Godey's Magazine 1891-01: Vol 122 Iss 727

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Bsooe | Vout. CXXII. No. 727. (,0DEY's [| ADy’s Rook. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1891. O. K. BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. WILCOX SMITH. dite SS ae — yes T was four o’clock in the afternoon, and a cold wind ruffled the bosom of Lake Su- perior, and whirled some rollicking snow- flakes down upon the snow-drifts already snugly imbedding the streets of the bleak town of Ashland, Wisconsin. It was the twenty-second day of De- cember, 1889, and dreary enough was the ° landscapeupon which Miss Lucinda Dority gazed, save that to her keen eye there was an exciting interest in the easy gait of a Western Union telegraph boy, taking his way leisurely toward the little yellow house opposite. The boy was whistling, and despite the brisk nipping of the wind moved after the usual manner cf Western Union telegraph boys, stopping ever and anon to throw a snow-ball at an unwary cat, or take a slide in the icy gutter. ‘¢Well, now, I wonder,’ says Miss Dority, pausing to take two pins out of her mouth, and running her tongue around after the third one she knew was once there ; ‘‘ what can Mrs. Whitcomb be getting a telegraph about? Hope, nobody ain’t dead. Seems as if lots of people were dying this year. More than ever did before. Nobody would telegraph unless they was dead. He’s a treading that way, sure as you live. I'll go over and inquire for Mrs. Whit- comb’s rheumatiz. It is no more than neighborly, and there is no telling what kind of sass she will have for supper !”’ — ~ iM / i Y

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Therefore, it will be seen, Miss Dority acted from a purely disinterested motive, being as much concerned as to Mrs. Whitcomb’s health, as to the contents of the telegram, and the prospect of damson jam. Miss Dority was not prone to ques- tion her own, or other people’s motives, being much more interested in what people put ox their heads than what was passing iw them. She represented the only millinery store in Ashland, for Miss Dority did not consider ‘‘that Fisher woman” a rival, even if she did sell no- tions, and trim bonnets when an occasion granted her the opportunity. Miss Dority had trimmed hats in Ashland ever since the town itself had had its being, and was she to be put out of countenance by a two-penny establishment like that of Mrs. Fisher? Even if she did employ Marie Tosti, the pretty daughter of Mon- sieur Tosti, who beyond doubt - possessed much deftness. What of that? She, Miss Dority, could have had Marie’s services, but she did not believe in patronizing foreign labor. Who was this Marie Tosti, moreover ? To be sure, Monsieur Tosti was most urbane, and father and daughter had been lodgers of Mrs. Whitcomb’s for a good while; but a Frenchman who taught dancing or gave violin lessons; cobbled a little, and could do the ‘‘ Lord knows- what!” for a living, did not come within Miss Dority’s category as a Christian, even if Marie had not been a devout damsel, who not only knelt daily before a small white crucifix, but also knew how to twist a ribbon to the distraction of the youth of Ashland, and the discomfiture of Miss Dority. Still, if Mrs. Whitcomb went into mourning—good soul—she would assuredly consult Miss Euphemia Dority on such a matter as.crape. At any rate, she would go over after a while, and ask after the telegram—no, Mrs.'Whit- comb’srheumatism. Sosaying, Miss Dority tucked a few more pins in her side teeth, and put her head on one side, as she took in the effect of two feathers and a green bow. Meanwhile the telegraph boy, after stopping to swap a jack knife for a pink onican, in possession of another errand boy, and wrestling stoutly with “ Home, Sweet Home”’ upon the afore- said instrument, finally decided it was too 12 O. K. cold to woo the muses longer, and would have reached Mrs. Whitcomb’s door be- fore we have the opportunity to look in upon that good lady, had not a dog-fight further down the street, led the Western Union boy once more from the path of duty, with the ominous yellow envelope reposing in his jacket pocket. Mrs. Whitcomb stoning raisins for her New Year pies, dipped her fingers placidly in water, and hummed a hymn tune in blissful unconsciousness of what was on its waytoher. Picture a sweet-faced, large, stout woman, rosy-cheeked and healthy, her gray hair swept back from a broad forehead, and eyes that you instinctively felt had never looked much beyond the comfort of her fellow creatures. When Mrs. Whitcomb, as Thankful Beresford had married Henry Whitcomb, everybody prophesied the result. People alwaysdo prophesy. It seems a gratifica- tion human nature may as well derive some satisfaction from indulging, since it never materially helps matters to be able to say, ‘‘I told you so.” If Mrs. Whitcomb insisted upon being content with her shiftless, handsome, affectionate husband, that at least was not in the calculation of the prophecy, and when he died, leaving her with two sons, one nine years old, the second a babe in arms, Thankful Whitcomb, did not lament her only legacy, but had fought a placid, courageous battle with circumstances, and with a conscience as clean as her inevitable white apron, had raised her boys to call her blessed. Henry had long ago established himself in Chicago, and his mother’s presence im the cottage at Ashland was owing to his investments in real estate. And Henry, conscious of his mother’s efforts to educate him, had strained every nerve to do the same for Francis, and the time had come when Francis would soon have completed his last course of lectures, and would come forth a full-fledged physician. It was so good of her boys to both come home to her for New Year, for Ashland had so little to offer such fine young men. Henry had written a month ago of Fran- cis’ progress, and that they should both reach home New Year eve, and he would expect hot pan-cakes and maple syrup, as in the days of yore.

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~~ Ge rr — (Fe meee O. K. 13 Mrs. Whitcomb had gotten Marie Tosti, her lodger’s daughter, to read the letter aloud so as to ‘‘ sense it’’ better. Mrs. Whitcomb had left culture behind her in the race with necessity. More than once her handsome, indolent husband had winced over her mistakes. Henry used to say his mother might invent a whole new dictionary, but she might as well give up trying to master any terms of the ones already established. But Francis was very tender with the old mother, and if she talked of a refrigera- tor when she meant register; saw no dif- ference between a pickett and a torpedo; and made him shiver through inability to grasp that two negatives makes an affirma- tive. Marie had been but twelve years’ old when she came with Pere Tosti to live in Ashland. She liked Francis, when he returned from school. He thought her a pretty little girl. He said she was like a sister to him. Presently he ceased calling her hissister. Then there came a time when he was very glad she was zof¢ his sister, although he did not say so. This wasthe last time he returned, when she ran away, instead of coming to greet him on his arrival, and would not—nay, cou/d not—tell him why. Such a foolish, blushing, little Marie! Still, he was not sorry she was not his sister. But Mrs. Whitcomb had been blind to allthis. That Henry and Francis should be with her for New Year seemed a joy created solely for her motherhood, and she rocked her chair comfortably, gazed at Patrick Henry, the meek Maltese cat dozing on the hearth ; at Fanchette, Mon- sieur Tosti’s fat poodle, that lounged on the opposite side; nor noticed that Mon- sieur Tosti’s poll-parrot, was sidling along toward Fanchette, with the amiable intent of disturbing this scene of do- mestic peace, by a rousing tweak of Fan- chett’s curly tail. * lIow blessed thus to dwell below, In unity and love.” sang Mrs. Whitcomb softly, while time, inevitable, was gradually bringing the Western Union boy as the bearer of tidings to her mother’s heart. Vor, CXXII—No. 2. “« Rat tat-tat.”’ The knock at the door startled Fan- chette to shrill barking, thus frustrating Polly’s mischievous design so completely that she sat down abruptly on her own tail, and cried, ‘‘ Bless me!’’ while Pat- rick Henry raised his back and yawned frightfully. ‘*My!” ejaculated Mrs. Whitcomb, hastening to wash her hands. ‘« Rat-tat tat-tat !”’ The boy was evidently realizing the importance and haste of his errand at last. ‘Goodness mercy !’’ cried Mrs. Whit- comb, hastening to the door, tripping over a stool, and exciting Fanchette to louder demonstrations, while Polly screamed, ‘« That’s a daisy, go it, mon ami!’’ From which it may be gathered that monsieur parrot’s education had been of a polyglot nature. Mrs. Whitcomb had just turned the latch when M. Tosti put his head in the door leading from the stairway. ‘¢ Madame, pardon me, some one knocks ze door, quite stiff !’’ ‘*Chesnuts!’’ quoth Polly, at the appearance of her master, revealing a knowledge of prevalent slang that sorely puzzled M. Tosti. “‘A telegram, mum! all paid,’’ said the boy, briskly, holding out the yellow envelope, as Mrs. Whitcomb somewhat overcome by M. Tosti’s advice, and Pol- ly’s suggestions, finally opened the door. ‘Good land !”” Mrs. Whitcomb’s emo- tions were overflowing when she gotso far as this apostrophize her nativity. “A telegram for me? I ain’t had such a thing since Job Peeble’s twins was took with the shingles, and I couldn’t help nuss ’em, because France had the chicken-pox,”’ and she stared at the yellow envelope in dismay. ‘‘It’s paid, mum,”’ repeated the boy, bringing out his receipt book. ‘<Ts it from my son?”’ ‘¢ Don’t know, mum, ain’t read it.’’ ‘¢ Don’t look like his writin’,’’ still re- garding the dispatch in bewilderment, while M. Tosti craned his yellow neck over her shoulder to inspect it also. ‘¢That ain’t curious,’’ said the boy, grinning, ‘‘ folks don’t usually get to write more’n one end of atelegram. Just sign your name fere.”’

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14 ‘«T thought you said it was paid for,” said Mrs. Whitcomb, feeling for her glasses, as she held the dispatch at arm’s length. ‘So it is.” O. K. And after much demur, and still with many doubts, and wise ejaculations frog M. Tosti, Mrs. Whitcomb wrote her but her hand shook, and the excitement caused her to slant her letters one way ——————4 ———S== = —————— ~~ —_—— S=—

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‘¢4 TELEGRAM, MUM! ”’ ‘¢ Then I shan’t sign nothing. My son has told me nevertodoit.” - ‘*Oh, come off!’’ cried the boy, dis- gusted. ‘Just put a cross down there if you can’t sign your name.” with her tongue at a remote angle. But the boy was satisfied ; snapped his book in her face, and departed whistling, while Mrs. Whitcomb sank into a chair, regard- ing in a bewildered manner the yellow

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O. K. 15 portent she still held as if it was a dyna- mite bomb. ‘¢ Now what cam it be? Like as not Francis is sick; or Henry has been took with fever again. ‘Taint likely it is from one of them. Its from a doctor, or land- lady, or some miserable creature. Bless me, how I am all of a shake. Monsieur Tosti, what would you do?”’ Now, if Monsieur Tosti ever made suggestions this would have been his op- portunity ; he would have delicately broached the propriety of opening and reading the dispatch. But Monsieur Tosti was not given to suggestions. Of spare figure, and short of stature, he stood looking mildly upon his friend, but he was mute. Polly was more loquacious than her master. The latter had never asserted himself but once in a life-time. He had fled seventeen years ago from France and Madame Tosti, with Marie wrapped in anold shawl. Even then he made this bold suggestion in a cringing manner, and all the way across the Atlantic had had rest- less agonies of apprehension, when Madame Tosti, in his fancy, lurked be- hind dark shadows, ready to recover him and his beloved baby. ; He always spoke of Madame as ‘ that dear, lost Saint,’’ and since Madame never had overtaken him, he had now almost convinced himself of her canonization, as well as her demise. As M. Tosti failed to reply, Mrs. Whit- comb settled her glasses, and began to tear the envelope. ‘«Open ze envelope, of course ; Madame is right. We will hope for ze best,’’ said Tosti. Mrs. Whitcomb puzzled but a moment as she read the date, then she cried out as if she had been dealt a blow, and cast the dispatch from her. ‘*My boy—my boy! It is France, dear France. Oh! I knew it; I knew it, when I saw that dispatch.”’ ‘* Madame, vot is it? Why do you say so? Vat that dispatch in, todisturb you?”’ *« See, see!’’ she cried, thrusting the telegram upon him. ‘*I can’t zee him. I zee mosing. Iread no English. I will call Marie. Marie, Marie! Ah—here is ze child! Mon Dieu! zee ze good friend? Read, read him!” Marie, coming in, her face bright from the fire over which she had been dream- ing, and her apron full of russet apples she was bringing Mrs. Whitcomb, at the sight of that lady’s agitation, and her father’s excited jerk of hér hand, dropped her apron, and sent the apples flying across the room, while she rushed wildly to Mrs. Whitcomb’s side. ‘* Dear Madame, what is it that has happened?”’ she cried, while Polly shrieked, and Fanchette whined plain- tively. ‘‘That telegram, Marie! My poor boy. I must goto him. Ohmy lamb!” ‘© Ah!’? Marie had snatched the dis- patch, and read it slowly : ‘¢ Come Thursday without fail. Francis O. K. HEnry.”’ ‘¢ What does it mean?”’ she asked. ‘It means, my dear lamb is ill. Come at once, don’t you see? O. K. is the fever, of course. The doctors are a/ways getting new-fangled names for ’em. And me sit- tin’ here, so calm, stonin’ raisens; and my boy probably iff revulsions and vale- rium. Oh, Marie, Marie—help me think.”’ ‘*Oh, it cannot be so bad as that!”’ cried Marie, rubbing her pretty forehead in perplexity. ‘*T too have heard of this O. K. What is it? I can’t remember.”’ ‘¢Qkee? Okee?’’ repeated Mr. Tosti, his head on one side; ‘‘ 1 know not vat dat is.”’ _ ** 7know,’’ continued Mrs. Whitcomb, tapping her feet restlessly on the floor; ‘¢it means he is dyin’, and.me not /here. But I must ge¢ there. I will go to-morrow morning. Monsieur Tosti, you will go to the station for my ticket. And, Marie, do not cry so, my child, you must help me pack. I'll take some peppermint leaves for tea, and some flax-seed, and sage; and, perhaps, if the doctors haven’t killed him before I get there—I shall save him.”’ Her voice broke, poor soul, and she mingled her tears with Marie’s for a mo- ment. Then it was a heroic sight to see her gather her resources, and with > see face set about her preparations, ie following her, her tears overflowing to be hastily wiped away. [TO BE CONTINUED. }

