” ‘«Oh ! stop, stop ; listen to me, Robert. Your father has, after all, only asked you to obey him now, and leave the rest to time.”’ “ He demandsa condition that renders it impossible to comply. I cannot leave here to-morrow without seeing my poor Faith. He tries my obedience too far—”’ ‘¢Hush, Robert. He is your father. I am not worthy his regard, and he bids you for love of him, put me out the ques- tion. All he knows of me is that lama forward, foolish girl, without proper pride in conduct or bearing. Robert,’’ shut- ting her small white teeth together in fierce consternation of herself. ‘“ I came here day after day to the lodge, hoping to see you, and to hear through Dia- dema Grey. I J/onged to see you; I prayed at nightthat to-morrow you would come.’’ She paused, looking into his face with that strange, earnest scrutiny. ‘¢ And what of that, Sylvia? if I had only known, nothing should have kept me from you,”’ he replied simply. She drew a quick sigh of relief. ‘¢ Thank you, Robert, you cannot un- derstand howl! fhank you. But do you think the tongues are idle in Avon? Your father and mother have heard what they say of me down ¢here, and it is that J love you as you love Faith.” ‘‘They dare not lie so about you, Sylvia,’’ he cried, his chest heaving with anger. ‘I will deny it—”’ ‘*No,”’ she said, checking him and speaking in an even tone, ‘‘ 1 would not have told you this; but I want you to see how justified your father is in demanding you should give me up as your friend. I am fit to be no one’s counseller. The happiness of your mother, the respect you owe your father must not suffer through me. I—I—am not worthy of my own dear dead. Were I—to tell you otherwise. And, oh, Rob, the day will come when you /go must stand alone. You, too, may falter, then, and make mis‘akes as Ihave.. Go to your father now, Rob. Yield in all save your love for Faith. Submit to him, ask his pardon for your hard words. ‘Tell him you will see me no more.”’ ‘‘ But, Sylvia—’’ began the youth, ap- palled at the pale face of suffering. She turned towards him. ‘¢T cannot leave you thus. knew you as I do—”’ ‘¢He can ever know me save as I am while I influence you to disobedience. I’ve been very blind. I am so lonely, so lonely. I wish God—would let me die!” She lifted her face to the gray evening sky. as she spoke, her eyes full of speech- less sadness. Robert felt put aside by this hopeless wail. He tried in vain to find some comforting word, but only suc- ceeded in clasping one of her cold little hands warmly in his, when a long, low whistle startled them. ‘‘It is my father,”’ cried Robert, and Sylvia had barely time to spring to her feet like a startled fawn and feel Robert’s grasp upon her hand tighten, when she felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Myddle- ton and Walter Denmead stood before them. If he only [TO BE CONTINUED. ] - ee eee ee wee i |

Page 152

had cept She you on? vhat at J you, with and not ) see ding — The spect uffer y of you will You, rakes Rob. aith. your > me » ap- only Iam ence. ly, so lie!” ening eech- je by ain to y suc- little x, low t, and ‘o her ybert’s n she yddle- before @une Walentine’s Map. BY KEZIAH SHELTON. HE early days of February came sunny and smiling; the birds that had passed their Northern winter in the warm branches of the fir and spruce trees of the woods, were hopping lightly from the silvery blossomed pussy willows to the fringed and tasseled hazel and alder shrubs, now and then trilling forth from their tiny throats purest spring-like songs of joy. Adown the hazel bordered country road came two rosy girls clad in navy blue walking suits, with hereand there in their costumes a dash of red; their bright faces and wind-tossed hair crowned with jaunty crimson yarns with dark blue tassels. Their steps were elastic with health and youth’s undoubting hopefulness ; they gave the finishing touch of life that made the . scene a perfect one to two young men who were sitting, unobserved by them,ina sunny corner where two walls met, sketching the stretch of grey roadway with its shrub be- fringed edges and fluttering birds. “* By Jove! Be quick and sketch them, Jack, it is the one thing needed to make the theme perfect. There, they have paused, and how unconsciously graceful they are posing! Not often do you get such an accidental touch as this, and the picture will be the envy at the Annual Exhibi- tion.”’ Rapidly the sketching went on, and later the girls resumed their steady tramp, tramp, keeping perfect step, and passing the two young men who looked as inno- cent as only the guilty can! If they had not sketched the girls, they naturally ‘would have shown some consciousness of their approach. Now, it was the girls who gave almost a start of surprise as they suddenly dis- covered the artist and his friend.” “What handsome stylish young men! Did you notice the moustache of the dark- haired one? What a natural wave it had, not that horrid waxy curl at the ends that makes you feel that it must have just come fresh from the barber’s tongs,’’ said Mabel Tinkham, who was something of an artist in her taste as regarded masculine beauty. Being herself a rich hued blonde,it was but natural that she should have been attracted by the dark style of Roland Holland. “No, I did not notice the dark one as being other than a common looking man, but the brown-bearded man—what a fig- ure he had! And a perfect face!” and Mary Peck, with a graceful movement of her arm put up her hand to her hair, to assure herself that the wind had not blown it “every which way.” ‘Really, are we blown quite into frights, Mabel ? I wonder who those fellows are, and where they came from? One was sketching and the other leaning on the wall and look- ing; or do you suppose he was posing? Wouldn’t he make a splendid portrait ?”’ ‘¢He? No, he couldn’t hold a candle to the dark one. I wish we could know them, but what is the use of talking such nonsense; you and I shall never know such as he out in this wilderness! I wonder if pa will ever get his business straightened out,so that we can once more have a comfortable home in the city? For one, I am heartily tired of living out here in the country, shut out from all society. I don’t see why men who know enough to do business on change don’t know enough not to get ‘fleeced,’ as pa calls it. On dear, what made him * fail’ all at once, and send us out here to grand- father’s ?”’ ‘¢T don’t know, I am sure; buying long and selling short and buying short and selling long, and being rich a few years, and then suddenly ‘as poor as Job’s turkey’ is a conundrum I cannot under- stand. But I began to feel that when pa and his clique was rich, then somebody was fleeced and made poor; we didn’t know who it was, that was all, and we just enjoyed it. Now pa talks about our being ‘ fleeced,’ and I suppose somebody -is flourishing on the fleecing just as we did ; and never dreaming that out here in the woods we, the fleeced, are dragging along miserably ; shut out from all the things we used to have. How long have we worn these suits? Mine is actual- ly sprouting a fringe around the bottom, sort of growing its spring foliage as one 149

Page 153

150 ONE VALENTINE'S DAY. might say. I wonder if we can have some new ones this spring ?”’ ‘<I don’t know.. We have actually worn them three years ; they were the last we had before we came here two years ago the fourteenth of this month. Don’t you remember we were planning such fun for the novel valentine-party Lucy Hoyt had sent out invitations for? Then pa failed, and we arrived here at grandpa’s the evening of the party. I thought I should die as we sat that night in the kitchen and watched grandpa popping corn and grandma cracking walnuts, and actually feeling that they were making a real good time for us !’’ ‘« Never fear, I remember it all; it was just horrid. And grandma says now she don’t see what all our ‘opportunities’ have amounted to when we can’t do half as much to help ourselves, as girls who never had half our chance! ‘* How provoked she is because we don’t want to teach; and she is right; we couldn’t do it if we did wish to. She told me this morning, if I wanted a new dress I ought to find some way to earn it ; that it was a shame that pa had spent thousands of dollars on our school bills, piano lessons and French teachers, and after all we couldn’t teach even the school in this district! And there’s Nancy Far- num, who’s never had a dollar spent on her schooling, got it all in the public school, and has earned ten dollars a week, for forty weeks a year, for the last five years; has helped her ma for her board, fore and after school, has dressed well, furnished her ma’s parlor up, and put money in the savings’ bank ; and you two girls can’t even give the neighbors’ chil- dren lessons on a melodeon! Oh, Iam sick of hearing it all; and the worst of the whole is—it is true; and, as much as we hate that old farmhouse and the way grandpa and grandma live, we have nowhere else to be!”’ ‘‘Well, what can’t be helped, can’t; so what is the use of talking? We may just as well make the best of it and come right down, and take what fun there is going; so let’s walk on to Betty Plum- mer’s and tell her we will accept her in- vitation for to-morrow night, and go right in for a good time with the neighborhood young folks. I said at first I never would

do it, but then I did not expect to stay here forever: now I begin to think we may. But, let’s draw the line at marry- ing: we will fiirt with the boys and have a good time. ’Twiil be something to take up our time. Grandpa and grandma will like all but the flirting; they will begin to have hopes of us and think we are at last growing sensible, and we can keep dark about our real opinions of folks and things. I hope, though, they will not play kissing games. Just think of having grandpa’s hired man kiss us! Of course, he is invited.’’ II. Betty Plummer was quite overcome by the sudden cordiality of Mabel Tinkham and her adopted sister, Mary Peck, and for the rest of the day was in quite a flutter of excitement over the event. Roland Holland and his friend, Jack Staples, had chanced upon the Plummer farm for their halting place in this neigh- borhood while sketching. When they re- turned to a late dinner the voluble,- gay hearted Betty chattered of her morn- ing callers, and with country freedom soon had given the young men a full history of neighbor Tinkham’s oldest son, who had ‘* years ago left the farm and gone to New York asa clerk, and later had become what the country people called a stock-gambler ; had been rolling in money a few years, and married a city girl; later had lived in Europe a few years, and then, just as all gamblers do, suddenly be began to lose, and all at once found himself at the bottom of the heap and glad enough tosend his two girls out to his old home, which had never been good enough for them to visit when they had lots o’ money.’”’ She told the young men that the girls were real nice, but couldn’t do a thing to earn a dollar, and seemed actually proud of it! Then she talked of her valentine party, and the young men having identified Mabel Tinkham and Mary Peck as the two stylish young ladies of the morning epi- sode, entered heartily into Betty’s plans, and soon had given the quick-witted country girl some hints about valentine tricks. Betty was always ready for a good- natured joke and readily agreed to their suggestions.

Se? Cb ae ere ae. a me ees ce

Page 154

am & (P 8elmtlUlU OO o le,° m ull mn, nd ter ple ing ‘ity few do, nce eap out een hey ‘irls “4 to oud rty, ified two epi- ans, itted itine ‘ood- their ONE VALENTINE’S DAY. 151 In response to one of these she went over to grandpa Tinkham’s on the even- ing of the thirteenth and told the girls of these tricks. One was for the girls to take an early morning walk on the four- teenth and the first man they met woulde surely be their future husband! Others were to be tried at the house. One of these was to go out into the dark, and standing on the doorstep unwind a ball of twine for a few yards and holding the end of the twine in one hand, with the other tarow the ball as far out into the darkness as possible, then begin to wind up the end in their hand, repeating these lines : “TI wind this long line so very fine, Hoping to find at the other end, The love I would call my valentine, The man I’d choose for lover and friend.” Then, unless; one was a predestined old maid, at the end of the line would stand before the maiden her future husband, who would yield the line to her, clasp her in his arms and take his first kiss and disappear in the darkness, and when the Fates were propitious she would meet this very man, perhaps be introduced to him in the most prosaic and orthodox manner ; but surely some day he would come to claim the hand of the maiden he had kissed in the dark ! ‘«T shall go for a walk before breakfast to-morrow morning, Mary; will you go too?’’ cried Mabel gleefully. ‘«Indeed I will not. You'll be sure to meet somebody’s hired man driving the cows to the spring for water,” replied Mary scornfully. Then she continued, ‘‘I will control my impatience to see my hero until even- ing. I shall throw the ball of twine from your back door-step, and let it roll down the slope into the garden, and then gently draw my hero up to give me that sweet betrothal kiss, and as it is hardly proper to accept anything from a stranger, I will return it at once,’’ and Mary joined in the general laugh. Betty went home and reported. Early the next morning Mabel went out for a walk and for half a mile met no one, not even a hired man driving cows to water, nor a milkman going toward the . village. Suddenly, as she turned a corner, she came face to face with the dark, mous- tached stranger she had seen a few mornings ago posing so gracefully beside the stone wall as his friend sketched. With a chivalrous air he lifted his hat and passed around the corner. Mabel was not more romantic than the ordinary girl, yet her heart throbbed more rapidly, and the rich color swayed back and forth in her shapely cheeks, as she wondered if there could be anything in such happenings, and queried men- tally over and over again, ‘‘ who could he be, where from, and with whom was he staying in that neighborhood, and would she maybe sometime really meet and speak with him? ”’ But it was time to return for breakfast, and, lo! he was returning, and politely lifted his hat once more from the close- cut, dark, curling locks. Evening came, and Mabel and Mary were much entertained by the society into which they were for the first time introduced. Hitherto they had held themselves aloof from the young people about them. The remembrance of their New York circle, their winters at Washington, the years spent in London, Paris, Mentone and Nice had been too fresh in their memories to admit of their acknowledg- ing that they could associate even tempor- arily with those so far removed from their set. But the innate love of some sort of sociality had conquered their exclusive- ness at Jast, or rather the hopelessne:s of ever resuming their old place, had forced them to yield. The hours ran 01in more or less stupid games until ten o’clock, when one by one, the unbetrothed maidens slipped away from the party to try some trick. Unobserved they were not, and it was easy to guess who hoped to be the favored one, as, after each -girl passed out, some admiring swain was sure soon to follow. None of the country youth dared fol- low stately Mary Peck, and the envious tongues whispered, ‘‘She’ll not meet anyone; she holds her head too high.” On the back-door step Mary stood, half shivering with the chill night air, half with a superstitious thrill.

Page 155

152 Slowly she wound the ball after throw- ing it, softly repeating the rhymes as told by Betty. For a while the line was slack as if lying along the ground, then it became a bit more taut, and soon she was sure there was some unknown attachment at the other end of the line. When she saw a figure actually coming toward her in the darkness, she néarly lost her self-possession ; but her pride came to her aid ; she would not scream and make herself an object of ridicule before those country youths ; she felt herself so much superior to them, that 1t would have been the last thing she could have endured. The light from a window suddenly flashed upon the advancing figure. It was the brown bearded stranger, who at that moment clasped her in his arms, kissed her lips rapturously, released her gently and disappeared like a dream in the dark- ness ! It was some moments ere she had re- covered sufficiently to re enter the house with a calm, undisturbed face, except for aricn, deep flush not at all an ordinary color with her. Here, she had need of all the self-pos- session years in society had given her, for in her absence two guests had arrived. MY VALENTINE. Mabel was already chatting freely with Roland Holland and Jack Staples! Why prolong the story? The end was the usual one ; the new acquaintance soon ripened into an old; the acquaintances | became friends and in time lovers. Then came the quiet wedding at grandpa’s; the short bridal tour, and the prosaic set- tling down as housekeepers in two small flats in New York, where in domestic con- tentment they dwelt ever after, in as great a degree of continuous harmony as falls to the average families. Grandma made this domestic peace possible, by persistently insisting that both girls should take daily practical les- sons in her kitchen; that the period of courtship should commence in learning the art of household economies. The girls sometimes rebelled, fancying that things would manage to go on somehow, without all that trouble. But grandma had her way, knowing that a young man with a mcderate in- come has double need of a competent home keeper. ‘¢ Pa” never made a second fortune, but drifted from Mabel’s to Mary’s, and haunted Wall street with other ghcsts of ‘¢ better days.”’ Hip Valentine. MRS. A. GIDDINGS PARK, With sparkling eyes and auburn hair ; Her cheeks are tinted like the rose, And sunbeams gleam where’er she goes. J KNOW a maiden young and fair, Sprightly, and fond of repartee,— From all sarcasm she is free, With gentle grace and quiet mien, She rules our very heart, the queen! « What is her name?” you ask,—Ah, me ! I scarcely dare to tell, for she Is so beloved, that-shrinks my heart The cherished secret to impart. But deep within my inmost soul, Hope breathes it oft, and like a goal It stimulates to higher life, To loftier purpose, nobler strife. « But who, this maid?” you urge,—indeed ! If told, it must be gently said, How her sweet cheeks would blush to know, The love my faint heart dare not show! Well, if I tell, you must come near— It must be whispered,—(name so dear),— Nor e’er betray this secret mine, She is,—she is—my Valentine! ~w wf —->. a ht &