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Winder the Ehastening ; OR, THE PRIDE OF THE WHITTINGTONS. BY ADNA H. LIGHTNER. Author of “Shadow and Sunshine,” “ Creta,” “ A Wayside Violet,” etc. N the richly furnish- ed drawing-room at Oakridge,a lady, young and beautiful, eg Was standing in a listening attitude, and as the crimson glow from the setting sun, shimmering through the delicate lace at the window, fell pon her form, she presented a picture wondrous fair. Every curve of her figure betrayed the fully developed woman ; her eyes, of the deep- est hazel, mirrored a contented, satisfied love, and her lips—proud, sensitive, ten- der—suggested the imprint of kisses pas- sionate and sweet. No one could doubt the certainty of her having reached the completeness of woman’s desire—that she was a beloved wife and mother. ‘¢ Mainma, mamma.’’ As the clear, sweet child-voice fell on her ear, the lady turned quickly around, a glad smile curving her lips and a love- glow flooding her eyes. ‘*T am here, dear,” she answered, with a loving tenderness; and in the next instant a beautiful child of five years bounded into the room and into the waiting arms of her mamma. ‘*Where have you been so long, Beu- lah? and what have you been doing this bright afternoon ?’’ questioned the lady, — she lifted the child to a chair beside er. The restless sprite clambered to her feet upon the chair, and, clasping her arms about her mamma’s waist, said, carelessly, ‘I’ve been nowhere, mamma, doing nothing.” Then a _ wise, thoughtful gleam came into the clear, dark eyes— so like in expression to those looki down to her face, and she added, with amusing earnestness, ‘‘ What is you been doing, mamma?’’ A low, musical laugh came from the lips of the lady, and bending her head with swift, impulsive grace, she kissed the pretty baby mouth again, then said, somewhat gravely, ‘‘I have been assisting you, dear, to do nothing; hard. work, isn’t it, Beulah?”’ As the words left her lips she lifted her head quickly; a gleam like the sudden flash of sunlight flooded her eager face, sparkled in her eyes, and tendered every feature; then a finger was raised warn- ingly, to hush the child. ‘¢ Guess who is coming, Beulah; some one that baby loves!’’ exclaimed the young mother, her voice betraying her delight. The dimpled hands released their hold upon her mamma’s dress long enough to clap together in gladness, the dainty head was turned archly to one side, and the rosy, smiling lips cried, ‘‘It is papa; papa is coming! Think that Beulah don’t know who loves her?’’ A gentleman appeared at the open door, and Basil Whittington paused a moment to gaze upon a picture that was dearer to him than all else in life; then, with quick, impatient step, he crossed the room and drew the eager child close to his side with one arm, while the other tenderly encir- cled the form of his wife. ‘‘Did I keep you waiting, Edna?’’ he asked, looking lovingly down into the face of his young wife, resting against his shoulder. ‘‘A hot-box detained our train some time, a few miles back. You won’t believe it, dear, but I really was so impatient to see my wife and baby, that I had a half notion to walk to the sta- tion. I was sure that the carriage would be waiting for me there.’’

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UNDER THE CHASTENING. 17 «Truly, Basil; did you want to see us as much as your words signify?’’ she questioned, in a subdued tone. Thena rush of tenderness softened her voice into the richest melody. ‘‘I know that you did, Basil; but the waiting is forgotten, now that you are here. The moments are always hours to me when you are way.” What a skilled flatterer! Only three days from your side, and you would try to convince me that I was missed! What beguiling witchery.”’ The manly voice was low, and he pressed his wife closer to his side as he spoke. Then he bent his head suddenly to his child and continued, laughingly, ‘Mamma is more of a baby than Beu- lah; is it not so, pet?”’ ‘‘] wanted my papa, too,’’ the baby lips murmured ; and, standing on tip-toe, the child pressed her soft, dimpled cheek close to his own, while two chubby arms met caressingly around his neck. “Conspiracy between my darlings against papa! Alarming mutiny against the head of the house !’’ Basil Whittington said, with a playful frown. Then a glow of exquisite rapture swept it all away, and he continued, ‘‘Well, well, it is pleasant to be missed, after all; but, my dear, I did not tarry one moment in town after my business was completed—how could I with this picture of home ever before me? By the way, Edna, I had forgotten to tell you that Hugh accompa- nied me home. He went at once to his vom but I imagine that he is down ere this.”’ A shadow of annoyance came to the fair face of the young wife, and the brown head was pressed a trifle closer to her husband’s shoulder, that he might not detect the fluttering of the white lids, nor the sudden flash of regret in her dark eyes. After waiting a moment, expecting some reply, Basil returned the child to the chair, and, placing his hand under his wife’s chin, he lifted her averted face, and looked searchingly into her tell-tale eyes. “Anything wrong, Edna?” he in- quired. ‘*You surely have a welcome for our guest ! ”’ ‘‘ Certainly, Basil,” she replied, hast- ily ; ‘‘ but I cannot help wishing that you had left him in town ; we are just enough without him.” Edna’s sweet voice was broken with emotion, and her lips would tremble like those of a displeased child. Basil gave a merry, contented laugh at the words of his wife, then bent his head and left a kiss on her pouting lips. ‘‘ Yes, dear; but our friend would not be left,’’ he responded, laughingly. ‘1 met him just as I was leaving town, and he invited himself to Oakridge with as much assurance .as if his society was in- dispensable to our happiness. Hugh isa good fellow, Edna; 1 did not know that you really preferred not to have him come here, else 1 would have managed somehow to prevent his presence. Don’t you like him, dear ?’”’ ‘¢TIt is not that, Basil; but we are so happy here alone. Oakridge seems just large enough for you and I and baby,” she said, slowly; then, lifting her head with quick impulsiveness, she placed both hands against her husband’s breast, pushing him from her as far as his en- circling arm would permit, and, gazing earnestly into his eyes for a moment, asked, ‘‘ Do you like Hugh Lacy, Basil?”’ Another merry laugh rang through the room ; so happy, so joyful, that the child joined it from very gladness. ‘*Why, yes, Edna, of course I like Hugh,” he said, teasingly. ‘‘ I ought to treat him well, even if I did not particu- larly admire him, for I won his sweet- heart from him. A fellow deserves some consideration for such treatment as that, surely.” ‘¢*No, no, Basil; never that! I was never the sweetheart of Hugh Lacy. Please don’t ever say such a thing again. You were always first in my heart.’ Edna’s arm stole around Basil’s neck, her dainty head was pillowed again upon the broad breast, while her lovely face was uplifted to his with an expression of strangely earnest pleading. ‘¢ What a sensitive, earnest child you are, Edna,” Basil said, as he stroked her brown hair caressingly. ‘‘ See how easily I have accomplished my selfish design ; I only wanted to hear you deny the charge, dear. I could not doubt your love, for six years of wedded bliss still finds us

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18 UNDER THE CHASTENING. silly, foolish lovers, with no cloud in our sky. That is Hugh’s step in the hall; now, don’t be cross, dear, to the poor, defrauded boy.”’ Edna glanced reproachfully up into the mirthful face, but before she could reply, or even withdraw herself from the arms of her husband, Hugh Lacy halted just outside the door, as if confused because of his unbidden intrusion upon their privacy. ‘¢Come in, Hugh,’’ Basil exclaimed, heartily. ‘‘ You find me making love to my wife. Strange, is it not? but you see, old boy, I have not gotten over that yet. My love grows deeper and more absorbing each day that I live.’’ ‘*No apology, Basil. One glance at the object of your adoration makes an explanation superfluous,” said Hugh Lacy with a pleasant laugh, as he crossed the room and joined the happy, group. ‘Good evening, Mrs. Whittington, I am glad to see you looking so well; and dainty Beulah ; how is the little lady?” Edna murmured some words of wel- come, and laid her small, jeweled hand in the palm of Hugh; and as his fingers closed—with almost crushing firmness— upon her own, a shudder swept over her, like an icy breath from the mouth of a cavern. The sensation was unaccountable to her at that time. It was not that he was re- pulsive in face or form, for twenty-five years of manhood could not have pre- sented itself in a more pleasing outward garb than that found in the person of Hugh Lacy; but there was an indefinable something in his piercing gray eyes, and in the merciless curving of his lip, that would have impressed one unfavorably if that one was a close observer; and Edna knew him so well—alas! too well for her own good. While she had declared truly that she had never cared for Hugh Lacy, he had loved her with the passion of a mad-man; had worshipped her as the Buddhist does his idol. ‘* Beulah, can you not tell the gentle- man that you are quite well, and delighted with this bright, sunshiny day?’’ Edna said, in a slightly embarrassed ‘tone, as they seated themselves. “I guess your telling Mr, Lacy is *nough, mamma,”’ replied Beulah, with a pretty toss of her gold-brown head, Then, as if fearing that her words had offended her mamma, she added, with impressive solemnity, ‘‘ What mamma said was true, Mr. Lacy.” A burst of merriment followed the child’s quaint reply, and Basil exclaimed; ‘There, dear, we have positive proof that your statements cannot always be relied upon, when Beulah considers a corroboration of so trifling a matter ne. cessary.”’ ‘*You are wrong, Basil,’”’ responded Hugh, gallantly; ‘‘the fault is mine, Beulah imagines that I am an unconverti- ble skeptic, and she only desires to com vince me that there is one true woman in this false world. Miss Beulah, I trust that you may meet with equal success in every desire of your heart.” Basil stole a meaning glance into the flushed face of his wife, then, lifting Beulah playfully to his shoulder, he said, ‘‘There goes the bell for tea. I amas hungry asa bear-cub. Bring Edna out, Hugh. Here we go; hold tight, Beu- lah.” Without seeming to notice that Hugh had offered his arm, Edna walked by his side out to the pleasant dining-room, and, with gentle dignity, took her place behind the tea-urn. Beulah, child-like, did the most of the talking at the table, and on their return to the drawing-room Basil said, ‘‘ My lit- tle lady, you have held audience long enough for one of your years. Go, tell Nona to put you to bed, and we will have a long ride in the morning.”’ ‘¢Oh, how nice!” said the child, glee- fully ; then a shadow stole into her brown eyes at the remembrance of something, and she added, ‘‘ Papa, we won't let mamma go with us. She took a long ride this morning, and when she came back she cried and cried. I guess she don’t like to ride; but I do, papa.” Basil and Hugh both turned their sur- prised, questioning gaze upon the flushed, averted face of Edna, at the strange words of the child; then the young husband quickly recovered himself, and _ said, lightly, ‘*‘ No, indeed; mamma shall not visit our sick tenants again if she grieves my pet with her sympathetic tears. Now, baby, good-night.”

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UNDER THE CHASTENING. 19 Beulah offered her pure, rosy lips to each one, then, pausing in the doorway, she threw back a kiss from her dimpled fingers, and disappeared like a flash of bright sunshine. The ready words of Basil did not de- ceive Hugh Lacy, for he had watched the changes come and go upon the fair, truth- ful face of Edna too often to be mistaken in their significance; and he could but wonder what had transpired to cause her such evident confusion. Basil could not understand his wife’s distress; but, believing that she would tell him all about it when they were alone, he entirely ignored the subject so innocently stumbled upon through the prattle of Beulah, and turning toward Hugh, he said, ‘‘ Did you find anything new in the papers about the murder, com- ing down this evening, Hugh? It wasa brutal affair, and no mistake.”’ ‘‘Nothing new, Basil; it is a strange case,’’ replied Hugh. ‘‘ The police seem to be circling around like blood-hounds without the scent, for they have not the faintest clue, as yet, to the perpetrator. It was not the work of a bungler, that is one point beyond dispute. It must be a source of comfort to all connected with the tragedy that, after-all the rascal’s trouble, he was forced to fly without the money. Pity that the watchman had not been more prompt and saved the life of the brave cashier. You have read an ac- count of the murder in the papers, Mrs. Whittington, have you not?”’ ‘¢ Yes, I have read it all,’’ said Edna, her voice strangely husky and low, as if she were making a desperate effort to con- trol her feelings. ‘‘I pity the poor boy, for he will be hunted to his death. Hemay have been influenced by others, and then committed the murder in self-defence.’’ “Poor boy, Edna! Why, this was not the work of a boy, but that of a wickedly wise man. Why, dear, you surely do not pity one who could be in- fluenced to rob and then murder an inno- cent man? He ought to be hunted to his death. He has not only ruined him- self, and taken the life of a good man, but he has brought the most crushing disgrace upon his family,’’ said Basil, hotly, as he gazed down into the white, agitated face of his wife. “That is what I mean, Basil!’’ ex- claimed Edna, hurriedly, as if glad of any excuse for her expression of sympathy fora murderer. ‘‘ The man may have a highly respectable family; and see how they must suffer because of his wrong- doing.”’ ‘¢ Ah! I begin to understand your sym- pathetic heart, Edna. The villain re- ceives your pity only because family relation makes it an impossibility for one to suffer alone. Disgrace clings to and soils an entire family, just as surely as honor elevates and exalts a man’s imme- diate kindred. I would rather die than know that a Whittington would be guilty of such an act. I realize that I am draw- ing the case pretty strong, but the motto of our house has been for centuries, ‘Death before dishonor.’ No, I could have no pity whatever for one who would forget the sacred honor of his parents, even if he had none of his own.” ‘You are right, Basil,’ said Hugh, slowly, while he covertly watched the pitifully drawn face of Edna. ‘‘ Yet, unaccountable as it may appear, there are many persons in this world who would deliberately aid and conceal a criminal, while fully convinced of his guilt.” A hard, cruel smile hovered about Hugh’s lips as he noted the effect of his last words upon Edna. She started, with a perceptible gesture of dismay, then sank back into the hollow of her chair, as if seeking to hide herself from his gaze, her lovely face pale and distressed. Basil was not looking at his wife. His eyes were riveted upon the floor, and his brow was wrinkled with conflicting thoughts for a moment; then, lifting his head swiftly, as if unable to argue the question longer with himself, he said, “ I don’t know, Hugh—I may be wrong—but I believe if I was certain that a criminal had a worthy family to crush with dis- grace, and none knew of his crime but myself, I would assist him to flee from justice for their sakes. Yes, I am sure, if Edna had a father or brother who had committed a crime, and I could save her from a knowledge of it by shielding him from the rightful demands of the law, I would do it at the cost of my life!” ‘¢Oh! Basil, don’t!’’ Edna exclaimed in evident excitement. ‘‘You cannot