Page 156

vith was oon nces ‘hen a’s ; set- mall con- reat falls eace that les- d of ning The that now, wing » in- stent une, and ts of en! d! know, w! Aunt fanny. BY CORNELIA REDMOND. Author of « At Heatherhill,”’ etc. is the evening of St. Valentine’s Day and there is a party at grandpa’s.for the young people. Lights are shining from every window of the old Massachusetts farm house, and in the big fire-place in the hall a great pile of logs is blazing. Before it sits grandpa, his hair as white as the flakes ot snow which each new arrival brushes off frcm his or her coat. He wears a happy, patriar hal smile as he watches the merry party. Aunt Fanny having seen that the gay- eties are fairly started has slipped away upstairs to her room, which is at the far end of the hall looking out upon the sea. She softly closes the door and placing her candle on a chair kneels down before and old oak chest which stands beside one of the windows. She unlocks it with a small key, she takes from her pecket and raises the lid. The chest is empty, but for a few little things that lie at one end. The first of these that Aunt Fanny takes in her hand is a picture, a queer old-fashioned tin type, framed in a little strip of brass. She holds it close to the flickering candle and the tears come to her eyes. The pict- ure is of a young man with large dark eyes and thick curling hair. What memories it brings back. Of a little curly- haired boy who used to carry her books from school. How, in later years, he had gone away to the great city to acquire fame and fortune; and sweetest of all is the memory of that bright summer time when he came home for a holiday, and learned for the first time how dear his little schoolmate was to him. She remembers how her heart had bounded with joy and surprise when he told her that he loved her and wished her for his wife. She had always loved him, but he was so handsome, and had seen sO many people in the great city, how could it be, she wondered, that he should care so much for her? From a little yellow envelope she gently lifts a curl of dark brown hair. . She remembers how he had cut it off one evening with her embroidery scissors, 153 laughingly saying that it always fell over his right eye when he wanted to write. Now she takes out a little box and re- moves the cover. Jt contains only some brown and withered leaves. They were once rich crimson roses he had sent her as a valentine. How well she remembers that evening. Justsuch anotheras to-night. Now her thoughts wander on to those dread days when the war for the Union broke out. How trifling it had seemed at first. Every one thought that it would all be over in a few weeks or months at the most. But time went on, the struggle grew fiercer and cne by one the fathers, husbands and brothers left to join the fight. Then the day came when he knew that his country was calling him, and then— the parting. Aurt Fanny’s tears fall thick and fast on the faded roses, as one after another those scenes of the past return to her. She had received letters from time to time, letters full of love and hope. Ah, there they lie now, yellow with age and tied together with a little blue string. Then came the fearful struggle at Get- tysburg, and after that—silence. . Aunt Fanny rises from her knees and walks to the window. The snow has stopped falling and a few pale stars are to be seen, the same stars that are looking down on his last resting place. She gazes across the great expanse of water and remembers how as a child she used to think that the sky and sea met at the horizon, and that if one should take a boat and sail and sail you would finally come to Heaven. Ah, Aunt Fanny, you whose everyday work is for others, have found a surer way than that. A tapat the doorand a girlish voice calls. ‘¢ Aunt Fanny, won’t you come down and play a Virginia reel for us?’”’ ‘*Yes, dear, I will come,’’ and then Aunt Fanny turns the key on her treasures. Merry laughter echoes as the young people join in the old fashioned dance. And without the silent stars still look on that nameless grave where Aunt Fan- ny’s hero sleeps.

Page 157

A True Ehost Story. BY JONAS JUTTON. was midshipman on the British mer- | chantman Mary Brent, bound from Liverpool to the Gold Coast of Africa. One night, when we were about a week out, several of the ship’s crew were seated in the forecastle spinning yarns and swapping experiences. Sailors, as a class, are very supersti- tious, and after a glass of grog, with a lighted pipe between his lips and an in- terested audience, the jolly tar is happy while telling his gruesome tales of spirits, ghosts, and goblins. On the night in question one old sea- dog had just finished a thrilling account of how a Jonah, on board, had caused a wreck and the loss of the ship’s crew on the coast of Spain, when Jack Williams removed his pipe from his mouth and said : ‘* Well, every one that chooses may be- lieve in ghosts and spirits, but for my part I do not believe in anything of the kind. Iam not the least superstitious, though if I were, I would come by it hon- estly, for my mother is very superstitious. I was anxious to have my brother, Frank, sail with me on this cruise ; but mother would not hear of it. She had a presenti- ment, she said, that we would both be lost if we sailed in the same vessel. Of course there is nothing in it, but as she had her head so set against our sailing together, Frank signed with the Julia Thomas. No, sir, I don’t believe in ghosts, spirits, dreams, or presentiments.”’ This was Williams’ first cruise with me, and after hearing this speech I was very much taken with him on account of his intelligence and his freedom from superstition. But little did I think that night that the man who did not believe in spirits, astral bodies, and such would prove to me the falsity of his belief. One night, about a week later, while the wind was blowing great guns, poor Jack Williams was torn from the mast- head and hurled violently to the deck. We tenderly picked him up, and placing him in his bunk, summoned the surgeon ; but his skill was to no purpose, for in thirty minutes Willians had paid the 154 debt which nature demands of all. We wrapped him in a tarpaulin, the chaplain offered a prayer for the future happiness ot the departed soul; and amid a ‘dee silence, broken only by the noise of the engines and the swish of the vessel as she ploughed her way through the water, we lowered his body into the mighty deep, As it disappeared beneath the murky waters which, though the storm had ceased, reflected not a single star; my eyes filled with tears as I thought of his motherin her far away England home pray- ing that night for his safe return. The sailors were almost glad Jack was gone, for some of them believed him a Jonah on accout of his disbelief in any- thing supernatural. About ten o’clock, on the fifth night after the burial, soon after two bells had sounded, I was at the wheel, thinking of Jack Williams and his sudden death, when something suddenly and rather violently pushed me from the wheel. I turned quickly around, and, as I did, my hair stood on end, my eyes nearly burst from their sockets, and I was so paralyzed with fear that I’ could not speak nor move; there stood Jack Williams at the wheel as natural as when in life. With askill and quickness I have never seen before nor since, he changed the ship’s course from southeast to due west. The captain, noticing the change in the course, came hurrying on deck to learn the cause. Seeing me standing there, he exclaimed : ‘¢ What in the name of Neptune is the matter ?’”’ I pointed to the wheel. As his eyes followed my hand and rested on the object which was turning the wheel, as it had never been turned before, he cried : “Great God!—Jack Williams !—Speak, I command as master of this vessel and a subject of Great Britain, whose colors I fly, are you man or devil?” ‘¢ Neither,’’ came the reply in a sepul- chral voice; ‘‘I am now the embodied spirit of Jack Williams. Lower a boat, and prepare to launch it; and keepa: sharp lookout on the larboard side. I YS

Page 158

We lain Ness deep ’ the s she » we eep. urky my " his ray- ma any- ight had g of Then ntly ned hair rom vith Ve ; | as 2ver the est. the arn ul- ‘ied at, pa: ON RECEIVING VIOLETS IN WINTER. won’t keep you out of your course but a few minutes.”’ By this time the entire crew had come up. Some of them were paralyzed with fear, and fell on deck, calling on God to protect them, while others kept up their courage and hurriedly obeyed the captain’s order and lowered a boat ready to launch it. We rushed over to the larboard side, and strained our eyes over the dark waters. The captain, who was looking through his night-glass, suddenly called out : ‘‘Something ahoy, there Heave to and lower the boat.’’ His orders were instantly obeyed. ‘‘It is a man lashed to a spar,”’ he cried. I turned to look at Williams, but he was gone. I sprang to the wheel, but could scarcely work it, owing to my ex- citement. I called a sailor to take my place, and hurried back tothe larboard side. We took the poor fellow on board more dead than alive; but, after forcing some brandy down his throat, and working with him awhile, we brought him around all right, and he was soon able to tell his tale. ‘‘Where are you from!” kindly in- quired the captain. ‘‘] was one of the crew of the Julia Thomas, Captain Myrick, commander, bound from Liverpool to the south coast of Africa,’ was the reply. ‘‘She caught fire this morning, and went down in forty fathoms of water. I believe I am the only person on board that is saved.”’ 155 ‘‘ What is your name,’’ excitedly, in- quired the captain. “ Frank Williams.”’ ‘I knew it!’’ cried the captain. ‘¢ Have you a brother? ”’ ‘“ Yes, sir, Jack Williams; sailed the day after I did, on the Mary Brent, bound for the same port we were.”’ ‘¢ This is the Mary Brent, ‘ ventured the captain. ‘«Then where is Jack?’’ expectingly asked the castaway, raising himself on his elbow. ‘*Poor fellow, he has gone to Davy Jones’ locker,’’ replied the captain, sym- pathetically. ‘‘ We said prayers over him, though, and gave him a decent burial.’’ “ Tell him no more to-night,” whispered the surgeon ; ‘‘he is not strong enough to hear it.’’ ‘¢T will tell you all to-morrow,’’ con- tinued the captain. ‘‘Go to sleep, if you can, and you will be all right in the morning. Good-night,’’ and turning he went upon deck. I returned to my post, but I felt no fear of Jack Williams return- ing, for I knew he had performed his mission upon earth, that night, by guiding us to his brother. The next morning the captain sum- moned me to his cabin, and, between us, we informed Frank Williams of the man- ner of his brother’s death, and how his spirit had guided us to him. On Receibing Wiolets in Ginter. BY NELLIE T, GRANT. There came to me a breath of spring, And made me happy, so accept Ds. friend to-day ’mid falling snow, My thanks for thy sweet offering. Let storm and tempest rave without, Encompassing me a round with gloom, Thy violets seem to smile at me, And make a sunshine in the room, And dreamingly my roving thoughts, Go here and there, as when I trod, The sea beach strand with thee, or put Beneath my feet the summer sod. Once the wild violets round us grew, You picked them for me, they were sweet With Love’s own fragrance, and I thought The precious moments all too fleet. They faded, and I thought your love Had faded, too, but memory came, And stirred my heart-strings when I heard A voice that spoke the well-known name. And now these violets come to me, Breathing remembrance, and I feel My eyes are wet with happy tears, Knowing my friend is still so leal.

Page 159

The Cotters’ Saturday Nights. BY H. ASHMEAD. E are the Cotters. There are papa and mamma. Then there is myself, who am Janet. We live on Com- monwealth Avenue in a very elegant house. As far as residence and position go, mamma has reached the summit of her ambition. Mamma is very ambitious, tho’ why she should be I cannot tell. She was born rich, and has had riches thrust upon her ever since I can remember. Papa was rich when she married him and he has more money now than he can count. Mamma’s blood is of the bluest and papa’s is even bluer. Mamma has always been one of the leaders in our most exclusive Boston society. But still she is not satisfied. Now papa and I are not soatall. Of course I like to have nice things, and to dress as well as the other girls, but I’m not a bit stuck up, don’t you know? And as for dear papa, as long as I have every- thing I want, he is happy. Mamma’s chief aim in life now is to. see me the wife of a Russian Prince or an English Duke, (with a leaning, I think, toward the Duke), and to this point she bends all her energies. J am twenty-five and am still without,a legal protector. To hear mamma talk one would suppose she really wanted to get rid of me. Of course I don’t want you to think that it is from necessity that I am one of Massachusetts’ ‘‘ great major- ity,”’ for I have had offers, quite a number of them; but I seem to have no heart. I think I must have been robbed of it. We have receptions every Saturday: evening. I once spoke of them as the ‘*Cotters’ Saturday Nights.’’ Some of our friends took it up and they go by that name entirely now. People enjoy them, I think; at least they seem to. We always aim to have some attraction which is kept a profound secret until the last moment, so really I suppose people come as much out of curiosity as any- thing; but anyway they come, and in crowds, too. Sometimes it is a singer, again an actor. The Swedish Quartette charmed us with their lovely songs one 156 night, and once M. Coquelin favored us with a monologue. To-night the attraction is to be the Duke of Barchester. You see the whole family of us spent the season in London this year. His Grace was certainly quite attentive, and invited us down to one of his beautiful castles for a week’s visit, But to mamma’s chagrin, the momentous question was not propounded. However, mamma is most hopeful. He came on board to see us off and said he should come over this Winter, so she invited him to come directly to us. He has written frequently, and yesterday we received a telegram from New York that he would arrive to-day. It really is very fortunate that papa’s fi- nancial affairs are in a prosperous condi- tion, for mamma has been ordering such heaps of charming clothes with which I am to forge the final links in ‘the chains that bind his lordship. _I myself believe that these chains are of no greater strength than a cobweb, for at Barchester Castle, we met a very sweet and lovely girl, Lady Helen Elliott, who seemed to me to hold considerable right and title in the affec- tions of the Duke. If I didn’t think that I should hate him, I know. As it is, we are the best friends possible. But mam- ma expects to lead him through Boston, bound by those imaginary chains, to her triumphal car. THIS AFTERNOON. ‘¢ November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh, - The short’ning winter’s day is drawing to a close,”’ and I am sitting before the fire in theli- brary, waiting until such time as ‘The toil worn cotter frae his labor goes,” in other words, until papa shall tear him- self away from his beloved Somerset Club, and allow himself to be driven home in the coupé. He likes to find me here when he comes in, and we have a quiet little chat all by ourselves, I perching myself upon his knee quite as if I were —_ his ‘¢ Little Woman.”

Page 160

ed us > the vhole ndon quite 1e of visit, itous ever, ould him itten ed a ould ’s fi- ndi- such ch I ains ieve igth stle, ady 10ld fec- that we am- ron, her gry ing li bor im- ub, in 1en ttle elf his THE COTTERS’ SATURDAY NIGHTS. We spent Thanksgiving at our place in Lenox, and only came into town yester- day, so I still feel as if I were visiting. It isnow five thirty, and the Duke arrives at six; dinnerat seven. I knowI ought to goand dress, but I must wait for papa. AsI sit here thinking drowsily, and wigh- ing the Duke had remained upon the other side of the vast expanse, I hear the hall door close, and through the half-drawn portiére I can see mamma come in. Ido hope she won’t notice me, for she will be sure to scold because I am not arraying myself for conquest. And mamma can be very disagreeable at times. But, after all, I have on a very good looking black retret gown, and I believe lll dine in that. 1’m sure I look very well in it. Presently Richards let in papa, my dear handsome father, who stops to kiss his daughter before he takes off his sealskin coat. I put him in the biggest chair and seat myself upon the arm, with his beauti- ful white head against my shoulder while = ‘*__his weay carking cares beguile.” ‘¢ And what about the Duke, my dear- est ?”’ ‘OQ, papa, dear, I don’t want the Duke, and the Duke doesn’t want me! It’s only one of mamma’s schemes.” ‘‘’m very glad, my dear. I’d rather my littie woman would marry someone else if I must ever lose her, though | have nothing to say against the Duke.” I wonder what made papa look so queer when he said that! But mamma comes sailing in, in gorgeous array, sends papa off to dress for dinner, and sits down to lecture me upon my short-comings. Her maroon Sicilienne is for this special oc- casion, and I have not seen it before. Mamma is certainly very handsome. It issuch a pity that I am not good looking. Ithink mamma is positively ashamed of me at times ! ”’ But papa thinks me an ‘‘ awful little swell,’’ andis always satisfied with me, so Idon’t mind mamma’s opinion so much. The Duke has arrived, dinner is over, and the Cotters’ Saturday Night is in full blast. Idon’t know exactly what that ex- pression may mean, but I heard it used somewhere in this connection, so I put it in. 157 I have on a marvelous blue crépe that makes me the envy of all beholders, and . the Duke is most devoted. What femi- nine mortal could desire a more felicitous state of existence? The Duke is very nice; nicer than ever, I think. Such a pity I don’t love him, and he doesn’t love me, isn’t it? We certainly have played a trump card now. People are dumfounded that we actually have kept to ourselves, for a whole week, the projected advent of a DuKE! He and I are standing talking together during a lull in the duties of receiving. Helen Morgan and Cartland are in front of us. Their engagement has just been announced, and-as I watch them, a sigh escapes me. ‘¢ What a tremendous sigh ! One might be led to believe you are a victim of the tender passions.”’ i_ | To which he replies, as in duty bound, ‘¢ Might I dare hope that I am the object of that priceless affection ?’’ ‘“No. It is not you whom I love.”’ What wou/d mamma say if she knew what I had done! He doesn’t seem to be at all cast down by the rebuff, for he says most cheerfully, ‘* But we will always be friends ?’’ ‘¢ Always, I hope, and I also hope that Lady Helen will let me come to her wed- ding.’”” Whereupon he actually blushes, and looks as foolish as one could desire. O, who is it that I see making his way up to mamma through the crowd? It must be, it is, Charlie Arlington ! Charlie Arlie, as I called him when we were children together, Charlie Darling, as he came to be later on. Yes,I suppose I may as well confess it—it is he who has my heart. We've always been lovers ever since we were born. But when his father died and left hardly enough to bury himself, and Charlie went to work, like a sensible boy, mamma immediately commanded his dismissal. And _ she fondly imagines that her commands were obeyed! It seems such an absurd idea for me to cast off the man I love, just be- cause he is poor, when my father can count his millions with two figures! Not that my dearest papa had anything to do with it, for he would give us half his

Page 161

158 money if he thought I wanted to marry Charlie. But he has always seen him here so much that I don’t suppose it oc- curred to him that there was any particu- lar attachment between us. Papa offered to set Charlie up in any kind of business, but Montague & Frost offered him a place as book-keeper at fifteen hundred a year, and he took it at once. Mr. Montague is his cousin, you know. That seemed to be the last straw that broke the camel’s back, and it was then that mamma said some very unpleasant things about him, and forbade me to have anything more todo with him. I to marry a clerk! Had I been a princess of the realm, she could not have been more scandalized. ; So then Charlie decided to go away. Somewhere in the dim ages of-the past he had studied medicine, and received his diploma, but having grown rather rusty, he took a year’s course’ at the med- ical school, and then pitched his tent in Denver. That’s where he is now, or rather was, until he came on here. Mamma is vot glad to see him! I can grasp that fact even at this distance. She evidently considers him a wolf in the fold, and would fain banish him to remote regions. He is coming over to me now, and I don’t quite know whether to run away or faint in his arms in the approved melo- dramatic style. ‘“‘Ah, ha!’ says the Duke, ‘sits the wind there?’’ which reminds me that my face is telling more than it should, so I pull myself together and decide neither to run nor to faint. J am very glad tosee him. Perhaps that fact makes up for mamma’s frigidity. He seems to be quite happy, anyway. Our eyes say many things while I am introducing him to the Duke, who is very nice tohim. And then his lips tell me that he was seized with a sudden uncon- trollable desire to once more behold—, Boston, and that he has only until a week from Monday before he must return to Denver. Here his eyes make another re- mark, which | do not quite understand, but he will amplify later on. As soon as Mamma decently can, she carried Charlie off to ‘‘ Introduce him to such a charming girl.’’ He goes as grace- THE COTTERS’ SATURDAY NIGHTS. fully as possible, and if I didn’t know, I should think him enraptured at the prospect of the charming girl. Presently I see him in the hall, so I go into the library with Channot, and once there, basely desert him, and slip into the hall. Pogether, Charlie and I make our way, not to the orthodox retreat for lovers, the conservatory, but to the china closet, as that seems to be the only available place at present. Silence for the space of five minutes, But that silence is eloquent. Verily, silence is golden. Then he interprets that speech of the eye as meaning that he is determined to take me back to Denver with him, a week from Monday! It seems quite useless for me to raise the usual objections, for he says I shall go. He has seen papa this afternoon, and he gave him his blessing. I suppose that’s why papa looked so odd when he asked me about the Duke. Enter the Duke himself. “QO, happy love! where love like this is found! O, heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare,” Quoted he, gaily. ‘‘I have told him of the ‘Cotters.’ [ have been hunting all over the place for this ‘ youthful, loving, modest pair.’ I thought it would be better for you, my dear, if I were among the missing, also,’’ with a little laugh. Then Charlie’s wild project is disclosed to him. ‘You can’t expect me to take much interest in that scheme, considering that you have just jilted me! ” ‘«It doesn’t seem to weigh upon you much,’’ I retort, ‘‘ but you'll give your consent, won’t you ?”’ ‘« Well, I’ll see how you behave. But, now, we'd better return to the halls of dazzling light, or ‘ mamma’ will descend upon us unawares.’’ So Charlie kisses me very coolly, where- upon the Duke says, laughingly : ‘«I think I might have one, too, since all my hopes are blighted, and that sort of thing, don’t you know.” As Charlie grants his gracious permis- sion, the Duke kissed me upon the lips, putting, as he says, the seal upon a friend- ship that shall only end in the grave. Then Charlie helps himself to a few more, and finally we manage to get out of the

Page 162

THE COTTERS’ SATURDAY NIGHTS. china-closet, and part from Charlie in the little side-hall. As the other two of us enter the draw- ing-room, evidently absorbed in each other, I can see mamma’s brow clear; she has evidently been suffering untold agony in her anxiety as to my where- abouts; but as long as I am with the Duke —. TWO WEEKS LATER. The last thing Charlie said to me that night was that he should take me with him, nolens volens, and true to his word he did, or at least we have got as far as Chicago, on our way to Denver. Mamma certainly was very disagreeable about Charlie, and if it hadn’t been for that most adorable Duke, who stood by us like a trump, I don’t know what would have become of us. Charlie called on Monday, and what should mamma do but politely request him not to call again. And as she persisted in accompanying me every time I stepped my foot outside the house, ny opportunities for love- making were limited. But as the Duke was so very devoted, and as I was so seemingly content in his society, by Wed- nesday her fears were so far allayed that she allowed me to go to a matinee with his lordship, otherwise unattended. And if the Duke did tell Charlie, when he delivered my daily letter to him at the club, that he had taken an extra seat for him, surely it wasn’t my fault. . And when he was sitting right there beside me, I couldn’t be blamed for letting him squeeze my hand, now and then, could I? And afterward, of course, we had to go into Parker’s for a cup of tea, and while we were there we concocted a little plan that, with the help of His Grace of Bar- chester, made us the beatified couple that we are. You see we hadn’t laid any plans for the next Saturday’s sensation. Either mamma was so taken up with my affairs or else she considered that the Duke shed glory enough upon us for two receptions. Anyway, nothing was going on, so at dinner, Wednesday night, the Duke said tomamma: ‘‘I havea most delightful plan for next Saturday night, my dear madame.”’ (I believe that one reason why mamma adores him so is because he VoL. CXX—No, 12, | 159 always calls her madame.) ‘‘ You are not to know anything about it until it comes off. All you will have to do is to look very wise and mysterious when anyone mentions ‘Saturday night,’ and make them all think you could tell volumes if you choose. Miss Janet will help me, and it will be awfully nice.” a © Of course anything #he Duke might choose to do could not fail to be delight- ful, and mamma cheerfully agreed to everything he said. How pleased and gratified she did look as she beheld Wii- liam, tenth Duke of Barchester, and my- self ensconced in a dim corner of the drawing-room, talking over the ‘‘ plan !’’ Poor mamma! She would not have worn so contented and smiling a countenance could she have foreseen the downfall of all her cherished hopes and plans. Everything did gooff beautifully. Dear, darling papa told me to get everything I wanted, and I wanted a great many things. And how handily came in all the swell gowns mamma had ordered for the sub- jugation of the Duke! She builded better than she knew when she ran up those tremendous accounts at Redfern’s, and Worth’s, and Donovan’s! We have always had heaps of flowers at our ‘‘Saturday Night,’’ so there was nothing to be seen to in that line. And our suppers are always swell, though I say that shouldn’t. It seemed as if the whole thing did itself, somehow. Just after dinner mamma came into my room to ask mé what I was going to wear. She made no objections, after that first day, to my dining in the old black velvet, for ‘‘ the Duke likes it.” Annette was just laying out my white watered silk, as mamma entered. ‘‘ Why, how bride-like you will look. I hope it will not be long before you are a bride in earnest,’’ and then she went down stairs, the folds of her dark blue velvet trailing majestically after her. And when I was arrayed in the white moire, I also went down and received with her as usual. Presently the Bishop came, and then the rector of Trinity. Next Charlie was shown in, and coming up to mamma, - hoped she would allow him to trespass upon her hospitality for a few moments on this occasion, as he was taking his depart- ure for the West on Monday. This,

Page 163

160 mamma, was graciously pleased to allow, and as he stood there talking to her, I ran upstairs and put on my veil. When I came down the Bishop and the rector were in their surplices, and had taken their places at the farther end of the drawing-room. The Duke and Charlie went and stood together in front of them. Papa met me at the foot of the stairs, and led me in. Such a hush as fell upon that crowd! And even then they couldn’t tell which it was to be! But in a moment they knew, for the Duke took my bouquet, and stepped back, leaving me at the side of my own true love. Then papa gave ‘‘ this woman to be married to this man,’’ and in a few moments Mrs. Charles Arlington faced the assembled company. Mamma braced up, and came through it with colors flying. I had half expected that she would declare herself an imped- iment, but she left us in peace, and I promised ‘‘ to love, honor and obey till death us do part.’ & She had no idea of letting our dear five hundred know that she had lost her game, not she.. She smiled gayly, and THE NEW EDEN. said such sveet things of ‘‘her children who had been lovers ever since they were babies ;”’ and ‘‘it might be just the least bit theatrical, but we thought it would be so pleasantly informal; and then, we were always so opposed to this vulgar display of presents and all that sort of thing, don’t you know!”’ Ah! Trust mamma to brave the world! If the cogs of the machinery of her plans had refused to fit into each other our guests were none the wiser, and she was looked upon as the happiest of the happy. But she came out nobly at the end and forgave us completely, and she and papa are coming to Denver right after Christ- mas. And I? I am with the man I love! What more? But we are notso badly off, for papa gave me a little package when I came away, and the mortgages and bonds amount to about five hundred thousand dollars. The Duke came to New York with us, and in the spring Charley and I are going to see him married to Lady Helen Elliott. Che New Eden. BY KEZIAH SHELTON, told, Cee world’s grown old, the story’s The same each day by lover bold; Each heart that’s blest by lover true, Creates at once an Eden new. Ere since the hour when Eve was torn From Adam’s side, one sunny morn, To crown his joys and heal his woes, Love’s been the same, so Histr’y shows. Each man becomes an Adam rare, At once,—the maid than Eve, more fair! Yea, from that day when world was new, When earth was young and Adam true! From that bright day when bridal sun First shone on two by Him made one, So e’er when Love has won a heart Secured it safe with Cupid’s dart, The sky takes on a softer blue, To them the world is born anew, The rose tint shows a fairer hue, All’s rare and fair seen by these two! E’en grassy lawns a deeper green, Than e’er before by mortals seen! Old friends are loved with truer glow, No more keen hatred’s fire they know.

Page 164

dren were least ld be were splay ling, rid! lans our was Ppy. and papa Tist- ove! ’ off, en I onds sand us, ving elen Che Boy who never did any Mischief. BY H. M. H. Johnny’s mother should not be dis- turbed this morning. The work she was doing must be finished at noon, for the last mail went then, and the editor of the ‘‘ Blankville Her- ald”’ had offered a prize for the best article on ‘Good Management of Children,’’ to be ready by the fifteenth. Johnny’s mother felt very sure of winning, for had she not been successful in regard to her own son? The day before she had told a neighbor of her methods of government, thinking perhaps to gain some new ideas from this friend’s kindly criticism that would do to work in her essay; but when she said to this Mrs. Brown that Johnny never really did any mischief, this Mrs. Brown, who was the mother of four ‘‘ Brownies,”’ said: ‘*Do you know what you remind me of?” Johnny’s mother said, ‘‘ No,”’ quietly hoping, however, that it was something very, very good, when Mrs. Brown continued: ‘* Yes, you always remind me of an old hen that has but one chicken to scratch for. You are always calling him here and there, and watching him so closely all the time. Just remember that children will be chil- dren, and mischief is always playing hide and seek with them, and most of the time they find it.” Johnny’s mother did not feel that this was much of a compliment to either Johnny or herself; but being a polite woman, concluded to say nothing more to Mrs, Brown, but to show her by Johnny’s good behavior, that the one - really was very important that 161 little chicken her brood contained was a very obedient, thoughtful one. So this bright May morning she said to him, ‘‘Amuse yourself for a little while, and when this writing is done, I will send you to the post-office with it.”’ The word post-office suggested t.» Johnny’s active brain a plan for the morning’s amusement. He had only lived in this town a short time, having left a city where letters were delivered by post-men in grey uniform, instead of each person going to the office for their mail. He had on a grey suit and he could put on the cap that came with his sword Christmas. His mother’s shopping bag would do to carry the let- | ters in, and it really would be a good idea to show the people of Smithville what an improvement it would be to have the letters and papers brought to their doors. But there ought to be letters to deliver. Now Johnny cou'd not read, but he found some things in the Japanese waste basket by his mother’s desk that he thought would do, and knowing in which drawer the envelopes were kept, he selected what he thought would do, put them in envelopes and sealed them. All this time his mother’s pen was swiftly flying over her paver, carefully copying her article, and as Johnr ie had been for- bidden to disturb her, he slipped quietly out. On the steps he stopped and said to himself, ‘‘ It must be allright, for I heard her say only yesterday I never did any mischief ;”’ so up the street he went.

Page 165

162 The first stop he made was at a Mrs. Allen’s. ‘There being no bell, he gave a knock, which sounded like a mixture of a policeman’s rattle and the loud taps of a bass drum, then quickly slipped the envelope under the door, and had turned the corner before Mrs. Allen could wipe the suds trom her hands and open the door. No one there, but a letter lying on the sill. What could it mean? Let- ters were like the visits of angels, fewand far between, as far as Mrs. Allen was con- cerned; so she picked this one up, held it in every pcsition, and finally in a nervous way tore off the end of the envelope and a yellow folded paper dropped out. **One of those murderous tiligrims,”’ she shouted, to deaf Mrs. Burke, who rented rooms of her, and was now peacefully smoking her pipe by the fire. The smoker entered into the excitement at once. ‘¢ What is it? what is it?”’ she screamed. Mrs. Alien, whose early education had been neglected, still holding the telegram upside down, said: ‘‘Sure it is so frightened entirely that I am, that I can’t make out a word except bad news,”’ and with that she sank into a friendly chair, and moaned, «* What ever shall I do ?”’ Suddenly an inspiration came. Dan, the lame shoemaker at the corner of the street, was a scholar; he could tell her the worst ; so, without waiting to pull down her sleeves, or to avail herself of the shade of her white ruffled sun-bonnet, which was the special pride of her ward- robe, she hurriedly ran all the way to Dan’s shop, and, panting for breath, thrust the yellow paper in the shoemaker’s hands. ‘‘ Read it !’’ she commanded; and Dan read : ‘Annie will be on the night train, meet her.”’ The woman gave ascream. ‘‘Annie’s coming! My Annie’s coming.’”’ And back she ran faster than she came, leaving the paper in Dan’s possession. He care- fully read it over; for although having a high reputation in’ regard to reading and writing, and holding the position of scribe and interpreter in his circle of friends, yet with a second reading, he was con- vinced that there was a mistake somewhere, for this said ‘To Mrs. J. H. Curtis,” which surely could not mean the Mrs. Allen of his acquaintance; so, hobbling THE CHILDREN’S CORNER. after her as fast as he could, he came to her house, knocked once, twice, thrice, but, as the door was not opened from the inside, he opened it from the outside, The tubs tood there, but their owner was missing. He went to the next house, She had been there, and in a wild manner had imparted the news that ‘‘ her Annie, her son Patsy’s oldist darlint of a girl was on her way from blessed old Ireland, and would be there to-night.’? House after house Dan visited, but everywhere found that he was too late. It was evident that Limerick Hill, as this end of town was known by, was to be duly informed as to Annie’s arrival, and Dan, feeling unequal to following her to the end, went back to her little house and waited on the doorstep till she returned. When she returned, Dan at- tempted to explaim the mistake; but, after a few words, the torrent of abuse he received silenced him. ‘‘Not her tiligrim? Then what busi- ness had it in the doorway. Of coorse, it was meant for her, and her own blue eyed Annie the angel was coming. Not sint to her? To whom then—and who was Mrs. J. H. Curtis?” Dan had to confess that he did not un- derstand it at all. ‘* Then why did he come botherin, her like that, when her heart was fluttering so wildly that it was kaping her mouth tight shut only, that she could keep it inside at all.” In vain Dan tried to tell her that it was dated in April, and here it was May, and finally Dan’s temper, which was far from being angelic, got the best of him, and he left, telling her she need bring no more rubbish to his shop to pester him with. - That was too much, to call the precious piece of paper rubbish that brought such good news could not be endured, and the angry woman looked about for something to send after Dan as a parting compliment. A tomato can, in which a geranium had been planted, and had tried to solve the problem, ‘« Is life worth living,”’. and had died in the attempt, was the only thing handy, and this was sent promptly after Dan, but had hit wide of the mark. But after she could see his limping figure no longer, the enraged oid woman sat down on the same

Page 166

BAFFLED GENIUS. door-step where Dan had waited, to think. What if Dan was right. Of course he couldn’t be; but still what if he should be. ‘There was one person that could tell all about it, and that was his Reverence—good Father O’Brien—who would set her mind at rest. To be sure it was a long walk and the washing not yet done, but then she must know the truth, so going in the house, she pulled down her sleeves and put on a clean blue and white check apron, took the ruffled sunbonnet off its nail and started on her important errand. The good man took the telegram, read it and told her it was not intended for her. Explained how messages were sent and received, but it all fell on unheeding ears, for the poor old woman was sobbing as if her heart would break. Slowly she went back, and stopped at 163 none of the houses, to corre >t the infor- mation she had given them in the morn- ing—they would all know her disappoint- ment soon enough, and the bright May day, with the world, as far as one could see, all blossoming in the pink of the peach, and the white of the plum and the cherry, might have been a dreary November day, for she saw nothing of it. Her thoughts were over the wide toss- ing ocean and there they rested on Patsy’s blue eyed Annie, that a few hours ago had seemed so near and now so cruelly far away. And the boy that never did any mis- chief sat patiently on the front steps wait- ing to be called, and when his mother came to send him on the promised er- rand, she kissed him twice and called him ‘‘ Mother’s precious boy for having been so good.” Baflled Genius. 66 mean to write some po’try, For I’ve found out the way They make it jingle nicely, Let’s see—what shall I say? The lines must match each other, Like man, and ran, and Dan: I'd like to make it funny, I wonder if I can. “ How ought I to begin it? Once on a time a cat— Wait now—I’ll have to rhyme it— Cat ?—Flat—hat—bat—fat—rat— Oh! rat and cat. But bother! What shall I make her do? She ought to jump and catch him, But that won’t rhyme, you know. «“ T’ll take another paper And try again; I think Perhaps it would be better If I should write with ink. “ First in war first in peace, George Washington had no child ; But he had a niece— His niece? Oh, no, she wasn’t! , Pshaw! that will never do; For even to make po’try We can’t say. what’s not true. ‘‘Dear me! It’s such a trouble! I thought ’twas easy, too. I shouldn’t think the po’try men Would care for it: should you ? I'll try once more—4 4itten Was playing with a ball, But she had lost her mitten— That line won’t do at all “It isn’t my own po’try, It’s in the ‘ Kitten Book;’ ’T would be a kind of stealing: Our Jack would say I ‘ hook.’ I believe I won’t write po’try I thinks it hurts my eyes. Oh, Jack! Is that you whistling ? Let’s go and make mud pies.”