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20 UNDER THE CHASTENING. mean that you would become an accom- plice in a crime?”’ ‘¢ I don’t like it put just that way, dear, but it would amount to that, I think,” replied Basil, considerably annoyed at Edna’s plain, yet proper construction of his language. ‘‘ Why, you little sensi- tive child, you are trembling like a cap- tured bird? It was only an illustration, dear ; I had no thought of being tested in such a case.” ‘¢ What would you do, Mrs. Whitting- ton, under such circumstances as those Basil has suggested ?’’ questioned Hugh, looking straight into Edna’s distressed eyes. Another confused start, not unlike Basil’s comparison to a captured, flutter- ing bird, another paling and flushing of Edna’s lovely face, and Hugh felt amply repaid for his abrupt question. ‘¢ What would I do?”’ she repeated in great confusion. ‘* Why—I—what a strange question, Mr. Lacy.” ‘¢] should say so, Hugh,” said Basil, just the least bit surprised at his friend’s lack of perception and delicacy. He reached out his hand and tenderly drew his wife to his side, saying, ‘‘ Why, Edna would act like any other refined lady— have a good cry over the unfortunate af- fair, and regret that she could do nothing to avert the trouble. We don’t expect anything beyond loving comfort from woman, and that is man’s greatest support in adversity.” Basil, with his knowledge of woman- hood, could not conceive how it would be possible for one to sacrifice self and en- dure sorrow unflinchingly. During his happy married life he had found no opportunity of understanding how self- reliant a woman might be, and yet remain gentleand loving. They had only drifted upon the placid stream of pleasure. There had been no adverse undercurrents, no pulling against the tide, no hidden rocks, no treacherous sand-bar—nothing, in fact, to test the sterling qualities of either. ‘You place a high estimate upon the capabilities of woman, Basil,” said Hugh, his voice betraying a slight accent of dis- gust. ‘I believe that a true lady would do a great deal more than simply indulge in a flood of tears. You should refresh your memory with the histories of noble women who have suffered, and even died, for those whom they loved.’’ ‘‘Glad to hear you express yourself go strongly upon the side of the ladies, Hugh,” said Basil, laughingly. ‘It proves that you still have asoft spot in that heart of yours, in spite of your boasted cynic. ism. There, little wife, we will leave the subject. Our discussion of affairs which cannot possibly interest us has driven all the color from your face. Let us have some music; that will dispel the uncanny impression of the midnight assassination. It really has had a depressing effect upon me, too, dear.”’ Not interest them! . Strange fatality of words. Edna shuddered as they fell so carelessly from her husband’s lips; but, glad of some excuse to escape from Hugh’s searching gaze, and from a conversation that wounded so deeply with every added word, she rose,.and, with the arm of Basil still encircling her trembling form, crossed the room to the open piano, and seated herself before it. ‘‘What shall I sing to-night, Basil?” she asked, leaning her head back against her husband, and looking up into his ten- der, loving face. ‘‘Anything, dear,’ he ‘‘ Hugh shall name his favorite. I am sure that it will besomething sentimental, after his bold championship of the sex.” Hugh had remained seated, but at Basil’s playful allusion to him, he rose and came to Edna’s side, and, leaning against the upright paino, scanned the sweet downcast face before him for a moment in silence, then said with thrill- ing meaning, although with seeming in- different courtesy, ‘‘ Thank you, Basil. If Mrs. Whittington would be so kind, I would like to hear her sing once again, ‘« Take Back the Heart.’’ You know that is my style of music.” ‘‘T told you so, Edna!’ exclaimed Basil, his eyes dancing with merriment at the blushes of his wife. ‘*Tne young man is certainly improving in his tastes. Of course you will favor him with his re- quest, dear, if only because of its novelty.” Edna flung her hands apart with a ges- ture of pleading entreaty—it seemed im- possible for her to sing anything like that now—and she was about to make some excuse, when something, it may have been responded.

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UNDER THE CHASTENING, 21 the whispering of fate, prompted her to change her mind, and she simply replied, ‘‘ Certainly, Mr. Lacy.”’ She smiled up into Basil’s face for a moment, then let her white fingers stray over the keys in a low, sweet prelude. Edna’s voice possessed rare volume and power, and rich as some strain from the harp of an old master the clear tones fell from her lips: “Take back the heart that thou gavest, What is my anguish to thee? Take back the freedom thou cravest, Leaving the fetters to me; Take back the vows thou hast spoken, Fling them aside and be free, Smile o’er each pitiful token, Leaving the fetters to me. « Drink deep of life’s fond illusion, Gaze on the storm-cloud and flee Swiftly through strife and confusion, Leaving the burden to me. Then when at last o’ertaken, Time flings its fetters o’er thee, Come with a trust still unshaken, Come back a cdptive to me. *« Come back in sadness or sorrow, Once more my darling to be; Come as of old, love, to borrow Glimpses of sunlight from me. Love shall resume her dominion, Striving no more to be free, When on her world-weary pinion, Flies back my lost love to me.” The last words were uttered in almost a whisper of prophetic awe, the fair, shapely hands fell away from the vibrat- ing keys, and the brown head leaned back against Basil, while tears stole out through the long silken lashes and lay like drops of crystal upon her pale cheek. It has always been within the province of fate to torture one an entire life-time with a remembrance which all the famed water of Lethe could not obliterate, even had it been accessible; and never, for one moment, through all the years that followed, was that young husband per- mitted to forget the most trifling detail of that hour. It was branded upon his heart as if by eleciric fire from heaven. ‘Tears, sweetheart!’’ Basil exclaimed, with caressing tenderness. ‘‘ There, dear, _ shall not be teased any more to-night. am sure that [ never saw you soagitated before. Some one has truthfully said that 4 woman is all nerves, and I think, Edna, that yours have all come to the surface this evening. Now I am going to see you to your room, then I will return and have a smoke with Hugh before retiring.” ‘*T believe your suggestion a good one, Basil,’’ said Edna, with a sad attempt at a smile. ‘I certainly have proven a complete failure this evening, so far as entertainment is concerned. It would have been better had I said good-night with Beulah.”’ ‘¢ For shame, Mrs. Whittington! Have you no more respect for my feelings than to speak ill of my wife? 1 must beg that you apologize at once, or forever suffer my displeasure,’ said Basil, with loving playfulness. ‘‘ Hugh, was there ever such rudeness perpetrated before in a man’s own house? ”’ ‘¢T cannot blame you, Basil, for begin severe and using strong language. Verily, the moment demands it,’’ replied Hugh, with a pleasant smile. ‘‘ Permit me to thank you, Mrs. Whittington, for your beautiful song and for the pleasure it has given me, and to also say good-night.”’ Hugh bent for a moment over the hand of Edna, then stepped aside while Basil led her from the room, and, as the mur- mur of their voices grew fainter, his face took on a hard, cruel smile, and the light in his gray eyes was not pleasant to see. ‘“‘Ah, my pretty one, how you love Basil Whittington,”’ he muttered, between his set teeth. ‘‘ Your sweetness put a demon in my soul. I will possess you yet, even if it move all heaven and earth to do so. I shall learn your precious secret—for you have one, I see—then I shall hope to have you at my mercy. The cheery voice of Basil interrupted his soliloquy, and, with a deceitful smile on his face, he turned toward his friend. ‘‘All ready, Hugh; take a cigar,” and Basil handed the soothing weed to Hugh. ‘‘ Don’t let my presence take you from your wife, Basil; I will just step out on the verandah and take a smoke, and you can return to Mrs, Whittington. She does not appear well this evening,” said Hugh. ‘¢Oh! no, Hugh; I will join you for a half-hour,’’ responded Basil. ‘‘It will require that length of time for Edna to fondle and arrange Beulah for the night. ”

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She is so foolish about the child that she does not trust Nona very far; besides, | want to talk with you about the bank affair. It interests me strangely, some- how.” ‘All right, Basil; your pleasure is al- ways mine, only I don’t want to intrude, or become de /rop. I, too, find this bank mystery very fascinating,’’ replied Hugh, and together they passed out upon the moon-lighted veranda, and, seating themselves comfortably, continued their discussion of a topic, new, startling, and provoking—a topic touchingly near the sympathetic heart of the public, and so tantalizingly mysterious. As Basil turned from Edna, with a tender smile and with the words, ‘I will return presently, dear,’’ floating back over his shoulder, the young wife sunk into a chair, with a half-startled gleam in her clear dark eyes, and her small hands clasped themselves nervously together. ‘¢Oh, what shall I do !’’ she exclaimea aloud, in thrilling pathos. ‘‘ How can I deceive Basil, and yet he must not know.” With trembling fingers she drew a soiled, crumpled letter from the folds of her dress, and read again the contents, with that strange fascination one has for anything that is desperately wicked— with that irresistible going over details, even while every faculty of the being shrinks from it with horror. No wonder that her sweet lips paled, and her eyes grew large and dark as a starless night. The letter was from the murderer of the cashier of the Portsmouth bank. It was but a few lines, hastily written upon a scrap of paper, but it was enough to fill the young-wife’s heart with most crushing distress.. It was the first cloud of decep- tion that had ever come between Basil and herself—dear, kind Basil, but this he must not know. All her life she had known Basil Whit tington—that is, she had known of him. Her father had been a poor clergyman, while Richard Whittington was the wealthiest gentleman in all the country. Edna Morrison had grown up to girlhood in the quiet of her modest-home, like a fragrant white lily. Her education was of the purest and highest type, for her father, a man of no small ability, had been her teacher. Like a pure, torrent- UNDER THE CHASTENING. washed valley, nestling at the foot of a towering cliff, so their humble cottage had been to the stately magnificence of Merlswood, the ancestral home of the Whittingtons. Always, from a wondering, bright-eyed child, Edna had thought the young gentle- men at Merlswood something more than simply merry, mischief-loving boys. How well she remembered the first time that Basil had given her any notice whatever, It had been one bright July day whenshe was fourteen years of age, and Basil was home on his summer vacation. Between the cottage and the chapel was a shallow, rippling stream of water, spanned by a rustic foot-bridge, and Edna, child-like, was wading up and down the stream, under the shade of the large trees that overhung the bank. The quick bark ofa dog caused her to raise her head swiftly, and a blush of shame overspread her face as, with startled eyes, she beheld Basil upon the foot-bridge, gazing down upon her in evident amusement and admira- tion. In her simplicity the young girl did not dream of the lovely picture she made, with her broad-brimmed sun-hat pushed back from her arch face, her gold- brown hair in waves and curls about her fair brow, her perfectly-molded shoulders only half-concealed by her modest pink calico dress, and her small, brown hands lifting her skirts from contact with the water, displaying feet and ankles white as alabaster, and symmetrical as those of Aphrodite. ‘‘A modern Psyche, as I live!’’ Basil exclaimed. ‘‘ Hello, Queen Mab, shall I come down and assist you to the shore?” A ripple of saucy mirth overspread the uplifted face, and Edna quickly replied: ‘*No, sir, Mr. Basil. I came here with- out assistance, and I am fully able to re- turn in the same way.”’ ‘¢ Just like a girl’s independence,’’ Basil responded ; ‘‘ but you have the advantage of me, inasmuch as you are acquainted with my name, while I am in despair be- cause of my ignorance in regard to yours.”’ Another roguish glance scintillated from the merry brown eyes under the be- coming sun-hat, and a sweet laugh came from the rosy lips of the girl. ‘¢ How terrible! I have lived here all my life. I am Edna Morrison,”’ she said,

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ce, at si] with an expression on her face that plainly said, ‘* Now, if you are the gentle- man you ought to be, you will proceed on your way, and relieve my embarrass- ment.” Basil understood her desire, but he had a half-notion to remain, just to tantalize her, she looked so saucy and sweet. ‘¢Why, so you are Edna Morrison? You have grown so handsome that I did not recognize you,”’ he replied, with a sweeping bow. ‘‘ Your father is our rec- tor, [remember. Look out for me, Edna, I shall attend chapel to-morrow, just to see how my water-nymph appears with her shoes on.” With a backward glance of admiration, and a ringing laugh, he called to his dog and passed on, while Edna, her cheeks still glowing with shame, hurried to the bank, declaring in her mind that boys were a nuisance, and always around when they were not particularly wanted. A few friendly boy and girl chats upon the rustic bridge followed, then the vacation was over, Basil had returned to his studies, and Edna was left to treasure up every word and glance of the hand- some fair haired boy, and to wonder when she would see him again. The next summer Basil returned, and with him afellow-student to remain during the vacation. This was the beginning of Edna’s acquaintance with handsome Hugh Lacy. What need to tell the story? Hugh Lacy, fromthe first, was like oneenchanted with the modest loveliness of the young girl,and sought in every way to win her heart; but vain his task. Basil, merry, careless boy, was the Adonis of her fancy, and without the ask- ing, she had given him all the love of her pure innocent girl heart. It was some time before Basil understood the meaning of Hugh’s solitary afternoon rambles, and then he only stumbled upon the solution accidentally. One morning, after a tiresome hunt, he had halted at the gate of the parsonage to rest, and have a little chat with Edna, and, upon taking his leave, forgot his gun. Of course he could have dispatched a servant for it, but the thought of another glimpse of the fair Edna was not unpleasant to him, and after a refreshing nap, he UNDER THE CHASTENING. 23 went merrily down the hillside to the little cottage. As he was crossing the bridge, he be- held a sight that aroused all the slumber- ing passion of his soul, and caused him, for the first time, to look within his own heart. Edna, in her neatly-fitting white dress, was sitting in the shade of a tree, her face flushed with eagerness, and her dusk eyes luminous with a new delight, while at her feet Hugh was reclining, reading in clear thrilling tones, the latest novel, and occasionally lifting his passion- filled eyes to the enraptured face before him. That moment Basil understood not only the reason that his friend did not desire company in his afternoon rambles, but, like the sudden flash of a powerful light, he comprehended how dear Edna was to him. After that Basil was not long in learning his fate, and ere the young men had returned to college, Basil and Edna had plighted their troth, while the heart of Hugh was burdened with the bitterest despair. Richard Whittington had thought and planned for a higher alliance for his first- born, but after trying to reason with his boy, he was wise enough to realize that opposition would be useless, and reluc- tantly, he gave his consent to their marriage, which was solemnized the fol- lowing year, after Basil had completed his college course. The health of Edna’s father had been failing for some time, and soon after her marriage he was laid to rest near the little chapel that he had loved so much, and where he had served so faithfully. All this had passed through Edna’s mind while she had been sitting quiet and sad, vividly realizing that the first real trouble of her life had sprung into exist- ence at the very threshold of her joy. With a deep sigh, she rose and crossed the room, and as she lifted the crimson portiere, an eager, loving light came into her eyes, and a smile to her lips; then she passed into the adjoining apartment dedicated to the innocent child- dreams of her darling—her winsome Beulah. Standing beside the dainty couch of her baby girl, Edna gazed down upon the dimpled, sleep flushed face, with a rush of tenderness that was almost a pain in