Page 167

The Beautiful Home=Clud. BY EMMA VU. HE girls on reaching Amy’s house were much surprised to fiid her so hoarse she could scarcely speak. On inquiry, they learned she had been toa Mother Goose party the night before, and in going from her house to the carriage had gotten her feet wet from the snow, which was then rapidly falling. **T tell you what, Amy,’’ said Edith, “if you would only wear overshoes fixed after my fashion you would not risk your health as constantly as you do now.’’ Whereupon ail the girls gathered around to examine Edith’s shoes, and found securely fastened, and exactly fitted to her rubbers, was a top piece extending over and clinging to the instep and ankle. The piece was knitted out of soft brown wool. ‘* How does it wear?” inquired Molly. ‘*Oh, finely. I only use them for heavy weather, and to draw over my slip- pers when 1 go to parties. This makes the fourth season for these.”’ ‘¢ Indeed,” was the reply. “If you try them, girls, you’ll never be without them ; they can be made for a few coppers; are shaped the same as a stocking, and are a ccmplete protection, not alone from the snow and rain, but also from the cold. And it is such a convenience when going to a reception, not to have to resort to buttoned shoes. These are so much more easily adjusted, as well as being more cosy and comfort- able.’’ ‘*T shall commence to knit myself a pair at once, and so be ready for the next time,’’ added Amy. ‘‘And I too,’’ was repeated by both Molly and Olive in turn. ‘‘And now we must get to work, and discuss the most prominent ‘left overs’ from last week’s lesson, on the subject of our parlors. I think,’’ commenced Edith, “‘transcms have a happy effect ; they can be put over the doors, or in the windows, and temper the caylight, so that it is re- duced to an opal, olive, or roseate tint, as Je GRAY. may be most desired. A drawing-room should look cheerful, and yet wear an Oriental, dreamy tone. This can never be produced without what may be termed ‘the dim, religious light,’ which is always more potent in affecting the senses than the dazzling sunshine, no matter how wel- come, under certain conditions, sunlight may be.”’ “As to cabinets, to which Olive alluded last week, my advice would be to have them in variety. If you desire you can, perhaps, buy the one in which the beauti- ful Duchess de Berri once kept her knick- nacks. It was offered for sale in New York city a short time ago, and may not yet have found a purchaser. It is inlaid with panelings of Sévres porcelain, and is surmounted with two Sévres vases, which once formed a part of the collection of the Duke of Hamilton. These are the days of instruction; not alone are our friends to be amused and entertained, but we should try and teach our visitors also. A cabinet can be of the most costly India, Japanese or other variety, inlaid with mother-of pearl, mosaics and gems; but these are rarely found, save in the homes of opulence, and they are not my idea of what constitutes a cabinet. It should never be so much the casket as the jewels to be found inside. A closet: may be. very costly, with its plate glass and hard- wocd finish, but it is the closet’s contents that most deserves our consideration. A pretty hanging cabinet would be to cover two shelves with green plush, and back the same with a mirror; but the minerals or theshells, or whatever articles of vertu you can jut on these shelves, ought to make your friends forget all about their receptacle. ‘* Tables add elegance to a drawing- room. ‘These are no longer placed under chandeliers, but are given a pretty side, or corner position. A rosewood or Eng- lish mahogany table is found to be a most useful, as well as ornamental adjunct to a parlor, if on it you find a highly polished brass candlestick, within which is a candle, ready to light, or a richly shaded cloissonré enameled lamp. And 104

Page 168

-room ar an never rmed lways than Vv wel. light luded have can, auti- nick- New 7 not nlaid nd is hich nm of > the » our , but also. dia, with but mes a of ould wels > be. ard- ents A over yack rals ertu t to heir ing- der de, THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. 165 by them is one or two volumes of your favorite poet, or a portfolio containing photogravures, or water colors, while the fragrance of heliotrope, or mignonette reaches you, from a porcelain vase, rest- ing on the same table. Or what can be prettier or more convenient as well, than the table which suggests an afternoon tea, or a weekly ‘at home.’ Twine a pretty, pale green scarf around and over your ta- ble, on this place a tea pot, cream-jug, and sugar: bowl, with four or five cups and sau- cers of Sévres porcelain, Collamore, Men- ton, or other wares as your taste may sug- gest ; also some dainty spoons, bound to be among your wedding gifts. A brass pedes tal, topped with Mexican onyx, would be the proper thing on which to place a large urn or vase of Royal Worcester ; or for further variety, get a French table of marquetry, and load it with bric-a-brac from India, Hungary or France. In the drawing-rooms of England, you gener- ally find a table set tor writing. This would be a convenience to some homes, and it can be very prettily fitted up, as there is now no end to multitudinous de- signs and devices in the stationery line. Round or square opal tables in gold frames are always elegant, and while they are expensive, perhaps more is yielded for the outlay in this direction than in some less noticeable manner.’’ ‘¢ Would you put a clock in the parlor, Edith ?”’ ‘‘ That would depend upon the clock, Molly. It should be either very elegant, or very artistic, to find a place in the drawing-room. Brass, bronze, or mar- ble are handsome varieties. If you have a clock, place it almost any where else than in the centre of the mantle-shelf. One end of the mantle is far less old timey and common-place; but when fur- nishing the shape of your room, and your own good sense, would suggest the best position.’’ ‘*Is there anything new shown in the furniture line for bay windows?’ in- quired Olive. ‘Yes and no, for, after all, they are only ringing changes on the old ideas. I saw a pretty divan lately. It was only large enough for two, and those two would be obliged to sit quite closely. jt hollowed out in the centre, rising quite abruptly at each end; it was shaped some- thing like the first quarter of the moon. The frame was gold, and the covering tapestry. But of course your frame and covering could be of your own selection. A téte-a-téte is useful for a bay window. A pretty one would be to cover the cush- ion with heliotrope, or crushed strawberry plush, and put the same in a frame of gold. A great deal of furniture is exhib- ited without any visible woodwork, all being upholstered. A new thing to fin- ish the top of sofas, and for the corners, being what is termed pine apple fringe. The whole design is made from silk, and is in exact representation, but on a very small scale of a pine apple. You must place one at each end of the sofa, edging the same with fringe. Mantles for par- lors should be of inlaid wood, and they should be built up nearly to the ceiling, these added to the quaint, carved brack- ets, and other devices for niches and corners, will give your room the desirable old fashioned continental appearance, now so much sought after.”’ ‘But, girls, time flies, and we must give the remainder of this morning’s talk to what might be termed the parlor’s ante-chamber, or what is familiarly known as the reception room.”’ ‘‘ Before you commence, Edith, do you really think such a room an acquisi- tion to a home, or the reverse ?’’ * ‘«] think it a positive necessity, unless the indwellers live so much within them- selves, and for themselves, that their in- fluence does not extend beyond their own threshold. -Progressive and busy people have to meet a variety of individuals, and generally those seeking interviews, besiege the home castle, feeling assured of a hearing there. Thus you will at once see, girls, the advisability of having a separate room in which to see your business or stranger guest. Besides, we all know the annoyance which is some- times felt by the meeting of certain indi- viduals. It is easier far, for both visitors and visited, to have the separation of walls between some people, and for divers reasons, too many to enumerate, a recep- tion-room will often be found a boon. It need not be very elegant, even in a mag- nificent home, but it should be in keeping with the rest of the house. It is gener-

Page 169

166 ally small, and does not require much furniture, but what there is should be of a comfortable character. It is sufficiently annoying to be obliged to wait ina re- ceiving-room, not to feel at one’s ease while there.’’ ‘« Would you put a table in that room, Edith ?”’ ** Yes, and a fairly large one, some- thing after the character of the library table. Very frequently notes are written from a reception-room, and therefore the necessity of having everything suitable at command. The table alluded to should have drawers, and these should be kept well stocked with writing materials. On -the table should rest a well-trimmed lamp, besides a few magazines and one or two illustrated papers.’’ ‘«T saw just the thing for a reception- room floor,’’ said Molly. ‘¢ What was that?” “Tt is called ‘Ispahan Art Squares.’ They are of oriental character, are of in- grain texture, and so are of moderate price, and as they are not fastened to the floor, they can be readily cleaned and laid.’”’ ‘*Suppose we have not hard wood floors,’’ asked Amy. ‘*Oh,”’ replied Molly, ‘*I can help you on that, too. Stain your boards lightly with umber, and when they are dry give them a coat of orange shellac.”’ **Yes,”’ added Edith, ‘‘and if your boards are ill-fitting, they can appear to be tightly joined by boiling into a paste, one- half a pound of flour, six pints of water, and one-half a pound of alum.. Tear news- papers into small bits and stir in enough to make your paste as stiff as putty, and press this into all of your seams and stain it at the same time that you do your boards. It will take the color so perfectly, even a shrewd observer will not detect THE BEAUTIFUL HOME- CLUB. the difference between the wood and the papier-mache you have so readily and adroitly made.’’ «¢ What about the side-walls and ceiling, Edith ?” ‘¢I would suggest shades of grey calso- mine, witha frieze of Japanese pictures, separated from the calsomine with a rod of gold. The dado should be comprised entirely of fans, which come in endless variety, and are very inexpensive. As for the ceiling, decorate it so as to produce pleasing effects with Japanese parasols and balloons. This style of decoration allows for great liberty in the color of your other furnishings, so thata reception-room fitted up after the named fashion would be unique, effective, and inexpensively pro- duced. All of your ornaments should bear the stamp of the East, and these are generally very instructive as well as orna- mental. A cloissonné plaque would look well on your mantle, as well as a mandarin, and various odd vases, cups and trifles. You might have in one corner a‘cabinet of Japanese curios, and in another a screen of Japanese needlework. Your windows should be curtained with some yellow and red Japanese stuff, which could be softened, if desired, with a har- monious colored linen shade and a cur- tain of white lace net. If you would not care to receive your friends in a Japanese room, then I would suggest a Greek room or a French room. Follow your own fancies, of course, girls; but I think if a room is given up to one particular type of nation it receives, even from a chance visitor, particular attention and remem- brance.”’ ‘Molly, will you talk about the library next week ?” JT will make an attempt in that di- rection.” ‘¢ We will all help you,’’ added Edith.

Page 170

id the y and siling, calso- ‘tures, a rod prised ndless As for oduce ls and lows other fitted d be ' pro- ould > are orna- The Fashions A Monthly Resume of Practical /Matters Relating to Dress and Social Events. 0 procure a really good black silk is a very difficult matter when so many cheap 4 goods are thrown upon te? the market. Now I m.. can talk very learn- edly about black silk, having seen a quantity of samples cut from the looms which send their fabrics all over Europe and America. I wish every lady could be preserved from a variety of the genuine silk cord faille, warranted not to grease nor toabsorb dust! I have heard dealers talk to me about the its superior qualities unti nearly apoplectic in the face, and yet they have failed to convince me. Ihave lost faith in weight, dyes and fibre since I have discovered that when the latter is weak the tissue is steeped in treacle, spermaceti andiron! There isa manufacturer in—but the name of the city shall pass—where, for every pound of silk yarn he receives he returns ¢Avee when woven; the two re- turned over are not obtained from the silk-worm, It isnot necessary to have gone deep in Euclid to understand that whatever the stuff is put in a material it must, at some time or other, come out from the same again. If spermaceti and iron be boiled down in a dye, and that dye add gloss with weight to a thin surface such as poor silk, the rubbing of a pair of elbow-sleeves over a tablier skirt which is made of it will assuredly wear out, the said iron and spermaceti leaving holes behind. This explains how soon some gros-grains look shiny about the hips. Such silks are a great disappointment, because they were handsome in the piece, were glossy, had a soft feel, and made rich folds when held up. Give your best friends good advice about silks, Tell them frankly that dealers are only human beings desirous to fall in with our desires, that if we ask for cheap black gros-grain they will be anxious to let us have it, and we shall be put in possession of a spermaceti make ; but gros- grain cannot be cheap, and people who want a good serviceable black toilette must be prepared to pay the price for it. I know of but four manufacturers who, having to deal with a customer, commence transactions by asking how much is to be invested on the purchase of a black silk costume. If the sum at disposal be moderate, a useful silk is brought out, though not a cord; if more can be spent, a good robe de fatigue is forthcoming, a drap d’Anvers, or a drap de Rhone, the word darap not meaning cloth, but plain close silk, just as peau de soie does not mean skin but supple silk of close texture. Samples should always be written for, and when in hand there is a method by which to distinguish a good black silk from a bad one. If after hav- ing marked a line on the cross between finger and thumb on the sample forwarded, the said mark does not disappear by very slight pulling in a contrary direction, then the silk is bad. If the ridge imperceptibly disappears$ it is good. The thickness of silk does not prevent it from being supple; none are so thick in appearance as those used for sacerdotal vestments, and this material is remarkably supple, being all silk, such as the Greeks at the origin introduced into Sicily. Evening gowns are being made in endless variety, milliners and modistes vie with each 167