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24 THE CHILDREN OF THE OLD YEAR. her heart, and thoughts strange and tor- turing, passed swiftly through her mind, leaving their sting, as the fierce relentless fire leaves its blackened mark of ruin. What if something should deprive her of her child? What ifshe were forced tolive on, for years, without her sweet prattling voice and loving kisses ? Whence had come the heart question? Who had whispered the cruel suggestion to her loving soul ? Can it be that in the mystic, unfathom- able beyond, some unknown influence finds anchorage in our hearts of flesh, and responds to our sorrow or joy? Have we a second self, wise beyond humanity, that would warn us of danger, even while it does not possess the power to avert it? Ah, who can tell. For one moment the young mother reached out her arms, as if to snatch the slumbering child to her breast and flee from some nameless, shapeless, madden- ing evil that seemed to fill the room with its whisperings. Then a smile of trust and assurance came to her fair face, and bending over her child, she left a kiss, soft as the caress of a summer zephyr and pure as the heaven-given dew upon the rosy lips, and with a lingering glance of mother- devotion, she passed into her own room. [TO BE CONTINUED. ] The Children of the Old Dear. BY LOUISE R. BAKER. They kneel by his side in the great wide hall, Sto silently in from the windy night As the death-light creeps to the faded eyes And the death-shadow flits on the sombre wall. Grief clasps the brave hands in her own and sighs, Joy lays her bright cheek on the heaving breast, His darling Laughter is weeping now As gently she tenders a last caress. A silver note from the steeple bell, A merry note that was waked too soon; Delight draws closer to kiss his robe, Wrapped in the glow of the midnight moon, Lost in the waves of the flowing hair Regret’s small fingers. He shall not hear! Sweet Hope still watches the throbbing heart With an arm encircling the trembling Fear, A glad, wild song from the steeple bell, Regret stoops over—he does not hear. Who comes? A flutter of baby wings, Through the song and thesobbing draweth near; The moonbeams play with a jeweled crown, Soft lips are pressed to the dead year’s ring, A burst of melody, loud and clear— “ The King is dead, long live the King.” tee C+

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The Bells of the Octagon House. BY MARGARET SPENCER, . BOVE everything else inthis 2 world, I would rather meet a ghost! and I never will let the bells of that Octagon House ring while Iam there, and not see the ringer ! I’ve made up my mind to that !”’ ‘¢ You are a goose! and I wish father would leave you at home, Gypsy Fairfax. I know well enough that you Il get me into some scrape, and disgrace the whole family. Father wants you to be a young lady for once in your life, and I’m sure you're old enough to begin.” Near the close of the last century Colonel John Taylor, one of the most famous men of his time, built the ‘‘ Octa- gon House,’’ which now stands on the corner of Eighteenth street and New York avenue in Washington. George Wash- ington was his intimate friend, and per- suaded the Colonel to invest some of his immense fortune in the new Federal city, He was educated at Cambridge, England, and during his life at the Capital four of his former classmates were sent as minis- ters to the United States. With an in- come of $75,000 a year, a country estate at Mt. Airy, Va., with race horses, five hundred slaves, brigs and schooners built by his own subjects, iron mines of great value on his own land, he was princely in wealth and entertainments. The great, odd Octagon House was a whim of the Colonel’s, and had always had the reputation of being haunted. Just one month after its occupancy there was a wild storm. It came along the shores of Maryland and Virginia with great violence. The negroes thought ‘‘de day ub jedg- ment had cum suah!’’ They huddled together in the kitchen, and groaned and prayed. That night an ‘‘ awful rumbling”’ was heard, the wall shook, and all the bells in the house rang at once. So much for tradition; but it is an authenticated fact that every night at the same hour the bells did ring ! After the burning of the White House the Madisons lived there for a year. Scholars, diplomats in glittering regalia, Justices of the Supreme Court, officers of the war in full dress, all the splendor of “Dolly Madison’s reign,’’ met in the haunted house. Stories of the bells were carried over the seas, but no ringing ghost ever could be found. In 1890 the story is told with awe by the colored people, and with interest by the white. ‘«In good old colonial times when we lived under the king,’’ cues were very long, and patches very large. Alexandria was the big city of that time. The slave industry filled all the great warehouses, grain and tobacco from Maryland’s fertile hills poured into the storehouses, and foreign ships sailed up our own Potomac to carry them away. Baltimore and Phila- delphia came to this rich city to buy goods, It was called ‘‘The City’’ by all the neighboring gentry, whose social qualities were charming and brilliant. Now this is how wild, little Gypsy Fair- fax. came to the famous Octagon House. ‘¢The Fairfaxes lived everywhere! and owned everything,’’ the Colonel often said, when speaking of his friend and neighbor, Gypsy’s father, William Fairfax, a near descendant of Lord Fairfax. For the holidays Peggy and Gypsy were invited to Washington. The Taylor’s had no children of their own, and were very fond of their young guests. Peggy was twenty years old, fair, tall and stately. Serene and dignified like her father; but the ‘‘ belle of Louisiana,’’ who married the young rich Virginian, had given to her lit- tle daughter the flashing of black eyes, the saucy tongue, and fearless spirit of her own girlhood. Madam Fairfax reigned in the beautiful Alexandria home, with all the gay ‘‘fes- tivities kept up,’’ which for many years made her famous, and this visit to ‘* dear

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26 Colonel Taylor and his wife’’ must be ‘¢ with‘ father to chaperon ‘the: girls.”’ Peggy’s real name was Elizabeth Taylor Fairfax, but for short, Peggy. Gypsy did great honor to the high scunding name of Josephine Montaliér Fairfax, from the Louisiana Montaliérs; but Gypsy suited her, and perfectly suited her friends. As the family carriage rolled down the wide avenue of magnolias and pink ole- anders; past the old-fashioned garden of hollyhocks, roses and sweetest of pinks— for they grew a wilderness of rich Southern warmth and color; after ‘‘good-byes’’ and ‘‘good-byes’’—Mr. Fairfax tucked Gypsy close beside him, and said: ‘‘ Now, the Fairfaxes will be proud of the French side of the family, Gyp! We expect you to do us great honor, on this first visit to our Capital.’’ ‘¢ Yes,” chimed in Peggy, who had spent one winter with Mrs. Taylor; ‘I do hope you will leave your escapades at home, and not mortify ustodeath; Mamma said she was afraid you would forget where you were all of a sudden.” Gypsy leaned a little closer against her father’s arm, and tossed the piles of feath- ers that nodded and bobbed about on her wide black hat, and said : ‘©You need give yourself no alarm, Miss Elizabeth Taylor-Fairfax! I shall conduct myself equal to my position ! ”’ ‘¢ Equal to your position! ’’ scornfully replied Peggy. Major Fairfax laughed, as he always did, at the two pretty daughters; for really they loved one another well, and sharp speeches were ‘‘ only skin-deep, he said. Old Colonel Wise, of Baltimore, with his wife and only son Richard, the twenty: year-old heir to all the ‘‘ Wise”’ estates in Maryland, were among the holiday guests; and greatly to the joy of Miss Gypsy, for Dick had told her pri vately, that ‘‘there was no use in allow ing ghosts to walk about that Octagon House unseen. To which piece of wis- dom Gypsy said : ‘* Amen!”’ Many a jolly ride Dick had enjoyed in the great coach with its ‘short stop for passengers,’’ its fresh relay of horses, or a good dinner from ‘Mine host of the Royal George,” with the tooting horn, and the jolting swinging motion, as it THE BELLS OF THE OCTAGON HOUSE. rolled over the road from Alexandria to Washington and Baltimore. He and Gypsy were quite ready to enjoy the ghosts. Ten days had already gone. Dinners, balls, and musicalés had passed undis- turbed by one solitary bell, or the vision of one longed-for ghost! Gypsy bore herself like a Montaliér— the Colonel adored her ; the Madam loved her; the guests admired her, and Dick was ‘gone past hope,’’ his old father said; ‘* but they are but children,’’. he added. The last dinner was to be given. ‘‘The party would be broken up to-morrow, the guests journey homeward.”’ ‘‘ Dick, this is our last chance. I sat up all alone last night on the stair, till] almost froze to death, watching for ghosts; and I want you to get up just at two o’clock—and meet me on the stairway by the little corner room. I’ve examined the place thoroughly, and know where all the bell wires run. Aunt Cyndy says she hears the bells every week up there, when the family are all asleep. 1’ll- show ’em the family are awake this night !’’ ‘¢ Quite a scheme, Gyp—I’ll be there! Shall I dress in white, or wear my court clothes? ” ‘* Dick, don’t make fun now; for really, I do believe that if people tried to inves- tigate this mystery—” ‘«Whew, Gyp—what big words! But we—you and I—will in-ves-ti-gate. There comes the Colonel! ” ‘¢ Well, my little love—and this is to be the grandest of your conquests, I hear. Finer costumes, more minuets, better music, and—suppose you shou/d hear the bells ! ” ; Gypsy sprang down the stairs with a bound, tugged at the Colonel’s sleeve, and asked : ‘¢Do you ever hear them your own- self? Don’t you try to hear them?” ‘« Well, you see,’’ replied the old gen- tleman, with a funny twinkle in his eyes, ‘you see I can’t sit up all these cold nights, and get the rheumatism—and die, and all that—just for ghosts !” ‘«But why don’t you make somebody else sit up?”’ ‘The truth is, Gyp, there are ne ghosts. This notion of haunted houses oe TF rts a ee ae ee ae ee ee a ae ae ee ed QOdarre a —_“ PR tA « we

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1 to and the ers, dis- ion Sail ved ick her The the sat lI ts; wo by ed ere Lys re, OW e! irt y; S- ut to er ne e; i- THE BELLS OF THE OCTAGON HOUSE. 27 is all stuff—run along now and see how péautiful you can look to-night.” The colonel put his arms around her slim, little figure; gave her a good, big kiss, and passed on. ‘¢ Wife, that child is still possessed with a desire to see ghosts in this house. I wouldn’t have any one frighten her for the world. She is such a nervous witch, her eyes fairly blaze with curiosity.” The colonel’s wife went calmly on with preparations for the evening, giving Gypsy no further thought. What long-ago-days in Washington! Steamboats the wonder of the wold ; rail- roads undreamed of; turnpikes scarcely begun; stage-coaches slow and lumber- ing. The daughter of oneSenator, who wished to be one of the belles of the Capi- tal, rode fifteen hundred miles on horse- back by her father’s side. Thus, lovely women, in those days, came to make up our Washington society. The guests had all arrived at the Tay- lor mansion. The lovely hostess—with a high ruff, and cap of exquisite lace; a filmy shawl of lace over the black satin gown—stood beside her white haired hus- band in the reception room, shaking hands with each guest as they came in. Peggy and Gypsy were in scant gowns of Jose- phine style; the short waists of white silk, short, full sleeves, and small creamy lace fichus over their girlish shoulders ; close bands of hair, fastened with pearls, and around their throats, necklaces of rare stones from the ‘‘ treasure chest ’’ of the old Montaliérs. Small coronet combs crowned their pretty heads, and ‘the Fairfaxes were not ashamed !”’ The tall wax candles burned on the mantels; the tables were loaded with all the good things money could buy. The wealth and beauty of old Virginia and sunny Maryland met in the Octagon House that winter’s night. ‘I’m going,’’ said Dick, a little after midnight. ‘Going, where ?’’ asked the little, sparkling, black-eyed girl on the stairway, dressed in white, and glittering in neck- lace and comb. ‘*Why! don’t you know? Going to . get off these fine clothes, and dress for the ghost !’’ ‘‘Oh, Dick, you are such a stupid. Dress! What dress do you want? If you are cold put on your overcoat. It’s almost time now. Aunt Cyndy says they never ring later than one ortwo! It did seem as if the people would stay all night.”’ . Never did Peggy want to talk so long before. Never were the lights so long blazing down stairs. At last, Peggy’s door was shut, and the house was still. Half: past one, and a voice, in a whis- per, said, ‘*Gyp, where are you? I’m ready.”’ In a huge cloak of Peggy’s—Gypsy couldn’t find her own—with the skirt gathered up over the brown dress be- neath, and thrown over her arm, Gypsy stood outside her door. Her cheeks flamed red under her rich, dark skin, and her eyes shone like stars in the dark. ‘*Go ahead, Gyp! I'll follow close so nothing willcatch you.”” Gypsystuffed a scrap of a handkerchief in her lips, and laughed. Up, up, up, to the top of the house. Not a footstep could be heard on the velvet carpets. The great, hanging, brass lamps, in the lower hall, gavea dim light, but the tower-room was total darkness. *¢Go in there, Dick, and I will sit on the upper stairs and watch. When I hear a sound I'll let you know.” Dick crept inside the tower-room. Gypsy curled up like a ball on the stairs. Two o’clock—half- past. ‘‘I say, Gyp, this is a humbug. I’m chattering and shivering, and most scared to death beside !’’ ‘‘What scares you?’’ asked Gypsy, sarcastically. ‘¢ May be you don’t hear all the rats nibbling and the spirits creeping on the roof, and—’’ ‘« Hush, Dick; if you are afraid, go to bed! Jam going to sit here till break- fasttime! Oh! hark—listen! ’”’ A bright light flashed up and down the lower hall, disappeared, then flashed again, like a large lamp, or a fire blazing. Gypsy sprang back inside the dark room, close to Dick, and whispered : ‘¢ Somebody is coming this way. What shall we do, Dick? ”’ ‘‘Do? Why stand still, and let ’em come. This is getting intcresting.’’ Gypsy’s heart almost came through her thick coat.

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28 THE BELLS OF THE OCTAGUN HOUSE. ‘‘ Hark! Oh, Dick! and she caught him by the arm. I hear the—the bells— Oh, it is !—it is!” Far off, then nearer, nearer, louder and louder the bells all rang at once ! Dick struck a match, held it close to the wires that were fastened on the tower wall. Gypsy looked; put her small hand on one; but there was novibration. They ran across the hall—as silent as the dead. The bells hung near the doors of each sleeping room. They ventured to the second floor, and Dick bravely examined them; but no movement of the tiny clapper, nor vibration of the wire. The ringing again grew farther off. ‘¢I’m going down to the kitchen, Dick. A dozen bells hang on the wall. I looked at them to-day. I'll never give this up! —never !—if we perish trying !”’ ‘¢But, Gyp; see here,” whispered Dick. ‘It’s almost time for the servants to be up. I’ve got enough myself! You may hear this confounded ringing till you’re gray; but nothing will ever be seen. The family all gave it up hundreds of years ago.” ‘¢That’s a long time.’’ Gyp sighed, pushed her heavy cloak back from her poor, little, stumb.ing feet, but gave Dick a scornful flash of her determined black eyes, and proceeded to go down the stairs. Dick followed. ‘¢Oh, Gyp,”’ he said, as the outer door was reached, unlocked, and the frosty air rushed into their faces; ‘‘ I say, let’s give it up.” ‘*T will not. I’m going to the kitchen this very minute.”’ Now, kitchens and the servants’ quar- ters, in those days, were some little dis- tance from the house. Colonel Taylor had built snug, small rooms, just across the court, for his house-servants; but the kitchen was only astep away from the ‘* gallery’ or back porch, and joined to it by brick wallsand asnug roof. Through this dark passageway Gypsy ran with all her might. Dick could hardly keep up with her. The wide, low room was dark but for the sombre shadows, here and there, made by the half- burned logs in the fire place. The big fire-dogs stood yp tall and black in the faint firelight ; and the burned, blackened, stone hearth was a rich foreground of reds and browns against the gray film of smoke that puffed now and then from a stray bit of wood. Long rows of shining tins stood in the open cupboard beside the southern chim- ney. ‘The kettles, pots and heavy lids leaned against the chimney-place, a threatening bank of darkness. Gypsy stood in front of the coals, put out her small, cold hands to warm hem, Somehow, she shivered and her teeth chattered. It might have been the cold wind, for she forgot to shut the door. ‘¢ Dick, I surely saw somebody just be- hind us, in the dark passage. Awfully tall and pale.’’ Gyp laid her hand on Dick’s arm. ‘¢ I didn’t see anything tall, nor white; but I declare, Gypsy Fairfax! you're growing crazy about this silly thing, and Dick jumped, clapped both hands to his ears, caught Gypsy by the sweeping cloak and dragged her across the room. Slowly—faintly—far off—the bells began to ring. They crouched in the darkest corner and listened. Clang ! clang! like a church bell, just over their heads. ‘They both raised their eyes to the small dark wires and bells on the smoked walls. Not one tiny move- ment, nor vibration! Gypsy made one sudden bound toward them, one desperate look, as she threw off her cloak, jumped into a chair, and with the flickering fire- light across her white face, she exclaimed, ‘“*T will see who rings these bells !”’ A sudden flame showed the open door. The wind drew the fire up the wide, dark fire-place, and moaned up and down the passageway. The coals grew more alive and glowing. Gypsy got down off the old chair and leaned her head against the wall in silence. Ding-a-ling-ding-ding, the bells rang one after another, like the different parts in an old fugue tune. Something passed Gypsy, slowly passed. It brushed her dress, and she heard a low muttering like a voice. In the shadow of the fire-place it stood a moment, then knelt down before the red coals and poked long, thin fingers in the ashes, muttering meanwhile. Swift and noiseless Gypsy sprang to the door. It was shut. The figure moved timidly to- ward her. Allin ashivering heap, Gypsy fellon the floor. Shrieks rang through the

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THE BELLS OF THE OCTAGON HOUSE. 29 on House from the tower-room to the kitchen. Wild calls for help, like some one in agony ; then it grew still. «‘ Be-fo de-Lawd, Miss Gypsy, whar 7s you bin? Chile! chile! you done tek old Cyndy’s bref clar away! ”’ Gypsy opened her black eyes upon old Cyndy’s black face with rapture. She threw both arms around her neck and sob- bed. ‘‘ l’veseen the ghost ; I’ve seenit!”’ ‘‘Now, honey, you po’ lamb, you is done skeered to def. Whar és you bin?” Out of the gloom leaped the blaze of logs. Cyndy had just put on the coals, blowing them into flame. Gypsy leaned against her live ghost and shuddered. «Dar aint nobody a-stirrin’, honey ; tell Aunt Cyndy, in de name ub sense, whar you is come from.”’ ‘“‘Oh, what will papa say, and the colonel? Oh, dear! and where is Dick? Take me to my room quick, auntie, be- fore anybody sees me.”’ ‘Dick! Mars’r Dick? Ef I cotch dat young rascal gitten my lamb inter dis yer scrape—ef—. Oh Lawd, chile, dar is! —I ’clar to grashus dar is ole mass’r his- self, and missus, and dar am your pa!” Well, it was a pity, but it was far too late to run. A tall gentleman walked hurriedly into the room. He was fol- lowed by the colonel in a flowing flannel robe. The mistress of the house, with Peggy, both wrapped in shawls, and half adozen figures grouped themselves in the dark doorway with panic-stricken faces. PoorlittleGypsy ! Shegaveonesharpcry of relief, and was lying in her father’sarms. No one spoke. All looked at Gypsy; then at the tall figure of Cyndy, as she began pulling her clothes together hastily. ‘‘Yo’ see, master, I dun walk in heah to poke up de mornin’ fire, an’ I seen some outlandish objects in dar,’’ pointing to the corner of the room, ‘‘an’ I sed lou’, ‘I guine ter see what dar, when, befo’ de good Lawd, dis yer darlin’ chile jes give a lep an’ a cry and fell down fer dead! Now, mass’r whar is she bin an’ who done do sich a trick?” “Of course, of course !’’ growled the colonel; ‘‘ those bells ! and some frightful stories told the child by some fool!” «Gypsy, my darling,” said her father, tenderly, ‘tell us all about it when you get Some sleep and some breakfast. Never Vout, CXXII—No, 3. mind, now; stop crying; and nobody blames you.”’ ‘« But, papa! dear papa! I’ve seen the ghost! Seen it withmy owneyes ! The bells all rang and rang, and the spirit walked. Yes—walked straight up tothe fire, and—’”’ ‘¢Honey! Lamb! Jes—old Cyndy walked in} dar isnosperrit! Dem bells allus rings towar’ mornin’—I tole ye so.”’ A tremendous effort on Gypsy’s part to be womanly ; but forgotten, was the pride of all the Fairfaxes! the pride and cour- age of the Montaliérs! The little black head is close buried in her father’s breast, her sobs and nervous shivers tell the whole story of the night watch and the ghosts ; but she was never convinced that Cyndy was the tall figure in white who followed her through the open door. As the guests of that winter’s night sat about the open fires next day and talked, the colonel said, ‘‘ This bell ringing is a fact.’” Last New Year’s we sat in the dining-room with our friends until one o’clock. The bells all rang—rang at once. One gentleman, an unbeliever in mysteries, and a very powerful man, jumped to the bell rope, only to be lifted bodily from the floor. He was unsuccess- ful in stopping the ringing. I saw this with my own eyes! The ringing lasted halfan hour! The next day I had every wire and bell taken down, and all hung in different places. Never since has any vibration been seen ; but occasionally the sound of slow ringing. I heard it last night; got up; took a candle and went through the halls, so to be sure that my little Gypsy was asleep, and no listening for it. She had seemed so determined to ‘*hunt up the ghost.”” I found no one about, and went to my room, ‘¢One summer ’’ the colonel went on, ‘‘we went abroad, leaving a Catholic family in the house. They had the priest summoned, and prayers offered; but neither ‘exorcism’ nor prayers availed.’” The colonel laughed heartily. ‘* You see we can’t throw away the house, nor can we do without bells! They don’t harm us, and my poor ‘little love’’ up stairs is the first and only one who has ever seen the ghost of the Octagon House, or really caught one ringing its bells!” And Gypsy had to confess to Peggy that ‘‘ she was quite satisfied.’’

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QA Gold Thimble. BY HEATHER BELL. EARLY all the morning the three girls had spent in Ag- y nes’ little par- f= lor, and Sibyl N_ Dagon was ly- ing on a sofa, reading. She had evi- dently, how- ever, been listening to the conversation of the other two, and she had learned for certain a fact which be- fore she had only suspected. ‘¢Clarissa, will you hold this skein of silk for me? It will only take a few minutes,’’ Agnes had said, and her little friend had come forward with both white hands outstretched to receive the silken threads. ‘¢Oh, what a pretty thimble you have on !’’ said Clarissa, bending to admire the bright, golden thimble on Agnes’ finger. ‘‘Yes—I was stitching the border of this purse Iam making. It zs pretty, and a gift from—somebody !’’ She gave a soft laugh, and her fair face looked as if it had borrowed some of the crimson from the silk she was winding. Had she not been so occupied she must have noticed the almost deathly pallor of the face before her, for Clarissa Vernon was a simple, innocent, dove-like little creature, who had not yet learned to mask her emotions from observation. **To tell you the truth,’’ continued Agnes, ‘‘it would fit your little hand better than mine. It’s a tiny bit small for my finger, but I think it will wear smooth, and so I would not trouble Alec to change it.’’ ‘* Alec !’’ said Clarissa, sharply. ‘* Why, yes! Itold you it was a present from Alec Thorndyke, didn’t I?” “You said from ‘ somedody,’ and, of course, I thought you meant—” _ ‘* Well, he is somebody and everybody to me now, you know! I have promised to marry him very soon, Clara dear !”’ 3° The skein of silk fell from Clarissa’y fingers in a soft mass on the floor, in much danger of a tangle. ‘“Oh, excuse me! How awkward] am! But I always thought it wasa—” — ‘¢ Who, for mercy’s sake ?”’ ‘¢ Why, Robert Hayford, of course!” ‘*What, Bob? Oh, no, indeed! Bob is a dear fellow, and has always been like the best of brothers to me, but I have no further claim upon him, I assure you!” And she gave a merry laugh as she took the last round of silk from Clarissa’s hand, Thus released, the girl turned to re sume her seat in a frame of mind border. ing on ecstacy, her surprise and happiness were so great. She had forgotten all about Sibyl Dagon, and now encountered her gaze fixed upon her with an expression both peculiar and startling. ‘«T know your heart’s secret,”’ it seemed to say, ‘fand I am concerned in this matter. You love Robert Hayford—so do I. Beware how you cross my path !” She was certainly a more dangerous rival than the sweet and gentle Agnes, though Clarissa had never before thought of her in that character. She was a beautiful woman, with fine dark eyes and rich, oriental complexion, but with a sinister, thin-lipped mouth that had always made Clarissa mistrust her, though she could hardly have ex- plained the feeling. She was too true and simple-hearted herself to understand duplicity in others. As Robert came into the room, Sibyl rose from the sofa and walked over to the fire. She leaned on the mantel, with her long white hand buried in the luxuriant masses of her lustrous black hair, while the soft folds of her cream-colored morn- ing-gown fell around the tall, slender figure in graceful, undulating lines. Of course, she was posing for effect—had she not reason? ‘«T move that we go for a sleigh-ride after luncheon!” she said, suddenly. “It is a positive sin to waste such a heavenly day by staying in the house!”