Page 171

168 other in turning out the prettiest of toilettes, and study, plan and execute with renewed vigor. The new embroidered lisse, wide enough for skirts, must be specially welcome at such a time, and is sure to be eagerly adopted. Inch-wide ribbons are used to form the trim- ming of the front width of gowns of fish-net, in a lattice work, ending in loops over a kilt or ruche. The long lines are first pinned into place, and then the short crosslines passed over and under, and fixed at ‘the sides. With the straight folds of dresses all kind of devices must be employed to vary the monotony, and this is extremely effective. The sides are ‘frequently folded, and the back full, Pistache green fish- net was treated in this way, with three or four rows of ribbon bordering the sides and back; Empire bocice with puffed sleeves tied with ribbons, and wide Empire sash. Single flowers, not petals, are used to spray the skirts of net dresses, and, in order to keep them from being damaged, a second skirt, quite scanty, is placed over them. White with tinted daisies, or lilies of the valley is lovely, with a large garland tied with long green ribbons depending from the waist over the upper skirt, and a big cluster of the same near the edge on the opposite side. Black gowns, whether of lace or net, are to be enlivened with black lace, worked in colored silks in conventional or floral designs, patterned in gold silk, with plenty of the same tinted ribbons; a black-dress so trimmed is a service- able and by no means a dull costume. Yellow, white and black promise to be among the colors most affected for evening wear. Lace is coming in use again, but is set flatly— entre deux, as the French say—as insertions around the skirt, or in rows across side breadths, A Louis Quinze toilette, for instance, has a pale blue satin skirt with two broad insertions of old Mechlin lace let in the satin above the hem; the bodice is a long Louis Quinze coat of light blue velvet, with a vest almost as long of embroidered white satin, worn with an enormous jabot of the lace. A black marquise lace dress has for its yest and side breadths jetted net representing two wide borders, like insertions, near the foot, with smaller wreaths or medallions of jet embroidery above. A néw lace, called the *‘ gemmed” lace, has come out for trimming, but it is too rich and rare for ordinary wear. The outlines of the design— whatever the lace may be—are traced with precious stones, pearls and diamonds. Expen- THE FASHIONS. sive as this is, it is, however, in great demand for trimming evening dresses, Several rich American ladies, for instances have ordered trimmings of this lace to add lustre to their gala toilettes. They have also given all their diamonds to be bored so as to wear them in rows (like pearls) around their neck. Large collars, or frills of gauze or crepe of the same color of the dress, are much worn now, They are festooned with silk round the edges, and are gathered full round a plain band of the size of the neck. The three colors of half-mourning—violet, grey and black, with white—are the favorites of the season with Parisiennes, who wear them out of mourning, and the fancy for these quiet, refined colors is seen here in every assembly of fashionably dressed women, It is predicted that these colors will also be favored for spring and summer gowns, as French foulards and China silks are now being made with white grounds dotted with black, or black with white petit pois spots, and in each case wood-viclets, singly with long green stems, are scattered over the surface, and are massed near one selvage as a border. Fuchsias or petunias in reddish purple shades are also set about singly on white or purple grounds. A little velvet will be used in trim- ming the bodices of these gowns, and rows of velvet ribbon will trim the skirt. Suéde, ashes-of-roses, and other light tan browns with little yellow in them are in great vogue for winter gowns that are covered by long coats when worn in the street, and these colors are to be brought out for early spring gowns in fine wool serges, camel’s-hair, cash- mere, etc. Borders of graduated stripes of a darker shade will be added to many of these light brown woolens; others will have for the skirt a pattern of balls in lengthwise rows, grad- uating smaller toward the top; and still others will have diagonal stripes that meet in four points in the middle of the breadths in the Eiffel Tower fashion. Checks, bars, plaids, and stripes of different weaving, rather than of contrasting colors, will also be worn in the spring, I give these early hints to our readers that they may bear them in mind when looking over the tempting bargains of goods offered in midwinter for much less than their original price, What luxury, to be sure, there is now in sleeping attire. Imagine, if you can,a night- dress made of the softest Indian silk—white, oa ~~ fb oF ae i@..aa @& we

Page 172

iand for istances d lustre ls to be pearls) > of the n now, edges, of the -violet, rites of em out quiet, sem bly dicted spring China -ounds it pois y with irface, order, hades purple trim- ws of f tan great d by these pring cash- ofa these - the zrad- thers four viffel ‘ipes ting give may the THE FASHIONS. 169 blue, cream, pink, or any color you like—made almost like a dress, with short waist, in Kate Greenaway style, and trimmed down the front, and round the neck and feet, with dainty lace. Long Jewish or angel sleeves accompany this nightdress, leaving the arm entirely bare. Some are trimmed with velvet and others with bead embroidery Since the time of the Roman Emperors, when night robes were fringed with pearls, no such luxury has been known in night and még/igé home attire. Ball chemises are also very elegantly made, whether they be of surah or cambric, The front of the bodice is covered with the tiniest of tucks. There are no sleeves, the chemise being fastened on the shoulders with bows of ribbon. The neck, armholes, and bottom of the skirt are trimmed round with Vandyke lace. The. underskirt, worn over this chemise, is trimmed exactly like the chemise, and is made of the same materials as the chemise. Some- times this underskirt, if made of surah, is quilted and lined with wadding, Matinées are made in white or colored surah, and in saque-like shape, opened in front over a long blouse of white, black, or colored lace, according to the color of the matinée itself, The trimming of these matinées consists of beaded braid, in lace designs. The skirts to be worn with these matinées should match in color and are trimmed round with large ruchings, pinked out at the edges, Garters are losing very much of their old favor now. Instead, stockings are sewn on to short piqué or cotton drawers, trimmed with lace, or frills at the edges, like ordinary drawers. The greatest luxury exists in corsets, which are now made in all shades, according to the color of the dress with which they have to be worn, The richest model of all is the watered silk corset, trimmed with velvet and lace. Others are of brocade, silk, and satin. I have seen Stays even of red and gold brocade, embroidered with metallic beads and braid. For riding, only kid corsets are worn, and evening corsets are made of this same kid, The new elastic corset is one of our latest novelties, It is made entirely of open-worked elastic in narrow bands, The elastic bands are alternated with satin-covered whalebones, and the whole is trimmed with real Jace. There are plenty of pretty styles in children’s clothes, their lutle garments following to a cer- tain extent, the fashion of their elders. Coats with capes, cloaks with Jewish sleeves, and the always, approved Russian cloaks are worn by them. Their hats are low and rather large, worn off the face and simply trimmed with a cluster of ostrich tips, or large bow of ribbon with many loops placed in front and twisted ribbon- round crown, or with a long feather round the hat and small bow. The brims take a variety of curves, but the great point is that the hats should be low and large. For a small personage, fur a special occasion, a dainty little frock of powdered green corded silk, with the same color of Tosca tulle, is charming in con- trast to fair and rosy cheeks. The form taken should have a full plain skirt, bodice with drawn yoke, and a large ‘sash; and tulle makinga drapery at the right of the bodice, and a panier at the right of the skirt. Beige surah suits a dark child, and is capable of being enlivened by some other color. A frock of this material is tasteful trimmed with coarse silk of the same shade, The bodice comes to the waist, and is finished with a cord; no sash is worn; the yoke is round, outlined with deep lace, reaching to the waist and caught on the shoulders, with two or three plaits; the sleeves are small puffs. The full skirt has a lace border, and above this several rows of cord run into the silk. Another bright little costume is made of sal- mon cashmere, with the bodice and skirt in one. A V of cashmere covered with lace is let in in front and back, matching the yoke, that is defined by lace with sharply-pointed edge. A row of this lace of wider width is placed at the waist. An accordion kilt makes the lower part. of the skirt, and the sleeves are tight, with accordion kilts from the arm-holes in place of puffs and folded cufis of cashmere. Plaid frocks for little girls are also cut on the cross. The bodice is plaited front and back, plain at the sides, with a narrow turned-up vel- vet collar round the neck, and velvet waistband ; the sleeves are full on the shoulders, and finished with deep velvet cuffs; the short skirt is plaited scantily in frout, and more fully at the back. For very small children plaid frocks are made in the shape of a blouse, with from five to seven rows of gaugings round the waist ; at the top the blouse is open in the shape of a V over a small chemisette of fancy printed cashmere; small coat sleeves trimmed with galloon and full epau- lettes. With plaid frocks little girls wear a velvet beretta with aigrette of blade feathers, or the

Page 173

ee ee ee ee 170 small toque of plaid material trimmed with a bow of velvetor galloon. The preferred stationery for women is linen paper without gloss, white or cream-tinted, smooth or rough in finish, and of the standard octavo size, to fold once in square envelope. Medium rough paper and etching paper similar to that prepared for etchers, is used by those who write with the stubs or the quill pens. Insertion paper is a fancy novelty with alternate thick and thin lines across the page. The colored papers most used are pale blue or rose-tinted, dark blue and gray of several shades, and for these are cameo decorations which bring out the design in white relief. Monograms of most intricate lettering are again in fashion, stamped in colors, or in gold, silver, or any of the colored bronzes, or, newest of all, in steel letters that produce per. fectly the effect of the metal. Instead of involved monograms,the separate initials in quaint old let- tering are preferred by many, or else they are a fac-simile of those of the writer. Family crests and coats of arms are stamped in the proper heraldiccolors. A tasteful marking for a young lady’s letter paper, and for the smaller “ billet ” sheets on which she writes her pretty notes, in- stead of using stiff cards, shows the initial of her last name done in brown to imitate a woody stem, supporting or surrounding a tiny blossom of her favorite flowerin natural colors—a violet, a wild rose, forget-me-nots, a pansy, or a prim- rose. The useful marking, however, and that which is most done, is the city address stamped near the top of the page in color in very plain style, as in block letters, or old English letters, in clear dark blue or red, or in copper, silver or gold. Country addresses are more fancifully done, showing the name of the country house, and of the nearest post-office, engraved amid foliage, flowers, pine-trees, beside a lodge gate, or ina bit of rustic landscape. FASHION. DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS, Fic. 1. Cloak of green and black cloth, damassee trimmed, with a band of black monkey fur. Toque of velvet, trimmed with velvet and jet ornament. Fic. 2, Carriage cloak of dark marroon plush and crushed strawberry embroidered satin, The cloak is trimmed with very handsome passemen- terie, with a narrow band of fur edging the fronts, and a deep fur collar. The front is made entirely of satin, and is tight fitting. Large hat of velvet, trimmed with feathers, Fic. 3. Walking costume for lady made of THE FASHIONS. dark green camel’s hair, the skirt is laid in fine plaits, divided by large ones, with a very short apron drapery in front, jacket bodice plaited back and ‘front, sleeves trimmed with narrow braid to correspond. Felt hat, trimmed with feathers, . Fics. 4, 5. Back and front of reception gown; the skirt made of white satin brocaded with black. Black velvet coat, waist with front filled in with white and gold mousseline de soie, full down to the waist, finished with a sash across the front. z : Fic. 6, Ladies cloak with gilted lining, triple shoulder cape, open towards the left side, and edged with braiding. Bellshaped sleeves, Velvet hat, trimmed with feathers. Fic. 7. Walking dress of Dahlia colored cloth ; straight skirt, the front edged with bands of braid, the sides and back finished with a narrow fur edging. Jacket with vest, trimmed with braid, and fur revers and edging. Bonnet of cloth, trimmed with fur and small aigrette, Fic. 8. Walking costume for lady; skirt made of cloth, with side of velvet, trimmed with passementerie. Velvet jacket, trimmed with fringe and passementerie, with long hanging sleeves covered with passementerie, Velvet bonnet, trimmed with velvet and flowers. Fic. 9. The four-in-hand shoulder cape made of myrtle-green Amazon cloth, with edges left raw or finely pinked out, Collar and yoke in either Astrakhan, beaver or seal fur, Fic. 10. Sleeveless jacket made of black velvet, elaborately braided with gold, the edge is finished with a gold cord put on with loops. Epaulettes cover the arm holes. Fic. 11. Small boy’s sailor suit of marine blue cloth, relieved by a vest and collar of light gray- blue cloth, feather-stitched with darker silk. The suit is composed of knee trousers joined to to an under-waist, a sailor blouse, and a bib vest which is made. half of light and half of dark cloth, so that either color can be worn at the front. Fic. 12, Coachman’s cape made of drab col- ored ladies’ cloth, lined with silk. Collar of plush or raccoon fur, coming down pointed both front and back, Fics. 13, 14. Front and back of house gown for lady, made of striped and plain black silk. The front is made plain, the back laid in box plaits. The bodice and skirt are cut in princess, with revers, over a light front made of the striped. a, “ten Gh’ On aan tf hUchhlC CO ft

Page 174

id in very odice with own; with filled » full s the riple and elvet lored ands th a med mnet skirt med med ging elvet nade left e in lack edge ops. blue Tay- silk. d to vest lark col- r of roth wn silk. box ess, THE FASHIONS. Fic. 15. Fancy pins for the hair made of tor- toise shell and gold, set with small jewels. Fic, 16. Cloak for girl of eight years, made of plaid cloth. Fic. 17. House gown for lady, made of brown cashmere, the skirt is slightly draped in the back, with a piece of fancy surah inserted in the right side. Round bodice with full front, made of the surah, sash and cuffs of the same, Fic. 18-20. Back and front of gown made from a shaw] pattern; the bodice is round, worn with a belt, straight skirt plaited and gathered. Fic. 19. Cloak for girl of eight years, made of light vicuna cloth. The loose fronts are fastened with buttons. The skirt is gathered to the basque at the back; The full collarette is mova- ble, and may be made either of Surah or the same material. The sash is satin. Fic. 21, Cloak for girl of six years, made of brocade cloth, with revers of velvet and passe- menterie ornaments. The front of waist is full, the back tight fitting. Fic, 22. Costume for girl of four years, kilted skirt of navy blue velvet, with full blouse of cream color surah, jacket of velvet, with surah revers, Fic. 23. Cloak for girl of seven years, of grey cloth, made full both back and front, with long hanging sleeves faced with velvet. Fic. 24. Cloak for girl of nine years, made of dark green cloth, the yoke is smocked back and front, gathered into the waist and falling in plaits upon the skirt. Long hanging sleeves edged with a narrow braiding pattern. Fic. 25. Coat in violet aubergine, opening on a blouse of white pongee silk, striped horizon- tally with gold and Nile green; yoke and flounce in guipure work. Swiss belt with point down- wards in the striped material, edged with multi- color cut beads, Fic. 26. Frock for girl of five years in grey camel’s-hair, set off with yoke, belt, collar, and cuffs in smoke-grey velvet. Fic. 27. Cloak in heather mixture, trimmed round the neck and down the loose fronts with fancy gimp galloon; it is close-fitting at the back and loose in front, where it is confined to the waist by a belt, under the independent fronts simulating sleeves. Fic, 28. Young girl’s, ulster in drab diagonal cloth with turned down collar, lapels, and pock- ets in wallflower-brown velvet, with scrolls in mixed cord. Fics, 29-32. Front and back view of house jack- et, made of striped surah in pale blue and pink; it is trimmed with white lace and ribbon bows. Fic. 30. Bonnet of grey blue and velvet, The velvet is drawn in folds which are high at the front on the crown, and carried in a scarf around the edge. On the sides are flat tabs of velvet with applique metallic embroidery. A cluster of light blue-grey feathers droops on the front, over a small velvet bow fastened in the brim. The strings, of light grey-blue ribbon, are attached at the middle of the back under a ‘group of loops. Fic. 31. Flat scoop-shaped Directoire bonnet of dark grey velvet, surrounded by a twisted scarf of lighter grey velvet. A-Greek meander in jet is around the front, knotted with velvet at the middle. The strings, which are of light grey peau de soie ribbon, start from under a bow on the left side, to which is added a bird and a high-standing aigrette. Fic. 33. Muff o bear-fur, adorned with a velvet ruching and a nest of fly bows, against which rest two birds, with wings and tails up- standing, Chenille cord. i Fic, 34. Muff made of velvet and lace. The size is large, and this muff is intended to be worn with a velvet bonnet, trimmed with lace. The loops and endsare of reversible corded ribbon. Fics. 35-37. These designs for toque and muff to match are intended to be carried out in the dress material to complete a costume. The set illustrated in Figs. 35 and 37 is of colored cloth with black moire ribbon. The cloth is folded irregularly above the crown of the toque with the ends in two high puffs on the front, the edges being covered with a moire bow. Another bow is on the left side as illustrated, and a ribbon fold encircles the crown. The muff (Fic. 37) is five inches wide at the top and seven at the bottom, and is padded with down; it is covered with folded cloth and bound with moire, and is trimmed with a cloth puft and ribbon bows. A fan-shaped pocket of cloth lined with moire is made to hold the hand- kerchief as illustrated. Fic. 36-38. For the toque Fig. 36 the cloth is draped as illustrated on the frame, which is bordered with a band of beaver fur. A rosette bow of ribbon a shade: darker is on the front and end, being carried from it over the crown. The muff, which is five inches wide at the top and nine at the bottom, is draped with cloth, edged with fur bands, and trimmed with a ribbon bow and a fur head, he ' |