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A GOLD THIMBLE, 3 ‘¢IT second the motion,’’ said Robert, and there was no dissenting voice heard. «Carried without opposition,’’ he laugh- ed. ‘The sleighing is splendid, and the horses will be proud to carry such fair freight.’’ He looked at Clarissa, and smiled as he spoke. Sibyl Dagon tapped the fender impa- tiently with her slippered foot, but she was far too wise to show any displeasure. ‘The horses shall be gratified,’’ she said, lightly. ‘“‘ Suppose we dress before luncheon, so that we may be all ready to goafter!’’ and she went towards the door. A littleexclamation from Agnes stopped her: “T can’t find my gold thimble any place !”’ ‘‘ Any place but the right place, which is not far off, I’ll wager,” laughed Robert. ‘You saucy boy, you know I never mislay my things.”’ ‘When did you have it last ?’’ “But a few minutes ago, when Clar- issa and I were winding thissilk. I can’t think what I did with it after that.”’ “Oh, I’m so sorry! We must find it,”’ said Clarissa. **T’ve looked into every vase, box, or basket in the room where I might have dropped it. Where can it be?”’ “Oh, it has only rolled into some cor- ner, and will be sure to turn up, dear,”’ ' said Clarissa, sympathetically. ‘‘ Noone was in the room but ourselves.”’ “Yes, the boy was in to take away the ashes,’’ cried Agnes, ‘‘and if the thimble tolled under the fender, he would have taken it up without noticing it.”’ “T will go at once and have him search the ashes,’’ said Clarissa, running from the room. “TI hope she will find it. There was no one else in the room, except Sibyl and Clarissa.”’ ‘And they are above suspicion,’ laughed Robert, jokingly. Sibyl had come back into the room, but had not spoken. A strange, lurid light smouldered in her dark eyes, but she waited in silence until Clarissa should re- turn. Ina few minutes she did, looking disappointed, vexed, and down-cast. ‘The man had just come and emptied the ash-barrels,’’ she said, regretfully. Robert burst into a peal of laughter. ‘« Aggie, dear, it’s going to be one of those mysterious disappearances that will never be explained,”’ he said. ‘« You would not joke if you knew how much I valued it,” said Agnes; coming back from a fruitless search under tables and chairs, Tears were in her eyes, and she left the room as she spoke. ‘‘Oh, the dear girl! I forgot the trifle was a gift from her sweetheart,’’ he said, remorsefully. “Yes, and, of course, she values it threefold on that account,’’ said Clarissa, earnestly. ‘Then she looked up and met Robert’s eyes bent upon her with an eager, questioning look in them that brought a vivid blush to her sensitive, child-like face, and she hastily followed Agnes from the room. ‘« Temptation is a strange thing,’’ said Sibyl, musingly, when left alone with Robert. ‘¢ Yes, and a terrible thing,’’ he said. ‘¢ But why suspect the boy at all? True, he may have fallen a victim to cupidity, seeing the little thing was gold, but the chances are even that he never saw it, and that it will be found much nearer home than poor Jake's pocket !’’ and he, too, left her. Miss Dagon was suddenly seized with a spasm of energy and desire to find the lost article. She overturned cushions, moved furniture, and darted about with eager sharp-sightedness. ‘¢ Ah, if I could but find it, I would even yet wrest him from her! He loves her! She has won his heart; but sepa- rated from her surely I could win it to myself! Oh, he must, he shall be mine —the only man I have ever loved!” She threw herself down in a chair, most miserable, but passionately vindictive. ‘¢ Childish simpleton! And he looks at her when / am by! Surely, man, not woman, is the incomprehensible being ! Could I but find that bauble I would secrete it among her things, so that she could not escape! I would find the key to her jewel case, or her private drawer, and place it where no one but herself ever goes. It would entrap this innocent angel so that no denial, no explanation could clear her—so that the strongest be- lief in her perfection must be staggered

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32 A GOLD THIMBLE. by such evidence and proof! But, if I can’t find that means, I will find some other to wring her heart as she has wrung mine! ’”’ The holidays were now over, and Clar- issa was about to return home. Sibyl was going tostaysome weekslonger. Clarissa had said good-bye and was waiting in the drawing-room for the carriage to come round to take her to the station, when Sibyl came in. ‘¢Oh, Miss Vernon, I am just in time to say good-bye. I had almost missed ou.”’ ’ ‘Why, I thought you brought good news, you came in so suddenly,’’ said Clarissa, almost disappointed. ‘¢ Oh, about the thimble! I fear it will never turnup! J/r. Hayford exonerates the boy from all blame, and thinks it much more likely, since you and Agnes had it between you, that its loss has a very different explanation.” ‘*Why, what can he mean? Agnes could have no object in losing her own property !’’ And she smiled in some per- plexity. . ‘'Oh, Agnes / Of course not !”’ Clarissa looked at her with wide-open, wondering eyes. ‘* Miss Dagon, I can’t think what you mean !”’ “7? I don’t mean anything! I simply repeated Robert Hayford’s words. ‘Ifthe thing is ever found, it will be much near- er home than poor Jake’s pocket,’ was what he said.”’ ‘*Do your words imply that Robert Hayford insinuates that 7 might account for the loss of Agnes’ gold thimble? That 4—that I could explain its disappear- . ance ?”’ Sibyl shrugged her shoulders. ‘*It seems stupid and absurd, of course, but I can’t undertake to regulate Robert’s thoughts, you know, nor account for his suspicions.’’ Clarissa looked at her with a quivering face, from which all color had fled, then turned and walked out to the waiting car- riage without another word. Sibyl watched her from the window, with a malignant joy in the pain she had given. ‘* Presumptuous, pale-faced creature !"’ she muttered. ‘‘If / can’t have him, at least she shall not! She could ne» speak to him on such a subject, so Igy safe.”’ And Clarissa? She felt as one strickg to the very earth ! ‘« Is it possible that he could have gai that? And I thought—oh, heavens! That then, was the cause of that strange, ip tent look, that I interpreted so differently) Oh, fool, infatuated and blind, ever § have thought of one so unworthy—om who could be small-minded enough tog misjudge me! And I loved him so—ye, even when I thought he belonged to ap. other. Ah, what shall I do? How shal I bear this shattering of my heart’s hopg —this bitter, cruel insult ?’’ Poor girl! she little thought how thor ough an actress her rival was, nor hog utterly unscrupulous in carrying out her plans. Agnes was much engaged in the preps ration of an elaborate trousseau for her approaching marriage. Both Sibyl and Clarissa had promised to be bridesmaids, but Clarissa had tried earnestly to escape, since Robert was to be the groom’s best- man. However, Agnes threatened to be beth hurt and offended if she failed to keep her promise, so she wore her pretty dress of gauzy white tissue reluctantly, More than one remarked upon the change that a few months had wrought upon the girl’s appearance. In truth, the experi- ence of grief had developed her froma thoughtless, confiding child, to a reserved and self-contained woman, bearing her trouble in secret, with no outward sign. Many a guest looked at her with admir- ing eyes, even while the bride swept by ia her robe of satin and lace. Robert never took his glance from her, but she bore his gaze with a haughty, indifferent grace, though the sapphire eyes glowed in a face of raarble whiteness. The bride had gone. All the tradi- tional offerings of good luck had been hurled at the bridal carriage, and the horses had not taken fright. At the ball that night, Clarissa had no lack of partners, but she refused to dance. She was sitting in an alcove alone, when Robert came up to her. ‘¢ Will you not give me this waltz?” he asked. ‘‘ But no, you are tired. I should not ask for such a favor.’’

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Never o lay Tickey ve Said That re, In ‘ently! ver th —One 1 to % to an. , shall hope thor. how t her Tepa- r her and aids, “ape, en Id «Tam not at all tired, Mr. Hayford,”’ she answered, coldly, ‘‘ but I do not care to dance.”’ Robert bit his lip, her words were so evidently intended as a rebuff. Then he sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘¢ Miss Vernon,”’ he said, softly, ‘‘ you seem displeased. At times I have even thought that you avoided me. /Zave I offended you? Oh, pray, pray, tell me how, that I may remedy the fault at once. Believe me, nothing would grieve me so much as to think—’’ She turned, and looked him full in the face. Then—why was it? The blood rushed to her own in a torrent! Over her white throat and pearly ears, to the gold- en rings of her shining hair that clustered on the forehead, it surged in a tell-tale blush. Her eyes fell, and she trembled beside him. - It was all false, she felt that it was. That woman had lied to her! He loved her! She saw it in every line of his face, heard it in every tone of his voice. Ah, it was she that had wronged Aim/ Robert hardly comprehended the sud- den change, but he seized the auspicious moment. “Clarissa, I love you! Darling, if you will let me love you; if you will be my wife, I will spend a lifetime in atoning for the fault, whatever it be !’’ Clarissa slowly raised her eyes. They met those of Sibyl Dagon, who, as she played the dance music in quick, true time, gazed at Clarissa with a contemptu- oussmile on her cruel lips. ‘‘ So,”’ they seemed to say, ‘‘proud as you are, you can yet love the man who thinks so mean- ly of you!” Slowly the color ebbed away from Cla- rissa’s face. Surely this woman had cast an evil spell over the girl, depriving her of the power to use her own judgment. She turned to her lover with an icy haughtiness. ‘Mr. Hayford, you have not offended me. That, I think, would be impossi- ble!’”” with a scornful curl of the lip, “but you have misunderstood me. I have given you no right to speak such words tome. I have no—no regard for you!’’ Robert was thunderstruck. He flushed violently, but when he left her Clarissa A GOLD THIMBLE. 33 thought she never before had seen a man so pale. He rose to his feet. ‘‘Miss Vernon,” he said, quietly enough, though his voice shook, ‘‘ you are quite right—I fave misunderstood you!” And, with a slight inclination of the head, he walked away. The dancing ceased. Sibyl finished her playing with a series of brilliant runs and chords. For the present Clarissa’s foe was triumphant, and she knew it. Two years passed away. Robert had gone abroad on business for his father’s firm, and had but lately come back. Clarissa had kept up her friendship with Agnes, who lived near her old home. One evening she had come to stay with her, as she often did, and was surprised and secretly distressed to find her old lover there. ‘*See, Clarissa, said Agnes, taking up a silken ball from which she had been knitting, ‘‘this is what is left of the very skein of silk we were winding the day I lost my thimble. How odd that it should never have come to light! It must have disappeared in the ash-barrel, for I’m sure Jake was honest. See, I’m makinga pair of stockings for baby of this—won’t they be sweet ?”’ She let the ball fall to the floor as she spoke, and it rolled away. Clarissa looked furtively at Robert, but not the slightest change of expression showed that he had noticed the reference to the gold thimble, though he had been listening, for he smiled at Agnes’ last remark. She changed her needles and pulled her thread. What was that sharp clicking sound against the frame of an ottoman? Agnes gave a delighted cry, and darted down upon the floor. ‘Qh, look. It is my gold thimble! It has been in the ball all this time! You remember, Clara, dear, I had it on my finger, and never missed it from it. How funny.”’ And she held up the little shining thing to her two hearers, so darkly fateful ! Robert put it on the top of his little finger. ‘“‘A tiny thing to cause trouble! ’’ he said. ‘*You may have it now, Clarissa! It so much

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- WAITING. has come too late for me. My finger has grown much too plump!” And she ran upstairs to tell the story of its discovery to her aunt. Clarissa and Robert were alone for the first time since her scornful words had parted them. ‘he rose hastily to leave the room. ‘«Stay, Miss Vernon; do not be dis- turbed. If you wish it, I will leave the room.” She stood still a moment, neither mov- ing nor speaking. ‘Then she yielded toa sudden impulse. ‘¢Mr. Hayford, this ‘tiny thing’ has caused more trouble than you are aware of,’’ she said. ‘¢ Indeed ? What more is it responsible for?’’ ‘‘Oh, I know now I was all wrong. Sibyl Dagon told me you had said—had insinuated that I-—-that 7 had taken this thimble when it was lost !’’ He looked at her like one stupefied. ‘¢T do not understand you,” he said. ‘Qh, do not try,’’ she said, coming towards him with clasped, imploring hands. ‘‘ Only forgive me. Say that you forgive me. I must have been bewitched, —dazed.”’ ‘‘Do you mean that I believed—tha you believed I had ever said—” He looked at her with a growing hor. ror in his still bewildered face. “Tt was the cause of all my horrible and insane treatment of you,’’ she said, burying her face in her hands. He was silent for a time. Then he came to her side, and gently drew the hands from the tear-wet, remorseful face, ‘«Then you do love me, after all,” he whispered. ‘‘Ah, so dearly I love you—have ‘al ways loved you,” she said, between her sobs. ‘* But, oh, Robert, if you really love me as you say you do, never make me speak of this dreadful mistake again. Oh, dear love, I am so sorry, so ashamed, Tell me you forgive me!’’ ‘‘T do, darling; and youshall only speak of what you please, and only when you choose.”’ And he folded her in his arms and laughed kindly into the troubled face, She raised her lips to his in mute grati- tude, and what lover could have wished for a more eloquent substitute for speech? Waiting. BY LONE LEE. ’M lonely, my darling, without you, I So lonely and tired; all the day I’ve waited and watched for your coming, And now in the twilight gray, I sit by my open window Where the sunset shadows fell, And I think of the sorrowful moment When we uttered our last farewell. Perhaps, you will come to-morrow, Perchance, you may come no more; For many pass o’er our threshold, And out from our open door, With promise of speedy returning, To quiet the parting pain, But, alas, for the weary watchers, They never come back again! _ For out in the world there are faces That are fairer than those at home, And out in the world there are pleasures Inviting the young to roam; And always in city or hamlet, In the valley, or cut on the plain, Death follows, with silent sickle, Reaping the human grain. I know not what causes may hinder, Or why you do linger away, But I pray that our Heavenly Father May guard you and keep you each day, And safely at last, and together, Bring us both to that city of love, Where parting will nevermore pain us— The jasper-walled city above. _ ans cao ott et luce Gh them

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tched, —that x hor. rrible said, en he w the face, * he ve ‘al n her really make gain, med, speak you arms face, Tati- shed ech? Hrs. Elliott’s Conbversion: A HOLIDAY STORY. ES, l’vecome to spend the day, Lucy Ann. I've brought my work, an’ I don’t want to hender youa mite about yourn; an’ I'll go right at my sewin’. I can talk better when I’m to work, somehow; an’ then I’m in a hurry for this. ‘Things has kind o’ run behind to our house lately, but I don’t worry about it. I’ve turned over a new leaf this New Year’s, an’ stewin’ if every- thing ain’t done to the day an’ the min- nit is one of the things for me to leave off, as fur as I can. ‘‘l’ve been a-visitin’ down to my niece’s, Mary Ellendorf’s, an’ that’s what I come to tell you about most especial. She lives down to Granville, a wonder- ful nice place; it is most like a city in some respects. ° ‘‘T meant to go all last summer, but you know how it is on a farm, if there ain’t one thing to do there’s another; an’ when the work was all got along pretty snug for the winter, then the dressmaker was sick an’ couldn’t make my dress: an’ I couldn’t go without it no-ways, for I ain’t overstocked with dresses; an’ to go right among stylish folks an’ not be able to keep up.with the best of ’em as to looks—that ain’t me! An’ so, what with one thing an’ another, it was nigh the latter part of December ’fore I got started. ‘*T found ’em dreadful busy down to Mary’s, but they was glad to see me, an’ took me right into the midst of things, all on ’em; an’ that’s what I sot out to tell you about, an’ how I got converted. ‘¢T expected you’d open your eyes an’ ears at that, Lucy Ann, seein’ I’ve been a member in good an’ reg’lar standing BY LILLIAN GREY. this four.an’-twenty year; but I’ve found out that a body can get several different kinds of conversion, an’ not hurt their- selves. ‘‘Well, to put it into short metre an’ not keep you in suspense longer’n need- ful, I got converted in my mind an’ my idees about keepin’ holidays and birth- days, an’ givin’ presents, an’ makin’ home a happy place in gineral. Makin’ presents is one thing I’ve always sot down as a shaller custom an’ needless expense, an’ I’ve said time an’ agin if I wanted any- thing I’d ruther buy it, an’ not be be- holden to nobody; an’ let them do the same. ‘¢But, law! I never dreamed of the downright comfort an’ satisfaction an’ Christianity there was into it till now; but not to blame myself too much—it was largely due to the way I was brung up myself. I never had a birthday present, nor hung up my stockin’ a-Christmas or New Year, ’cause my folks said Santa Claus was a silly and sinful nobody—a story that evil minded folks set a-goin’, an’soon. So, you see, not knowin’ any better, I, in my turn, brung up Ezra’s children and my own, too, the same way —that is, so fur; but there’ll be a change now. ‘¢ Well, I come back from Mary’s feel- in’ dreadful bad that Christmas was over for this year, but I do hope an’ pray I'll live to see another one! However, be that as it may, I done what little I could to make New Year’s a day to be remem- bered, and that’s what I sot out to tell ou. F ‘¢ You know what kind of a man Ezra is—jest as good as gold, an’ one of the | salt of the earth in a moril an’ spiritool sense; but the most quietest and meek- est an’ slowest creetur the sun ever shone on! ‘¢He’s never been one to set up his opinion about temporal matters, an’ make other folks give in an’ manage an’ do as he says ; but, on the contrary, I’ve always

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36 MRS. ELLIOTT’S CONVERSION. had my say, an’ he'll anser: ‘Jest so, Marthy; it you think it’s best so, I’m agreed to it;’ when, if he’d a-disputed a little, an’ not let everything go so for granted, it might have been better all around, an’ I should a-had more respect for him than what I've got now. But, there! Ididn’t mean to reflect on no- body’s actions but my own; only, yesee, if I’d a-had different folks to deal with, I wouldn’t a-went on in my blind an’ head- strong way so long. ‘¢ Well, Mary’s folks ain’t rich, but I never seen folks enjoy what they have got, more’n they do, every day an’ right along. ‘In the first place, they’ve got an aw- ful pretty stove into their settin’-room. It’s got a lot of little winders all around it, so a-body can watch every separate coal burn, almost; an’ they’ve got a big lamp hung from the ceiling that gives light enough to see to read anywheres in the room, an’ a round table under that, with a red cover on it,an’ the most papers an’ magazines, an’ some books, though there was a big book-case full of them in the room besides. ‘¢ Well, if you'll believe it, there was the Odserver, their church paper; an’ Harper's Weekly, an’ Gopey’s MaGa- ZINE, an’ a daily paper, an’ their town weekly, an’ for the children there was Wide- Awake, an’ Youth's Companion— all them comin’ reg’ ler. **T told Mary—of course it wasn’t none of my business, but I’m always puttin’ in —I told her it was a big expense takin’ so many, an’ she said, ‘ Yes, but it paid big interest; the family did all enjoy ’em so, an’ after they was read an’ fresh ones come, the church paper went to an old woman too poor to take it, an’ the child- ren’s paper to a little cripple, ’an two or three of the others to the hospital an’ the young’ men’s readin’-room.’ ‘*T tell you, I felt small to see how nar- rer an’ selfish all my ideas was, when I ‘ heard that ; an’ I didn’t dictate no more. ‘« Well, the house was pleasant all the way through, but the room I was tellin’ you about seemed nicest of all, ’special when John an’ the children was all home. ‘¢ There was a real nice carpet on the floor; but my! they didn’t seem to be afraid to use it. John said that was what it was made for, an’ there’d be carpets enough left for other folks, after he an’ Mary had had their share an’ was gone on, ‘¢ The children was out a good deal, practicin’ for the Christmas doin’s in their church, an’ it was wonderful how them young ones did work, from Florence down. All of ’em helped their mother— they didn’t keep no servant—an’ each an’ every one of ’em had some private occu- pation besides in preparin’ for Christmas; an’ every single one of ’em took me into their confidence as fast as they could an’ told me their plans, an’ showed me their work, an’ asked my opinion an’ advice about this an’ that, an’ all I could say was, ‘yes,’ an’ ‘I guess so,’ an’ ‘very likely,’ an’ so on. ‘You see, I was as dumb as anything —presents an’ fixins bein’ so out of my line. I was indifferent, too, at first, only thinkin’ it a foolish waste of time, to say nothin’ of money; but ’fore many days I got as fired up with enthusiasm as they was, an’ got so anxious that Florence should embroider on her father’s slippers, an’ sew on her mother’s drawn-work apron, that I insisted on doin’ some of her other work so as to give her time for ’em. «« Every single one of ’em in that family —six in all—was doin’ or makin’ some- thin’ on thesly for the other five, to sur- prise an’ please ’em with at Christmas ; an’ I had all I could do to help ’em keep their secrets, an’ watch out when different ones was comin’, so the work could be hid; an’ John he took me out to the fur- niture store one day to help pick out a present for Mary; but I didn’t offer no advice; he knew what his mind was on. It was a willer chair, an’ a kind of a table an’ basket to hold work, combined. I never seen nothin’ jest like it afore; an’ John said Mary deserved it an’ more, not keepin’ no help; but she said they wasted so much, an’ then she wanted the child- ren to learn to work too. ‘¢Re’ly, I must git on with my story: but there I was, helpin’ them all about their matters, an’ enjoyin’ it, too, in a measure, an’ my poor family was goin’ on in their hum drum fashion, an’ no "special interest intheseason. Of course, they knew it was Christmas, an’ what it meant an’ all, an’ might be, have a little something extra for dinner. =o © - © ews hm thr fh & & & BB —_ tie

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Tpets > an’ € on. deal their them ence 2 . an’ ccu- nas ; into | an’ heir vice say yery ing nly say lays hey nce STs, on, her ily ne- ur- IS ; ep nt ur- no n. le n ot ed d- ut = 10 ey it le ‘‘I did hope, to myself, they’d break over everything for once, an’ havea real, good time behind my back, but law ! they never even thought of it, poor things! ‘¢Well, it come the day before Christ- mas, an’ Mary’s folks begun to trim up the house, an’ I took holt an’ helped ’em as well as I could—bein’ greener than the greens they was puttin’ up. Some stars an’ holly wreaths they bought all fixed, but we took cedar twigs an’ tied ’em on lines, an’ festooned ’em ’round the hall an’ rooms, an’ Florence, she fixed some letters an’ put ’em up, an’ it read ‘A Merry Christmas to this house.’ An’ another one was, ‘ Peace on earth, an’ good-will to men.’ ‘I tell you, when it was all done it looked beautiful, an’ it seemed good, too; an’ I didn’t wonder that their minister said when he dropped ina minute: ‘Isee that you have the true Christmas spirit here. Blessed are such holidays.’ “‘An’ they didn’t just think all about theirselves, neither. I was beat when I see what a lot of things they had to give away to the poor an’ sick. I told Mary I didn’t see when, with all she had to do, she found time to make the mittens, an’ aprons, an’ tack-downs, an’ hoods, an’ jelly, an’ so on, that she sent out here an’ there; an’ all of ’em had a pretty card or some reminder of the day sent with “em. ‘¢ But she said she always had it in mind a good while, an’ planned, an’ saved, an’ worked for it odd spells. I looked upon that little woman with won- der—yes, an’ envy, too. How she had the tact to think ahead, an’ know just how things was goin’ to fit in, then bring things to pass jest in the right time, an’ no stew, or fuss, or flurry about it, neither. An’ her children’s growin’ up jest like her. To see the way they sorted out their toys an’ pictures, an’ divided their nuts an’ oranges so as to have some to give away, beat all I ever see! but then I ain’t seen much. ‘I declare to you, Lucy Ann, that I said to myself a dozen times over: ‘ You old Pharisee, you! what real use have you ever been in this world, after all? Here’s Mary, not much more’n half as old, an’ so fur ahead of you in goodness an’ kindness that you ain’t worthy to sit MRS. ELLIOTT’S CONVERSION. 37 at her table an’ sleep under her roof, if you had your just deserts.’ ‘‘That’s the way I talked to myself, an’ I felt every bit of it; an’ there I’d gone down there thinkin’ to advise, an’ mebbe dictate if Isawanyoccasion. Well, all I can say is that I’m glad I knew enough to keep still, an’ learn of them something about the true meanin’ an’ use of life. ‘“‘An’ to see the children come on Christmas mornin’ to Mary’s door an’ wish her ‘ Merry Christmas ’—the littlest tots some of ’em was, an’ she give ’em all a kiss an’ a cake, or an apple; she had a hull pan full of crullers that she fried a purpose. Is’pose they came for the treat, of course, but I thought the good wishes of them innocent little ones was well worth havin’, an’ made her day happier. ‘‘T can’t tell you all about every little thing of course, but what a time they did have over their presents to each other. They was all things more or less useful, too, that would come right into play some- where. I didn’t make them no presents to speak of, only some little treats for the children; an’ I didn’t at all want them to make me any. I didn’t feel worthy of any; but they all did give me something —not of much real worth as to money value; but, I tell you, Ithink more of ’em than if I'd bought ’em. You must come over an’ I’]l show ’em to you. ‘¢Well, Christmas night we went to an entertainment in the church. There’d been sight of pains taken to get it ready, but I jedge them that spent their time an’ skill must have felt well paid when every- thing went off so beautiful. I don’t won- der the children was all in a flutter; an’ to wind up with, Santa Claus came, an’ took the presents off the tree an’ handed ’em around, an’ I must confess that I didn’t see nothin’ about his looks, or what he said, or done that was anyways wicked. ‘¢But through it all there was a little under-current of troubled thought in my mind. There was I, in the midst of all that Christmas rejoicin’ an’ beauty, an’ there was my poor family to home a-set- tin’ in the kitchen, afraid to go in the other room ’nless there was company, on account of the carpet I make sech a fuss over fearin’ it won’t last forever; an’

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38 MRS. ELLIOTT’S CONVERSION. a-trying’ to see by the poor little lamp we’re had a dozen years or more. ‘‘As for readin’, the girls prob’bly had their Sunday-school books, an’ Abie that old history he’s forever porin’ over, an Ezra the weekly Wor/d, an’ the poor print so tryin’ to his eyes of an’ evenin’. The only way that I got any comfort out of it, thinkin’ it over, was that there’d be a change in some things if I ever lived to reach home; an’ to make a beginnin’ I had John send in my subscription along with his when he renewed for Harer’s, an’ Gopey’s, an’ Youth's Companion. ‘I was able to do it, fer I always take more money than I expect to spend when I go away, an’ I bought quite a number of things that I knew would please an’ surprise my folks most to death, seein’ they never dreamed of havin’ ’em. An’ ‘nother thing, I went intendin’ to buy me a new cloak, but I didn’t; my old one ain’t quite so bad as it might be, an’ I took the money an’ bought a coal stove something like John’s, to put in the set- tin’-room to home. “Ezra an’ the girls has sometimes spoken about it, or the girls has mostly; but I’ve always said it was foolish to buy coal an’ as much wood as we’ve got onto our farm; but I changed my tune, as I told ye, when I saw what a beauty an’ a comfort acoal fire was to set by an’ watch of a cold night. ‘* Well, 1 come home three days afore New Year’s, an’ they all seemed dreadful glad to see me—more’n I should athought they would, considerin’ what a stern on- feelin’ woman I’ve been to’em in many ways. It did seem good to git home agin, too, an’ they had a fire in the box stove in the settin’-room, an’ apologized for usin’ the room, sayin’ I’d been gone so long I seemed like company. I didn’t say a word to let’em know I|’d come back any different than I went; I thought I’d let my actions speak for me the first chance. ‘*The girls had done uncommon well with the work, an’ there wasn’t a thing to complain of; an’ the next mornin’ [ took holt with new ambition, an’ done some choice cookin’ that made the girls open their eyes when I told ’em it was for our own selves, an’ not for company. ** Ye see, Lucy Ann—I’m ashamed of it, but it’s the truth—that I’ve always made more of company than of my own family, makin’ nice cake an’ settin’ it away, mebbe till it was stale if nobody happened to come; an’ certain kinds of preserves that we mustn’t have by our- selves, an’—Oh! lots of sech mean tricks! So it was no wonder that they all opened their eyes when they saw the supper-table, an’ Ezra, poor man, come on tip-toe into the pantry an’ says: ‘Who’s here?’ I told him, ‘we was,’ an’ he looked as if he thought he was dreamin’, or that I was; but I don’t know as I ever did see him enjoy a supper as he did that one, ’nless it’s several we’ve had since. ‘‘I got Abie to take me down to the Cor’ner’s day ’fore New Year’s, an’ I went into the Post Office, an’ sure enough, just as I hoped, there was the papers; so I put ’em into my sachel, an’ then we went to the freight-house, an’ I got a man to bring up the stove an’ some coal. Of course, Abie had to know about that then, an’ a more pleased boy you never seen. Well, then I bought various things ina way that I should have thought real reck- less a month before, but I’d learned to put a different value on things, an’ didn’t feel as if I was throwin’ my money away at all. ‘* Well, when that stove come you ought to have seen my folks; an’ when the man got it set up, an’ the fire was started in it, an’I told ’em it was my present to ‘em for both holidays—well, they wasn’t a mite happier than I was, after all! I had hard work to git any of ’em to go to bed that night an’ leave it, an’ the next morning they was up early, I tell you: an’ when they found that I intended ’em to use the room every day an’ evenin’, they thought there was nothin’ more to be desired. ‘¢ Well, when it come breakfast I put on each plate a package containin’ what I had been able to get together on sech short notice for ‘em, but every single thing was just what they could take im- mediate comfort an’ delight in: an’ sech a surprised lot of folks you never seen ! The only thing that worried ’em was that they hadn’t got no present for me; but I didn’t mind that: I took enough comfort givin’ ’em theirs. ‘*We had a royal good dinner that day, an’ I sent Abie down to Mis’ Smith’s with a mince pie an’ some other trifles,

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Own ’ it ody ; of Dur- ks! ned dle, nto old he as im less the - we an

knowin’ how poorly she was off jest now; an’ sech a thankful creetur’, Abie said, she was. ‘¢ Well, that night as we was all settin’ around the stove, I brought my papers an’ mag@zine out; an’ sech a time as there was agin, ’specially when they found they was to have ’em a hull year. ‘‘ Why, the young ones hung onto me, an’ kissed me as they ain’t done in years, an’ Ezra—well, he didn’t say much; it ain’t his way; but he had a dreadful hap- py, satisfied look onto his face. We ain’t got the hangin’ lamp yet, but when we do, I don’t see why we can’t take as much comfort as they do down to Mary’s. There was one thing troubled Ezra though for a day or two, until I found it out an’ re- lieved his fears. He thought I wasn’t long for this world.