Page 175

Foreign PARIS, January, 1890. HE LUYNES-UZES marriage has been the event in the society of the Faubourg St. Germain, and even be- yond it; the importance of the two families in riches, and the position they hold be- fore the world—not shutting themselves up in austere seclusion, as so many owners of grand names are wont to do—rendering them interest- ing to the general public: On either side their relationships are equally brilliant. The Duch- esse de Luynes is the daughter of the Duc de la Rochefoucau!d-Dondeauville and of his first wife, Mile. de Polignac, whose parents, the prince and princess, are still alive. The latter belonged to the Crillon family. The only sister of the late duke married the Duc de Sabran, who acts as one of the witnesses of the bride- groom, the other being his half-uncle, Viscomte Charles de la Rouchefoucauld, who married sometime since the daughter of the Prince De Ligne, a cousin on his mother’s side. The wit- nesses for the bride were her uncles. Accord- ing to custom, the grandparents’ names figured on the invitation to the ceremony, namely, the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duc and. Duch- esse Dondeauville, as well as the respective mothers of the bride and bridegroom. At the party given for the signature of the marriage contract, the Duchesse Luynesand herson helped the Duchesse d’Uzés and her daughter to do the honors, and stood together at the entrance of the principal drawing-room. Both duchesses wore handsome white gowns and trains—that of the Duchesse d’Uzés relieved by a beautiful parure of rubies and diamonds; that of the Duchesse de Luynes by a coronet of diamonds and pearls; the bride-elect a simple gown of pink mousseline de soie; Mlle. de Crussal, her sister, a dress of palest blue. The Duchesse de Chevreuse was there, also, appearing in the world the first time for many years. She was in black, as usual, A family dinner had preceded the sotrée, the principal interest of which were the wedding presents, the contract having been read over and signed late intheafternoon. The number and beauty of the presents was certainly never equalled in France, where the custom has only lately been extended to friends and ac- quaintances and the younger members of the families. In the corheille the fiancé had placed a one or two, and the principal heirlooms of the Gossip. De Luynes family, including a magnificent riviere, besides such personal gifts as a beautifal diadem composed of trefoils of brilliants, 4 quantity of old lace, rare old Mechlin, anda selection of furs. The corbei//e is always the joint present of the bridegroom and his mother, whose name does not, therefore, appear in the formal list. The Duchesse d’Uzés’ present to her daughter consists of a necklace composed of pearls and diamonds, with pear shaped pearl drops. There are several Royal gifts, too. The Comte de Paris had commissioned Fromont Meurice to execute a silver statuette of a fal coner, in remembrance of the position held by the first Duc de Luynes at the Court of Louis XIII. This statuette is mounted on a pedestal q of lapis lazuli, on which the arms of the two® families are set in precious stones—red, white, and blue. To this the Comtesse de Paris added a personal present for the bride-elect, a bracelet composed of tricolor trefoils. The Duc d’Orleans sent his friend and comrade a pin, the initial letter of his Christian name, flanked by tricolor fleur-de-lis; Princesse Marguerite, of Orleans, a crystal seal decorated with a diamond lily; the Princesse de Joinville,a fan painted by Chaplin; and the Prince of Bulgaria, a cigar case with diamond monogram. The presents were set out on long tables in the drawing-rooms of the d’Uzés mansion, while in other rooms, a little apart, was the trousseau provided by the Mon tagnes Russa and M, Félix, who made all the dresses save the bridal gown, which was left to the care of the dressmaker—/a petite couturiért —who had been in the habit of dressing the young lady in her early years. Among the fashions which “ cast their shadow before” I noticed that the Medicis style is not any longer to stop short at a high collar and . puffed sleeves, but is to be followed out upon the skirt. Everyone must remember to have observed in portraits of the period a deep roll of velvet or brocade, which outlined the hips and commonly marked the starting point of the spreading far- thingale. There is no sign ofa return to inflated petticoats, but the roll of velvet round the hips gave a slenderness to the waist of one handsome costume. The dress alluded to was of dahlia colored Bengaline, with a bodice cut square and filled in with velvet of the same shade. The square was bordered with a similar fulling of velvet to that which appeared on the skirt. The 172

Page 176

nificent eautiful ants, 4 , and a ays the mother, r in the sent to osed of 1 pearl 0. The ‘romont a fal held by fF Louis ed estal he two white, added racelet Drleans initial tricolor rleans, ly; the haplin; e with re set of the a little > Mon all the left to turiére ig the hadow is not ir and on the served Ivet or monly ng far- nflated e hips dsome lahlia- re and The ling of , The FOREIGN GOSSIP. 173 sleeves, set in high at the shoulder, were also of velvet. The fulness of the Bengaline bodice was held in place by a kind of Swiss belt or corselet of the finest black braided lace, made to the shape of the figure. In the immediate front the Bengaline, released from the corselet, hung full and free to the feet, This dress, which exhibited perfect taste in every detail, would prove emi- nently becoming to a tall blonde woman, The proper mode of arranging a plaid is a much-de- bated topic, but the right treatment wasshown in a pretty walking dress. The tartan, in shades of pale blue and bronze, was cut polonaise fashion, The fronts were full; the back fitted the figure closely to within a few inches below the waist, where the skirt was gathered to the bodice; and where the bodice and skirt met at the back, the junction was concealed by a band of bronze rib- bon velvet, which was passed loosely round the hips, and tied in a long bow and ends in front. At the side the polonaise opened to disclose a skirt of bronze-green velvet, of which material the sleeves were also composed. The points to remark about this dress was that the velvet sleeves made the back look a great deal narrower than if they had been of the plaid, and the easy, shawl-like manner in which the woollen was draped was so much more appropriate than the tailor-made style, as a tartan thrown carelessly abouta Highlander’s shoulders looks more in place than the same texture when made up as trousers. At the high class jewelers you will see enormous topazes and amethysts, cut, but un- mounted, solely for the cabinets of rich collec- tors, who delight to look at and handle them. There is an unaccountable pleasure in the touch of these fine stones, they are so smooth, cool and soothing, and seem to charm the fingers which caress them. Where are the great carbuncles, valued at 500,000 crowns, worn by Mary Stuart, and the string of six hundred “fair white pearls” left by Leicester to Queen Elizabeth? Good society may want them again, if it takes a jewel mania. It used to wear them by the province- worth, Jeanne of Navarre had her wedding dress so thick with jewels that she could not move in it, and the great Constable had to pick her up and carry her. Gabrielle d’Estues had a black satin dress so bejeweled she could hardly walk in it. Nearer our own times, Prince Ester- hazy wore five thousand brilliantsin the diamond aigrette of his hat, and the Swedish nobles wore pearls innumerable, gathered from the mussels of the Swedish rivers, where they are still found. The Countess of Northampton wore $150,000 worth of diamonds at a coronation, What do our little republican fripperies of $20,000 amount to ? A fashionable jeweler has a magnificent soli- taire diamond set into a hoop, not of gold, but of wrought iron, following exactly the model of the usual gold band. “There is a superstition,” he said, “that the wearing of an iron ring in some way brings good fortune and health to its possessor, and there are more people than one might imagine who wear a ring of this kind because of the little supersti- tion. People like to get the benefit even of a superstitious whim, which they know to be noth- ing more than fancy. And superstitions about jewels and ornaments are so ancient that in many cases they seem to have become an inherent property of the jewel itself, like the flash of the diamond and the dull gleam of color in the opai.” A new diamond and pearl epaulette, which, besides being beautiful in its present highly fashionable form, has the advantage that it can be taken to pieces and used as a brooch, orna- mental comb, and pearl necklet. A handsome decoration for evening wear consists of a long, pliant spray of wild roses and leaves, set with the finest brilliants; such a spray would be worn from the shoulder to the waist. It is equally fashionable to wear several rows of diamonds across the front of the bodice, and a very elegant one of these ornaments has a treble row of large gems, terminating at one end in a light Louis Quinze bow, and at the other is a round brooch, with a magnificent pearl in the centre, A string of diamonds, which I much admired, was set en cabochon—that is to say, it scarcely showed any setting at all, and looked as though the stones were merely threaded on a string. A similar treatment was applied with good effect to a row in which brilliants alternated ! with rubies and sapphires. A jacinth is a stone that is rarely seen; buta very elegant one formed the centre to a brooch with a framework of dia- monds. The jacinth is in color of a warm, deep brown, with rich glints in the light, such as may be seen in a glass of old Madeira wine. Sleeve- links are now much worn. Some of the designs are new, and some are a revival of bygone modes. Among the latter must be classed the delicate miniatures, set in brilliants. The more strictly modern links have at one side a double bar of diamondsand sapphires, or pearls and coral, and at the other the jeweled stud is lozenge-shaped | MARIGOLD,

Page 177

Chat With our Neighbors on Wome Topics. BY LENA RIVERS. HE number of women who find sew- ing a burden instead of a pleasure simply because they use no manage- ment in arranging it are legion. ; One quality which a housekeeper needs above all others, or perhaps it may be called the concentration of all qualities, is ‘‘management,.” A good manager is mistress of her situation, and one can almost believe that such are born, not made. The man, whose wife is a “good manager,” is to be congratulated. And yet even this gift may be acquired, The ambitious, energetic woman who makes up her mind to do it, will be surprised to learn how readily she learns to “manage.” There is noth- ing like it, No talent, no education accomplishes so much as this indescribable gift. I am often amazed at the amount of work accomplished by some women, at the ease with which they per- form every task, and yet always have some leisure, at the way they economize, and still have plenty, and when I try to find out the secret, these wonderful housekeepers reply: «‘ Oh, we manage.” Happy women, to know how to do it! The holiday season has become a thing of the past, and straight ahead looms up a mountain of sewing which must be cleared ere the chiming of the Easter bells breaks upon the faithful mother, for close upon their music follows the spring cleaning. That mountain of sewing seems higher this year than ever before, The household linens are fast wending their way to the rag-bag, and the reserved stock must be held in readiness to recrnit the thinned-out shelves; the children’s clothes are not only outgrown, but going to pieces in every direction and all at once, while the underclothing loses ground so fast that soon it will no longer have sufficient body to support the necessary darns and patches. Yet formidable as the prospect appears, com- bine system with a little patience and a little perseverance, and you will find your mountain will rapidly crumble. At no other period of the year can one shop so advantageously as in January or early Feb- ruary. Not only are the stores less crowded, thus allowing one to shop more leisurely, there- fore more satisfactorily, but lying side by side 174 upon the counters one finds the cheap and often serviceable remnants ‘and odds and ends of last year’s stock, and the newest spring styles both in foreign and domestic goods, But before starting out to buy there are one or two things to attend to at home. Carefully ex. amine last year’s stock, and see how much of it can be utilized—whether “ grown-up” garments will not allow of turning and cutting down into frocks for the little ones, and whether father’s overcoat or old trousers will-not answer instead of new cloth for the boys school-clothes, The first of February go through your pieces, and you wili find how many of cambric and ging. ham you have that will be pretty to trim some of the new frocks, using them for collars, cuffs, belts, and pockets. They will trim the little garments quite as prettily as more expensive materials, and these will cost nothing. Then, some day, when you have not much to do, wet and shrink the goods that are to be made up for the children on the rainy days. Take the old coats, trousers, and other wool garments, and sponge or wash them ready to be made over, You can make them up on the wrong side, if faded. Before you start to do your shopping, take a memorandum book and pencil, and make out on separate pages the needs of each member of the household, and devote one page to the household itself, It is by no means necessary to fill each page, but by having separate pages each individ- ual’s requirements are seen at a glance, and the items being checked both upon purchasing them and after completion, there is little danger o anything being forgotten or neglected. Before making out your shopping list, calculate as closely as possible the exact amount of ma- terial, trimmings, etc., that will be required, fasten the samples you wish to take with you into a little book, and instead of depending on mem- ory, write plainly the respective directions be- neath each one, Provide your “ findings” with a liberal hand. They are standard goods, are always useful, and to procure them when they are not at hand and are imperatively needed frequently costs almost their weight in gold. Never forget to match sewing silk, button-hole twist, and buttons, when you buy small “« find- ings” by the dozen.

Page 178

d often of last >oth in one or lly ex. h of it rments m into father’s instead pieces, i ging. me of , belts, rments ls, and uch to > made ike the ts, and 2 over, side, if take a out on of the isehold ll each ndivid- nd the x them ger 0 culate of ma- quired, ou into 1 mem- * all up at once; it will keep. CHATS WITH OUR NEIGHBORS. 175 If you buy your linen or muslin for sheets and pillow cases by the piece (and it comes a little cheaper this way), it is not necessary to make it And if you make two pair of sheets, pillow cases and bolster cases every year you will always have a good supply, unless your family is very large, and you will not feel the work, Should you be.able to perform your work, un- aided by outside help, there is scarcely anything to prevent your beginning the new year not only with good resolutions, but with practical results. With shopping tours successfully concluded: the contents of each bundle described on its wrappers or designated by a sample attached to its string, with pins, needles and spools in their proper places, and scissors sharpened, you are ready for work. First look to your faithful servant—the sewing machine; for, like other slaves, it frequently « meets with undeserved abuse—and see that it is in good order. If it sews but tolerably well do not be satisfied, for when you are busiest it may turn jerky and cranky, perhaps even totally re- fuse obedience to its driving wheel. Remove every particle of lint and fluff from the. nooks where they lurk, and then, with a woolen rag wet with kerosene oil, thoroughly wipe away every bit of grease and dust. After all is thoroughly cleaned wipe off and grease with the ordinary oil. : Needle, tension and stitch should be regulated by the grade and quality of the cotton. For sheer goods the cotton should be finer than for muslins or ginghams; for the former use 70 and 80, and for the latter 60 and 70. In sewing with colored cotton never use coarser than 60, or you will have trouble. When silk unwinds too rapidly from a new spool, either wind some off on an empty spool or slip the new spool into your mouth a moment so as to dampen it. Get all plain sewing first out of the way; this includes household linen and underwear. As there is very little variation in a boy’s garments finish them next. While deciding upon the style of waists for your little girl’s frocks*make up the skirts. Up to twelve years of age they still are simply hemmed and tucked, and either gathered or kilted at the top. The waists at last planned out set to work at them and your own garments, and when they are completed your mountain will have been transformed to a closet full of finished articles, each one ready to start upon its year of service. Vol. CKX—No. 13. Beginning work thus early in the season we need scarcely devote more than three or four hours each day to steady sewing, and we will find that we can allow ourselves time for house- hold duties, for physical exercise and for recre- ation; in addition we will accomplish better work and without causing discomfort to those around us than if, as we are apt to do, we postpone our work to March, or April, or even May. A very effectual method of cleansing sponges which have become soft and slimy is to place them in water in which a large lump of common soda has been dissolved, and let them remain as long as necessary, which will depend on the state in which they are; a few hours may be sufficient, or a day or two may be required. The water should be frequently changed, and each time the sponge should be squeezed and pressed either with the hand ora wooden spoon. Another method, said to be very successful, is to place the sponge in a basin and completely cover it with bran; then pour a kettle of boiling water over the bran, and cover the vessel to prevent the steam escaping. Let it stand till the water is quite cold; then take the sponge and rinse it thoroughly in cold water, press out all the water, and let it dry, when it will be found to be per, fectly clean. Soap should be thoroughly rinsed from the sponges every time they are used with it. This prevents them from becoming foul, After use they should be well squeezed and left to dry in a basket, where the air can get to them. -—____- HOME-MADE PICTURE-FRAME. Even in rooms too small for much indulgence of fancy in furniture, there is room for mural decoration, and nothing is more satisfying to the eye than pictures. But pictures must have frames, and even the cheapest of these cost a good deal, unless they can be made at home. One style, that is much prettier in reality than its description would lead one to suppose, has for its foundation four strips of lath. Miter the corners if possible; but, if that cannot conveni- ently be done, they may be crossed with the ends projecting two inches beyond the intersection. The wood should then be stained a dark brown and when dried coated thickly with dark varnish’ Whole flax-seed should be sprinkled on thickly | enough to cover every part while the varnish is fresh, and another coat of varnish added later over the flax-seed,

Page 179

Wousehold Mepartment. MENU Ox-tail Soup, Croquettes of Calves’ Brains, Boiled Leg of Mutton, Caper Sauce, Mashed Turnips, Potato Snow, 3roiled Chicken, Mayonnaise of Celery, jaked Orange Pudding, William Penn’s Plum Pudding, Fruits, Nuts, Coffee. Ox-tail Soup. One ox-tail, two pounds of lean beef, four carrots, three onions, a little thyme and parsley. Cut the tail into several pieces and fry brown in butter; slice the onions and two carrots, and fry also; when done put them into a muslin bag with the thyme, and place in the soup pot with the beef and ox-tail; grate the two whole car- rots, and cook all together, pouring over four quarts of cold water, and adding a pinch of burned sugar, and pepper and salt to taste; cook from four to six hours, in proportion to the size of the tail; strain fifteen minutes before serving it, and thicken with two tablespoonfuls of brown flour; buil ten minutes longer; add half a glass of burnt sherry, and serve. Croquettes of Calves’ Brains. In using calves’ brains be careful to always have them fresh, This being secured, boil two calves’ brains, cut them into small pieces, put them into an earthen saucepan, and season them with pepper and salt. Add, also, half the quan- tity of boiled mushrooms and as much red tongue, cut into small squares; mix all together with a little beef stock, and set away to cool; when cold form into small rolls, envelope each in a paste made of flour and water, rolled thin; dip the croquette first into a beaten egg, then in rolled bread crumbs, and fry quickly ; drain, and serve on a folded napkin. Boiled Leg of Matton. Put your leg of mutton in boiling water (salted); add twelve whole turnips, trimmed and cleaned ; let it boil until done. You allow half an hour for every three pounds of the meat, Drain it and serve with caper sauce, decorate the handle of the gigot with frilled paper. Caper Sauce. Take two teaspoonfuls of sifted flour, one and a half ounces of butter, one teacupful of milk; FOR A FAMILY DINNER. salt to taste. Put the flour:and salt ina bowl, and add the milk, a little at a time, working i as smooth as velvet; put into a saucepan, and beat in a vessel of boiling water; stir steadily, and when it has boiled a minute or more add the butter by degrees, stirring until entirely melted and quite smooth; boil one minute, stir in halfa teacupful of capers before sending to the table. Mashed Turnips. Take the turnips that have been boiled with the mutton, mash in the colander with a wooden spoon, stirring in at the last a tablespoonful of butter with pepper and salt to taste, and serv hot. Potato Snow. Boil potatoes until mealy, rub off the skins, re move the specks, put them into a bowl and take two forks in one hand with the points of the prongs turned outward ; break the potatoes with them; while breaking add butter and milk—an ounce of butter and a gill of milk to every dozen potatoes; salt and white pepper to taste. The potatoes should be beaten until quite light like snow, never permitting a spoon to touch them. Broiled Chicken. Split the chickens down the back and broil them before the fire ina folding wire broiler, turning them frequently, Dust them with a lit tle flour and baste them with butter; when cooked through place them ona hot dish, put more butter over them and serve hot. Mayonnaise of Celery. Wash and carefully pick over the celery, dry- ing each piece asit is washed perfectly dry upon a towel; then cut it into pieces about one inch long and prepare the mayonnaise as follows: Take the yolks of two raw eggs, oil enough ‘work the mayonnaise to a cream; salt to taste; mustard to taste; vinegar to taste; a tiny pinch of powdered sugar. Break the eggs very cate fully and put the yolks into a shallow dish; then add the oil drop by drop, stirring one way with a wooden or silver fork; then add the salt, then the mustard and sugar, and last of all the vine. gar, drop bydrop, The stirring should go onall the time without intermission or change of dé rection, and the mayonnaise, when finished, should be of the consistency and smoothness of the richest fresh cream, Lemon juice may substituted for vinegar. Put the celery into the 176

Page 180

1a bowl, orking it pan, and steadily, ore add entirely nute, stir nding to led with . wooden oonful of id serye skins, re. and take s of the oes with nilk—an ry dozen e. The ight like them. nd broil broiler, th a lit rs when lish, put ry, dry- ry upon yne inch follows: ough to oO taste; 'y pinch 'y care: nh; then ay with It, then 1e vine: o on all 2 of di- inished, iness of may be nto the dish and stir all well together. We subjoin Sid- ney Smith’s receipe for salad dressing, which can tempt an epicure. Salad. To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs ; Two boiled potatoes,passed through kitchensieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt, And, lastly, o’er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! ’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ; Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day! Baked Orange Padding. The rind of one orange, powdered fine witha pestle and mortar ; three tablespoonfuls of sifted white sugar, the yolks of four eggs, and the juice of half a lemon. Beat all together in a basin for a quarter of an hour, then putin slowly, and stirring gently all the time, the whites (which must previously have been beaten to the stifest froth); when all is smoothly mixed to- gether, pour into a buttered mould; bake twelve minutes in a hot oven, and serve immediately. William Penn Plum Pudding. The yolks of twelve eggs, and whites of six, beaten separately and well; one pound of best Sultana raisins, stoned; one pound of best cur- rants, picked, washed, dried, and rubbed on a towel; one pound of beef suet, chopped and shredded ; one pound of flour, sifted, half a pound of loaf sugar, grated; quarter of a pound of citron, snipped very fine; half a nutmeg, grated ; one teaspoonful of powdered ginger; half a pint of rich, fresh cream; one wineglassful of the best brandy; one wineglassful of rose water. Mix the flour with the fruit; stir in the whipped eggs; add the cream, spices, citron, and suet ; then the sugar, brandy, and rose water; beat well all the time it is being mixed, then tie tightly in a pudding bag well dusted with flour ; let it boil six hours, turning it in the pot from time to time; when done, plunge for a moment in cold water to prevent it from sticking to the bag. This is admirable and will keep for weeks, HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT. 177 Coffee. Put one ounce of ground coffee in a pan, which place over the fire; stirring until quite hot, but take care that it does not burn; then pour over it quickly one quart: of boiling water, close it immediately, keep it near the fire, and fill your cup without shaking the grounds. Or have the coffee-pot heated, put the coffee into a strainer fitted into the coffee-pot, pour over the boiling water and serve at once. Coffee so made is delicious, ENGLISH METHOD.—Put sufficient coffee into the pot, and pour boiling water init. Stir well, and place it on the fire. Bring it to boiling point and as soon as a few bubbles have risen, take it off the fire, pour out a teacupful and re. turn it. Let it stand for a few minutes before serving, Generally the coffee becomes clear by simply remaining quiet, but those who are anx- ious to have it more than usually clear resort to artificial means for that purpose, Isinglass, hartshorn, shavings, whites of eggs, and bruised egg-shells are used for clearing coffee. Coffee is always drank without milk abroad, but when in England milk is used, it should be boiled in equal parts with strong-made coffee, FRENCH METHOD.—Two ounces and a ‘half of coffee to two pints of water. Put the coffee in the pot, and pour thereon boiling water. Stir the mixture with a spoon till jthoroughly min- gled with the water. Then take the coffee-pot off the fire, shut it closely, and let it simmer for at least two hours on the warm ashes of a wood or charcoal fire. It can be quite as carefully simmered ona stove. During the infusion the liquor should be agitated several times by means of a chocolate frother, or spoon. Then let it settle for a quarter of an hour, and serve with hot milk. The café noir of the French is made strong with water only. Café au Jait is made thus, and very strong :—Put the required quan- tity of coffee in a cup, and fill it up with hot milk. Bring it to boiling point, andserve, O & O tea is now to be had at many of the leading grocers’ 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 by a responsible and well-organized association of. producers and im- porters. ;

Page 181

Fic. 1. Figs. 1,2. Handkerchief Sachet. The covers of this sachet are of white brocaded satin, the lining is of pale salmon pink quilted satin, The pattern in the brocade of the covers consists of small sprays of flowers which are en- riched with embroidery in the manner shown in Fig. 2, All the outlines are defined with gold cord sewed down. The flowers are veined and filled in at the centres in delicate shades of pink and blue silks, and the leaves are veined in olive. The sachet is twelve inches deep by twenty inches and a half wide. The cover is lined with WORK TABLE. 178 foundation; over that is a layer of wadding with sachet powder or pot-pourri, then, comes the lining, It is folded through the middle and tied with light blue ribbons. Fig. 3. These bags are both dainty and useful, many small purchases being carried in them, besides handker. chief and purse. Soft chestnut brown silk and pale blue surah lin- ing are the materials of which this bag is made inthe model. Take a square of seventeen inches of both materials and interline the four corners, which are turned out as illustrated, with foundation, Having joined the outside and lining at the edges, tack each one Hand Bag. Fic. 3. in place, and decorate with embroidery, in beads and silk from illustration. A double casing is run below the corners, in which is run strings of narrow ribbon to draw it up with, C. Tig Fig. 4. Crochet Cape. This cape is worked in crochet with black zephyr wool and a bone needle, and is orna- mented when finished with chain-stitched stripes crocheted on the surface in black arrasene; ar- rasene is flat chenille. The cape consists of@ .

Page 182

ayer of ler or lining, le and ty and being ndker. estnut th lin- h this Take es of e the d out ation, - and h one “WORK TABLE. 179 yoke and a lower part, worked separately and then joined, and finished with a narrow notched edging. Prepare a stiff paper pattern of each part according to Fig. 4; they are each worked in one piece. Begin the yoke at the lower edge with a chain of the length required and work to and fro; itis shaped by narrowing at the middle of the back and the front edges. 1st row.—Pass the first, work a single crochet on every succeed- ing stitch of the chain (for a single insert the needle with a loop on it, pull a loop through, then pull a loop through the two loops on the needle). 2d row.—Turn; this is the right side of the work. 4-chain to begin, then, through- out, hy turns a treble crochet on the next stitch and a cross crochet ; for a treble crochet put the wool twice around the needie which has a loop on it, insert inthe stitch and pull a loop ‘through; work «off 2 of the loops on the needle, again work off 2, then work off the last 2. For across crochet work a treble on the following stitch, but work off only the first pair of loops, and keep the other 3 on the needle, then work a double crochet on the following second stitch (for a double put over once), next work off the remain- ing loops of the treble, 1 chain, a double crochet on the middle mesh of the treble, completing the cross. 3d row.—Turn, 1 chain to begins then work a single on the front mesh of every stitch. Continue to repeat the 2d and 3d rows in turn, taking care not to transpose the pattern; Narrow in accordance with the shape. Edge the fronts with a row consisting of a chain and a single, to even the edges which have been made irregular by narrowing, then edge «ll around as follows: A single on the next stitch at the edge, a picot (fora p’cot make 5 chain and a single on the first of them). Begin the lower part at the front edge with a chain the length of the edge; widen or narrow as required at the upper edge, keeping the lower edge straight. Work 8 rows in Afghan stitch to begin (for Afghan stitch take a Joop through each stitch, going forward and keeping them all on the needle; having reached the end, work off the last loop singly, then work off two and two back to the begin- ning; this makes I row; in subsequent rows take up the loops through the perpendicular meshes which lie on the surface of the preceding row). Having worked 8 such rows work a row of slip stitches through the perpendicular meshes of the Jast row (for a slip stitch insert the needle and pull a loop through and at the same time through the loop that was on the needle) ; then turn, and from the back work a row like the open row of the cape; repeat from the begin, ning; close at the opposite side of the cape with the 8 rows of Afghan stitch and a row of slip stitches to finish, The chain-stitched arrasene stripes are worked on all the open rows and on the 3d and 6th of each group of 8 rows in the lower part; to work them form a loop with the arrasene, take a stitch around the first treble in

Page 183

PS ot spc PERSE TC = 180 WORK TABLE. an open row, work 3 chain, take a stitch around the next treble, 3 chain, continue thus; on the rows in Afghan stitch take a stitch around the perpendicular mesh of every second stitch, and work 2 chain between, Gather the lower parts of the cape and join it to the yoke; finish the edge with picots, and provide the front with but- tons, This is a pretty and useful gift, the color being selected to suit the taste of the wearer. MABEL WARE. Figs. 5, 6, and 7. Case for Embroidery Materials. The case is of Java canvas, embroidered in long-stitches with tapestry wool. The design shown in No. 7 will answer very well for the embroidery ; the stripe pattern can be repeated across the centre, and the pattern, as shown in Fig. 7, worked for the border. The canvas must be cut eleven inches wide (this allows half an inch for turnings at each side), and twenty three inches long. The inside of the pocket may either be lined with plain or figured silk? the edges must be turned in and neatly sewn togeth- er. A strap of ribbon, three inches wide, is sewn inside the pocket; it is stitched down at in- tervals to form slides for hold- ing skeins of crewel, tapes- try, wool, or silk. One end is turned up five inches to form a pocket for scissors, thimble, needle - book, etc. A bow of ribbon is sewn to each corner of the pocket, and a piece of ribbon is sewn to the other end to fasten the case. A. M. G. Fig. 8.—Lady’s Knitted Boot. This boot is knitted with fine black woolen stocking yarn on steel needles. Begin at the lower edge, casting on 223 stitches, and knit in rounds. The work must be quite tight. Work 74 rounds in p'ain knitting, which carries the work up to the ribbed top; beginning at the 3d round and in every round thereafter, to the 66th inclusive, narrow at the middle of the front, for

Page 184

IEE ND at DANIAN SS athe SIOIOO OU UOUOODSR SEA WORK TABLE. 181 Fic. which slip the stitch before the last in the round, knit together the last stitch of this round and the first of the next, and cast off the slipped stitch over this stitch; make this stitch the last stitch in the round, After the 74 plain rows work 53 in ribbed knitting for the top; for the ribbing purl 1 stitch and knit 1 crossed (that is, instead of inserting the needle from in f;ont and upward, insert it toward the back and downward, thus crossing the loop). Finish the top with a row of picots, for which wwik a single crochet on the next stitch, a picot composed of 4 chain and a single on the first of them, pass 1, The boot should have either a knitted lining or a flannel lining, and may be completed witha lamb’s wool- lined sole, or, as illustrated, with a leather sole and patent-leather foxing. These are very useful for bed-room shoes, and are also convenient to wear over slippers or boots when riding or going to entertainments in winter weather. Fig. 9._French Penwiper. A pretty penwiper is not only a useful but a decorative addition to a writing desk. Our model has the four sides made of plush, with the embroidery worked in chenille The foundation is cut out of stiff cardboard ; each side is then covered with the plush, and they are all joined together, the bottom covered with a piece of silesia, The interior is filled with leaves of black cloth plaited up, the edges being pinked .out. Any color plush may be selected to make it of, and various small designs for embroidery can be found which may be ada ted to it. H. N. Fig. 10. Girl's Crochet Legging. These leggings are worked in crochet with black Germantown wool, Begin at the top with a foundation of 43 stitches; it is worked ina Fic. 10, variation of the well-known Victoria or Afghan st'tch. To work this stitch, pick up a loop through each stitch, keeping them all on the needle, then, going back, work off the last loop singly, then work off 2 and 2to the beginning of the row; this makes one row; in subsequent rows take up the loops through the perpendicu- lar meshes which lie on the surface. The variation in this case consists in putting the wool around the needle before taking up each loop; going back, work off one put-over, the one in front of it, with each sttch, and take up the loops for the next row through the perpendicular meshes of

Page 185

no ——- PY ne 182 both loops and put-over together. Work 54 rows ‘to carry the leg to the heel; in the 3d row work off all the loops but the last 8, which keep on the needle while working the 4th and gth rows. Work the 4th row on the 9th—18 stitches; in the sth and 6th add 2 stitches on each side, and in the 7th, 8th and oth add 1 stitch on each side, from these left aside in the third row; in the roth row work from end to end. In the 12th row, when working off the loops, work off the 9th and 1oth together with their put-overs, for 1 stitch, to narrow, and the 12th and 13th the same way. In the 29th, 33d, 37th, goth, 42d and 43d rows work a narrowing ina straight line above each of those in the 12th row, in each case reducing the number of stitches at the side, not between At the end of the 54th row (this is for the right foot), drop the working thread for the present; fasten on a new thread at the last 12 stitches of the row, and on these 12 stitches work 6 rows for the heel, finishing with a row of slip stitches worked into the perpendicular meshes of the last row. Now resume the end loop of the 54th row, chain on 6 new stitches for a gusset, and take up loops through these 6 along the 54th row up to the heel, then 6 stitches for the narrowings. the other gusset along the 6 rows which form the inner edge of the heel; on these work the foot in 15 rows; narrow on both sides in every 2d row; to narrow work off together the first (or last) stitch of the instep with the adjoining stitch of the gusset, and arrange so that one pair of narrowings will reduce the stitches of the gusset, and the next pair the stitches of the instep; in the 15th row work off the middle 2 stitches of the toot together, and finish by working a row of slip stitches on this row. Edge the sides on which the narrowings took place with a row of double crochet, on which sew buttons as illus- trated. For the scallops on the rest of the edge work Ist row.—A single crochet on the next stitch, 3 chain, 2d row.—1 chain, 4 double around 3 chain, I chain,a single around the next 3 chain; repeat, 3d row (with silk). A single around the next chain, twice a chain and a single along the scallop, 1 chain, a single around the next chain, I chain; repeat. For the strap, make a chain foundation of 8 stitches and work 7 rows of 6 double crochet each ; sew it to the first 3 rows of the gusset on the wrong side, The first row of the edging is fastened to the buttons. In working the leit legging the knee and gussets will naturally be reversed. WORK TABLE. Tidy in Lace and Embroidery. (See colored folded sheet in front part of book.) The tidy is made of dark blue cloth, velvet o satin. The two panels are embroidered with colored silks in long stitch, satin stitch and rope stitch. The enlarged details-of the embroidery show all the stitches plainly illustrated. The rest of the tidy isin guipure d’art lace or any other kind fancied. This forms an insertion and an outer band all round, finished with a deep scalloped edge, The designof lace given would answer very well to trim the tidy, and is worked in simple lace stitches on guipure netting. This is very effective made up of orange-color satin, MABEL WARE, Novelties. This is the day of beautiful things. Every. where we go our eyes meet on all sides some thing pretty and dainty that appeals to our love of the beautiful. A drape for a picture or an easel will be a very welcome article to give to one who loves a. pretty home. China and pongee silks come in delicate shades, plain and with flowers and figures. Se lect any color appropriate to its future surround. ings. Two yards are necessary for a nice-sized one; hemstitch the ends about two and a half inches in width and trim with tassels on one end and balls or Jace on the other. If a pattern with disks is selected, paint some little pattern in the disks, forming a border for each end. A very handsome and striking scarf is made of pale-blue silk. A border of tulips is drawn or stamped on the silk and the flowers, and large leaves and stems cutout. Under this border put a strip of white or pale-lemon satin, and appliqué the edges of the blue upon it. Tint the tulips, stems, etc., natural color, hemstitch the ends and finish with lace about four or five inches wide. Flowers cut out of cretonne and appliquéd on ‘silk make an effective border for drapes, anda strip of bolting cloth laid over white silk forms a beautiful border on a pale-pink or blue scarf. People who never disappoint your expectations —people on whom you rest as on a rock that shall never be moved—people who never give away to small tempers or little meannesses, who are under command of their reason and governed by their conscience—people who love others more than they love themselves—how should we not love them forever if we love them once? It would be impossible with love once estabiished.

Page 186

y. book.) velvet or ed with nd rope broidery d. The > OF any tion and a deep n would worked yr. This * satin, VARE, Every. S some. our love e a very a. pretty delicate os. Se rround. >e-sized 1 a half yne end pattern pattern nd. s made drawn d large der put »pliqué tulips, ids and s wide, uéd on ,anda orms & arf, tations ‘k that or give s, who verned others uld we e? It ‘ished, Our Arm=Chair. FEBRUARY. HE present month brings with it the anniversary of St. Valentine’s Day, and although the day has passed for the exchange of very elaborate and sentimental] billets called valentines; yet the custom of exchanging gifts is still carried on, and many a dainty bon- bonniere and collection of exquisite flowers finds its way to some lady fair, with a loving message from Cupid hidden in their depths. We have tried to give each of our readers a valentine in the present number, and have filled it with matter suited to the season. The January num- ber has been highly complimented upon every side, but we feel assured that the present one is nowhere behind in attractions. We do not pub- lish one or two good numbers and then letseveral poor ones fill in the niches, but we keep steadily onward and improve each month where it is possible. With a large force of assistants and a generous array of subscribers we are able to ac- complish all we attempt, and each month the “Lany’s Book” makes its visit to every town throughout the land. Whata task to please so many tastes!—yet the complimentary letters we recéive daily shows us that our efforts meet with success; and our rapidly increasing subscription list shows us that not only all our old but many, many new friends are flocking around us, We extend a cordial welcome toall, feeling assured that we can give them for $2 per year more pleasure, profit and real good than for any other way they can spend their money. Let all our friends continue aiding us in our, efforts as they have done, and we feel assured we will show. them for 1890 a magazine which each suc- ceeding month will prove more and more at- tractive. WHAT THE PRESS SAY OF US. Gopey’s Lapy’s Book for December has just arrived, and is chuck full of good things and novelties. Handsome illu: trations, good stories, two new serials, Househo'd and Work, all are given a position. The litte ones are not for- gotten, and a new department, called ,“ The Children’s Corner,” is opened for them, Be- sides all the good things furnished to its readers, elegant premiums are offered to club raisers. Send 15 cents for the December number, if you have not already subscribed, and find out the magazine you want for 1890 — Szm, Pittsfield, Mass. Go.rey’s Lapy’s Book is largely made up of lively short stories, Besides these there are capital Christmas articles in prose and verse, a bewildering stock of fashion, needlework and other pictures, and many more things to interest the ladies.— Evening Bulletin, Phila., Pa. GopEy’s LapDy’s Book (the ladies’ favorite) comes to us for January looking as fresh and bright as the New Year itself. Good stories fill its pages to repletion, A handsome steel plate illustration for a frontispiece cannot fail to please both old and young. If only one half of the promises made are carried out, and when we know from experience what the publishers’ prom- ise will be done, this certainly will be the most popular magazine published in 1890.—7imes, Cleveland, Ohio. “$5,000 for a Wife” continues in interest in GopeEy’s Lapy’s Book, the January number of which has just come to hand. We don’t profess to be up to the mark in regard to ladies’ fashions, but there are some very beautiful pictures in this number which our wife tells us are just as practical as pretty. The little ones look as eagerly for the magazine as their elders, on ac- count of the charming children’s corner that has been started. How the publishers can give so much for the money is a mystery they alone can solve.— Gazette, Utica, IIl. With the New Year we naturally think of sub- scribing to periodicals of different kinds. Our old favorite, “ GopEy’s LADy's Book,” has just reached us for January, looking brighter and fresher. than ever. This is a real holiday num- ber; what better investment can be made of $2 than to subscribe to this favorite magazine for your wife, sister, or lady friend.—Sentine/, Platts- burgh, N. Y. Gopey’s LADy’s Book is not only the best of all the lady magazines, but is also the oldest. There is Jarge capital behind it, and the corps of writers engaged for next year (1890) is the best yet announced by any ladies’ publication for the coming year. The great story, “$5,000 for a Wife,” commenced in the December (X-mas) number, will be sent you by the publishers for 15 cents, and when you get it you can see the host of good things the publishers offer,— Republican, Rockville, Ind. > 3

Page 187

184 Gopey’s Lapy’s Book for January, Godey Publishing Company, r224 Arch street, Phila- delphia, Pa, has as its frontispiece a pretty picture entitled «Charlie in Trouble.” The pictures are all gocd and helpful to those It is the holiday number, and its contributions in prose gifted in the art of home manufacture. and verse areall excellent.— /Voughman, Boston, Mass. i — ITEMS OF INTEREST. Co-operative Housekeeping One of the fairest dreams conjured up by Ed- ward Bellamy in his popular book, “ Looking Backward,” and one which, in these days when servants are the mistresses, has a_ special at- tractiveness to every home-maker, is co operative housekeeping.- To the complete buihing of this castle, in any more substantial material than air, is a long look ahead, but at least one or two solid blocks are even now ready for the founda- tion. It isclaimed, and the claim is not disputed to our knowledge, that, in the manufacture of the well-known washing compound, Pearline, chemical science, the most ad vanced mechanical appliances, and bold and sagacious business methods, are all co-operating in an eminently successful manner with the housekeeper in her difficult task of “keeping things clean.” The best results, at the least outlay of time, temper and money—each one of the millivns of packages of Pyle’s Pearline sold every year is a practical demonstration of how to solve this difficult prob- lem, in one direction at least. A new gem, the pierre Tonguinoise, is in the market. When cut like diamonds it is said to be very beautiful. Its color is a cark b'ue, more brilliant than sapptire, though some varieties have a purple or red tinge. Look Here, Friend, Are You Sick? Do you suffer from dyspepsia, indigestion, sour stomach, liver complaint, nervousness, lost appe- tite, biliousness, exhaustion or tired feeling, pains in chest or lungs, dry coughs, night sweats, or any form of consumpt‘on? If so, send to Prof, Hart, 88 Warren street, New York, who will send you free, by mail, a bottle of Floraplexion, which is a sure cure. Send to-day. A Frankford mathematician, Dr. Bein, calcu- lates that two men playing dominoes Io hours a day and making four moves a minute could con- tinue 118,000,000 years without exhausting all the combinations of the game, the total number of which is 248,528,211,840, OUR ARM- CHAIR. The ancient Greeks build with such correct- ness, that the Pantheon commands our attention to-day as the exemp’ification of highest architec. tural art; beauty and durability were combined, So with the ** Fair and Square” ribbon, there also these qualities are combined; it can be pro- cured in thirty-nine states and two territories. The bed which the German Emperor and Empress occupied during their visit to the Sul- tan was of sol:d silver, with oriental curtains of surpassing richness heavi'y embroidered with gold. 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 suflerer from this dreadful disease sending a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Prof. J. A. Lawrence, 88 Warren street, New York, will rece:ve the recipe free ‘of charge. Mrs, Emma P. Ewing has resigned her pesi- tion as professor of Domestic Economy in Purdue University, Ind., and opened a School’of House- hold Science in Kansas City, Mo., where thor- ough instruction will be given in all branches of applied housekeeping. -Mrs, Ewing will be assisted in her new enterprise by a corps of com- petent and well-trained teachers of domestic economy. This is an age of progress, is a saying that is especially true of the art of piano manufacture. What a difference between one of the old boxes of strings called a spinet or harpsichord, and a modern upright, such as those manufactured by the Vose & Son’s Piano Co., of Boston, Mass, These makers have by nearly forty years of conscientious endeavor and the use of the best materials, produced an instrument unsurpassed in tore, workmanship, and design. Their recently issued catalogue is a work of artand will be sent free on application. Their prices are moderate, terms easy and pianos first class. We take pleasure in recom- mending them to any one desiring a first-class in-trument at a moderate price. Refinement. As perfumes are now a real necessity to every lady, her refinement or lack of it is shown by the selection she makes. In fact, a lady may be distinguished by the quality of perfume she uses as surely as by her dress or conversation. Fi cacy; Eux delig

Page 188

OUR ARM-CHAIR. 185 Fine perfumes should possess fragrance, deli- cacy, and permanence. Such exquisite odors as Amorita, May Blossom, Stearns’ Four Roses, Euxenia and Olive Blossom are a source of delight to the user, possessing delicacy, fragrance and permanence. Messrs. Frederick Stearns & Co, of Detroit, Mich., the manufacturers of these and many other delicious odors have by the unvarying and pre-eminent superiority of , their goods placed themselves at the head of the perfumers of the United States, and obtained thestamp of approval from the millions who use their perfumes. The long established publishing house of Lee & Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass., con- tinues in popularity, and the variety of books published cannot fail to please all tastes. The student can here get copies of his favorite text- books, the lover of novels will find those of favorite authors, children will be charmed with the attractive books yrovided for them, while those provided for festival seasons are charm- ing. Any one desiring to purchase books will do well to send to the firm for a printed cata- logue, and see what they can get before purchas- ing elsewhere. TABLE TALK. “The Good Things of Life,” Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth avenue, New York, N.Y, For sale by J. Wanamaker, Phila., Pa- Price, $2.50. Good fun is always healthy and to be enjoyed; the above book abounds in good things, well illustrated, It is sure to cause a hearty laugh, besides showing much original humor. The book is printed upon fine paper, and is a delight- ful book to have to chase away tue blues. “Maggie Bradford’s Club,” by Joanna H. Mathews, illustrated. Frederick A, Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifth avenue, New York, N.Y. For sale by J. Wanamaker, Phila., Pa, Price, $1.00. This is the first of a set of children’s books written by the popular author of « The Bessie Books,” that promise to be full of fun and in- terest. The present one treats of a girls’ club which meets at the home of one of the members; able stories written by the girls are read, and afford amusement and interest to all assembled. They are finally to be written out or published in book form, and sold to friends for the benefit of some charitable object, thus serving two ends. “ A Mad Love; or, The Abbe and His Court,” by Emile Zola, is published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, and selling at the low price of twenty- five cents a copy, at retail. “A Mad Love” isa tale of love and ambition, and is one of the most peculiar novels in existence. It teems with interest from first to last, and the stamp of its author’s genius is on every page. “A Quiet Life,” by Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, published by T. B, Peterson & Brothers, Phila., is a tender, pathetic and entertaining love story, told with great power and skill; is pure in refinement and action, and is one of the most agreeable, charming and interesting books that can be found anywhere. Price, 25 cents. ‘«‘Dosia,” Henry Greville’s greatest work, is published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, to sell at twenty-five cents a copy. . “ Dosia” is a charming story of Russian society, and has been crowned by the French Academy as the best novel of the year. It is crisp, fresh and pure, while its fascination is powerful, genuine and legitimate. It has been admirably translated by Mary Neal Sherwood, whose skilful hands have rendered it into English, pure and undefiled. «“ My Good Friend,” by Adolph Belot, trans- lated by Edward Wakefield, Worthington Co., 747 Broadwav, New York, N. Y. Price, 25 cents. The book is ably written with an odd plot, the principal character being that of a small child. Much in the present and future rests upon this child, but all is finally happily settled through his intervention, The most convenient, valuable, and unique business calendar, for 1890, is the Columbia Bicycle Calendar and Stand, issued by the Pope Mfg. Co., of Boston, Mass. It isin the form of a pad of 366 leaves, 51%x23¢ in., one for each day of the year, and one for the entire year. A good portion or each leaf is blank for memo- randa, The leaves are sewed at the end, enabling one to turn to any leaf desired, and by an ingenious device the leaves tear off indepeng- ently, leaving no stub. The portable stand, which holds the pad, contains pen rack and pencil holder, and is made of solid wood, brass mounted, Upon each slip appear quotations pertaining to cycling and typewriting, and although this is the fifth year of the calendar, the quotations are fresh and new, containing an amount of information, which, if placed in book type, would make a fair-sized volume.

Page 189

186 ARCH: TECTURAL. . YI b J > 6 * ‘ 9 S| / ely pi bee as Bes MTT TITIAN ld VLDL UVTI EUEL RS) dts Hill Pd OO SO oe ot 00) ay 4 “ 4 “ithe wipers mas ladda a YO Cor gy borvt og KE Thy Ed yy Mt fj * . o>) are if gs: Me ‘ al, ‘phd ij at 4S (i ie WW i ‘al b fay more ag Syarber (6x2 Cparybeey One Bix 1*:,.Stov AY RBovy, PECIAL, features for design presented this month. Cellar under the whole house excepting kitchen. Sliding doors connect the parlor with hall and dining-room. The rooms are of an ample size and well-proportioned throughout. The third floor is unfinished. The plumbing is complete. The wi is situated under the kitchen ; the supply is taken from well by double-action pump and forced toa 300 gallon cedar tank in attic. The interior is white pine finished natural ; the newels and rails of stairs are walnut; the balusters and string are of oak. The construction of the house is of frame covered with German siding to second floor; above this it is covered with shingles to roof. The main and tech roofs are covered with slate. The cost of the building as shown wil be $2,300 Any further informa- ion regarding this design will be cheerfully furnished by addressing SAMUEL MILLIGAN, ARCHITECT, 708 Chestnut Street; Phila., Pa.

Page 190

en and vell toa s of me and ma- CT,

Page 191

= O orc < ac O re = O Zz

Page 192

Page 193

A [Sek Wa ey wy WS Sy is ag ll He As (a: = Le For Description, See Fashion Department.

Page 194

= = = = = — = “a UE UBR RY CON, LL ae aL n, See Fashion Department.

Page 195

Page 196

Description] see Fashion Department,

Page 197

Fig. 12 ; Fig. 13 For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 198

Fig. 17 ‘For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 199

For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 200

Page 201

ye AY A West ow wii | TLL lite ili ili middlddanad “ gh ‘ i 4 ei : H ia 2 , , eee Sa taal Sah et Sl alt Saat at Sa Oa Ua Neto et a Gee ae ne | 8 ' EMBROIDERED TEA AND SIDE TABLE CLOTHS, AND HANGING FPINCUSHIO é. For Description, See Work Table. ahs

Page 202

Ste re er Olena ete PINYIN GN if eat tnr a aaa foi ft tt tt th

Page 203

Page 204

es ert For Description see Fashion Department.

Page 205

Fig. 29 For Description see Fashion Department. ee

Page 206

Fig. 84 For Description see Fashion Department, 193

Page 207

MOUNTAIN MEMORIES. Revised by A. W. BORST. EDOUARD DORN, Allegretto comodo. Rococo. ~~ mf leggiero ma marcato. Copyright, 1888, by W, Boner & Co. Published in sheet form, 40 cts., by W. H. BONER & CO., No. 1102 Chestnut Street, Phila.

Page 208

MOUNTAIN MEMORIES. Pp leggiero. S pesante.

Page 209

GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK. sees ENIA ; licgate, REFINE Progra ef For Sale Everywh ere d& @ffin. fo prietors & Manufacturer the ras Pee femey 24 Bar| ay New Yo : a2 ha wets lUrrrlhlU eT UrmllCUr Ss 4 ee ee ow