IMPRISONED. 39 ‘¢T laughed, an’ told him it wasn’t dy- in’ grace I’d got, but livin’ grace; an’ that cherked him up, so’t he seems like another man now. He felt bad ’cause I didn’t git the cloak, but I told him I’d took more comfort of the money already than if I’d had forty cloaks. ‘<I wish Sary, his oldest girl, was livin’ to home now; she’s comin’ on a visit fore long, though. I think when I sot out to step-mother them two girls of his’n that I re’ly meant to do my hull duty by ’em, but I have been too strict ; I see it now; an’ Sary was so pleased to leave home, an’ go into that store, poor girl! ‘¢ But I’m thankful I got my eyes open, an’ heart too, fore any more of my family drifted away from me; an’ next year I hope to have still happier holidays for "em. ” Imprisoned. BY ST. GEORGE BEST. )) ITH flowing mane he proudly stands, &) Erectand firm, behind his prison bars, G © The untamed lord of torrid lands, Bearing on his broad back the woundsand scars Received at many a foeman’s hands. He seems unconscious of the crowd That come and go before his massive cage, Tormenting him with tauntings loud ; And failing to incite his soul to rage, They think his spirit broke or cowed. Not so; before his vision rise The untrod jungles of his native shore ; And closing fast his yellow eyes, He lays him in their cooling shade once more, Nor dreams he is the white man’s prize. He hears again the foes advance, He sees the crafty bushmen’s noiseless throng, With barbed spear and sharpened lance, The jungle’s thorny briers and vines among, Watching his steps with wary glance. They close around him guardedly, He springs upon them with maddened bound ; [wound, The charge, the flight, the turn, the fall, the Then comes the furious mélée, The fruitless struggle to be free.

So dreameth he, whose spirit sees Through crosses, trials, and through prison bars, His far-off youth, whose harmonies, Perchance, will be renewed in other stars, And under happier auspices.

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I. HE Filjeano house at the foot of the mountain was to be occupied at last. For ten years it stood as grim and silent as the moun- tain itself; the gray, green tints of its masonry, and the umber of its roofs, seeming at twilight to melt .into the deeper greens and browns of the mountain and to become a part of it—a portico through which one might pass to its center. The high walls surrounding the extensive grounds after the fashion of Canadian cities, combined to make it look somber, and the fact that the grounds were care- fully tended, except that no flowers were planted, and that the housekeeper, grown old in the family’s service, and yet living at the lodge, gave the house a weekly air ing, only added yet more to the solemn look. ‘The mansion seemed like a care fully-watched and embalmed body, and as utterly soulless. For years the shadow of a crime, or of a mystery, hung over the house. No one openly stated which or what it was; friends of the family politely avoided the subject as something not best to talk about, stran- gers speculated wildly, and there was an under-current of gossip running among the common folks at all times, for the extra servants who were called in to assist at entertainments in Madam Filjeano’s day, when hospitalities were on an almost princely scale, whispered strange stories of rooms which were said to be un- occupied, but from whence came dreadful sounds, shrieks, groans, and low mutter- ings. It was generally conceded that Mrs. Mallory, the housekeeper, a Seotch woman, might reveal the secret, or at least give a clue to it, but she was for- bidding in manner and reticent, and it The Filjeano Mystery. BY ADA MARIE PECK. Author of “A Modern Winter’s Tale,” “Destiny,” etc., etc. would have been a bold gossip indeed who would have approached her on the subject; or her son, who had charge of the grounds and lived in the lodge with her, and who was gruff and uncommuni- ative, barely p assing the civilities of the day with those who accosted him. When Madam Filjeano sickened and was likely to die, the news was received with unusual stir and comment, for some- how no one had ever associated death with the erect, still youthful looking woman whose imperiousness had always carried everything before it, and who had ruled her friends, as well as servants, in an autocratic manner. Even old Mr. Huson, with whom she had been at polite enmity for a quarter of a century, was heard to declare: ‘So the old madam is really flesh and blood after all, and has come to have aches and pains like the rest of us!” Then he would give a little sniff, and end by saying: ‘‘ Perhaps she will not inquire so regularly after my foot now.” A look of grim satisfaction rather than pity overspread the old man’s face as he said it, for how could he forget twenty- five years of silent warfare over a church pew—forget that Sunday after Sunday she waited that they might meet in the porch, when, to show the congregation that she at least cherished no resentment, she would smile sweetly and say as he hobbled out: ‘*Good-morning, Mr. Huson, and how is your foot to-day?’’ His audible answer was, ‘‘ Better, thank you,” al- though those who were nearest said that he invariably supplemented it with a murmured ‘‘None of your confounded business.”” . Finally that which inevitably reaches all, proud or humble, sick or poor, over- took Madam Filjeano. A slight draught, like a lurking foe, laid in wait for her, and armed with the keen knife of rheu- matic fever proved to her that she who had made light of physical ailments was just a poor, weak mortal like other people. Proud and self-repressed to the last, she bore her pain like a stoic.

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ne of th i- «‘I shall have my hair arranged as usual,’’ she would say, in response to some suggestion about her toilet. ‘I wish everything to be just as it has been. A few aches and pains needn’t revolu- tionize the world.” So when she received her symphathiz- ing acquaintances in her luxurious cham- ber, and smiled upon them from the rich silken coverlets and lace-trimmed bed- linen, with a soft bright shawl around her shoulders and a dainty lace cap on her head, they little thought that she was suffering mortal anguish. Mrs. Mallory looked upon her with admiration. ‘*Sucha wonderful woman!” she would declare to herself. Especially, when after delivering a message from Mr. Huson, who persistently sent to inquire after her, she carried back the answer, ‘‘Say to your master that [am very well in- deed, but that I am quite anxious lest this damp weather should increase his gout.” ‘‘4 wonderful woman !’’ Mrs. Mallory repeated, after she had given the old man-servant the message, for Madam Fil- jeano’s pride was of that quality which made her admired and respected by her dependents. One day, as her physician sat watching the flying second hand of his watch and counting her pulse, she surprised a look of concern on his face. “© You think I cannot recover!”’ sie asked, with a keen glance at him. The abruptness of her question made him give a little start of surprise. ‘« 1 donot see why you need be nervous about it,’’ she said, irritably ; ‘‘it does not effect youin any way. If my disease has taken an unexpected turn, I wish to know it.”’ ‘“‘T have thought you in a fair way to recovery,’’ he returned, evasively. ‘* Until now,”’ she persisted. ‘¢ Now, some complications have arisen —but nothing serious, I trust.”’ ‘«Doctor,’’ she said, sternly, raising herself a little on one elbow that she might look him squarely in the face, ‘‘it is useless for you to try to deceive me. I demand that you tell me the truth; no evasion of my question will satisfy me.’’ ‘«It is against all precedence—”’ ‘“‘Oh, yes; I know the etiquette of your profession, and I condemn it,”’ de- THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. 41 clared the old lady, fiercely. ‘It lets the overwhelming blow fall with crushing force upon the anxious mother who watches by the bedside of her child—she has been denied the truth, and there are so many things she would have done; it paves the way to endless litigations—to unending regrets—”’ ‘¢Madam,”’ interposed the doctor, soothingly, ‘‘ you must be calm; you will affect the action of your heart.’ The old lady sank back on her pillow, pale with excitement and exertion ; but, when the doctor had given her a glass of wine, returned again to the subject. ‘*Ttis of vital importance that I should know. How long can I live?’’ she asked, fixing her keen gray eyes upon him so sharply that there was no parrying her straightforward question. ‘It may be months, madam, before your disease terminates fatally; and it may be but weeks.”’ ‘‘Four weeks?’’ she asked, eying him eagerly. ‘‘Can you keep me alive four weeks? You sze,’’ she said,’’ turning her head wearily, ‘‘I have always been so strong, and death has seemed so far away, that there are many things to do.’’ ‘‘T think,’’ said the doctor, reassur- ingly, as he rose to leave, ‘‘that with the care you are receiving, and by avoiding all undue excitement, you may Le quite comfortable for some time.’’ ‘IT must see Stephen,’’ she said, half to herself. “He can reach here from Paris, if all is favorable, in two weeks.”’ As the doctor left the room, she called the nurse. ‘*Ring for Mallory,” she requested. She convulsively grasped the old servant’s hand when she came to the bedside. ‘I must see Stephen,’’ she said. ‘‘AZust— you understand—send for him at once. Find his last letter in the desk, and let James dispatch a message to the address iven.”” Mrs. Mallory quickly comprehended, and was greatly agitated; and bent over her mistress, ostensibly to adjust her cap, but really to hide her emotion. She gave a surreptitious loving touch to the soft, gray curls, while a hot tear plashed down and fell on the hand that still held hers. Madam Filjeano looked up pityingly, with an expression which showed the real ’

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42 depth of feeling beneath the inflexible ex- terior. She took her old servant’s broad hand in both of her slender, patrician ones —thin and white, but beautiful even yet. That she trembled a little could be seen by the quivering of the jeweled signet ring which loosely encircled her finger, and bore the device of a recumbent lion and the motto, ‘‘ Silence.”’ ‘‘You must not grieve,’’ she said, kindly pressing the strong hand she held. ‘¢ Death is not to be feared; it is only some- thing which will come to us all, sooner or later. But Stephen—” then she looked up appealingly; ‘‘I must see Stephen— he must be told. Make haste ! ’’ she said. As Mrs. Mallory turned to leave the room, she added: ‘‘If it should so hap- pen that he should not reach here in time, you must exact the promise—I leave it all with you, and you have been always faith- ful—faithful.”’ Tears blinded the old housekeeper’s eyes as she went down the hall, and there was an unwonted spot of color on the high cheek-bones and red rims around the shrewd, blue eyes; but she had learned repression and reticence from her mistress, and when she told James that Mr. Stephen was to be sent for at once, and he expressed surprise and asked why, she only replied: ‘‘ Because it is Madam Filjeano’s wish.” A message came that Stephen was on his way; then another, that he would be there within a few hours. ‘‘Has he come yet?’’ wearily ques- tion Madam Filjeano of Mrs. Mallory, as she came into the room one afternoon. ‘* He has just come,’’ she replied ; ‘¢ will you see him now?”’ The invalid covered her face with her hands, aud moaned: ‘‘It is going to be very hard—but what canI do? No, no! he need not come up just yet—there is no such haste. Let him get rested and dine first.”’ Mrs. Mallory sank on her knees by the bedside and cried, imploringly: ‘You say that I have always been faithful—then hear me now; give up your pride—let me beg of you not to weigh down Mr. Stephen’s young life with this grievous burden ! ” Madam Filjeano looked at her with amaze- ment. Such an outburst from her reticent THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. servant filled her with astonishment. An inflexible look stole over face. ‘After all these years?—never,”’ she said ; but, evi- dently, she was struggling with some deep emotion, forshe convulsively grasped the crimson coverlet, until the soft stuff show- ing between her fingers looked almost like blood oozing from ‘ier hand, and her fea- tures contracted with that rigidity which accompanies intense mental or physical pain. The servant still lingered: ‘‘ You may go,’’ said her mistress, turning her head away, and Mallory knew that no plead- ing, no power, could move that implacable will. Then she went down stairs and hovered about Stephen. ‘‘ The good, old soul,”’ he thought. ‘‘I do believe that she is really attached to me, and sincerely glad to see me back.”’ A ‘¢ You will find your grandmother much changed, Mr. Stephen,” she said, stop- ping him a moment, as he was about to go up the broad stairs, after dinner. ‘“«Oh, I expect that,’ he returned, ‘¢ but all the same, it is kind in you, Mal- lory, to prepare me for it.’’ Then he smiled pleasantly on the old servant and mounted the steps. ‘*Mr. Stephen,’’ she called after him, and there was a tremor in her voice which made him pause. ‘‘ Don’t you mind what she says—you must try and bear it, as others have borne it before you.” Filjeano stood on the second landing beside the tall carved clock ; an impend- ing sense of something to come arrested his footsteps—mechanically he heard the solemn tick, tack—mechanically watched the great brass pendulum swing to and fro, and saw that it was a quarter past seven, and years after, if he chanced to see the hands upon that hour the scene would come vividly back to him. Then the mood passed and gave way to a lighter one—he held a flower in his fingers, and laughingly bent over and tucked it in the uplifted hand of the marble goddess that stood there in still white silence. ‘* No doubt, Mallory, the dear, stately, old grandmother is irritable after her long sickness. Ishall not mind what she says.” So softly whistling he hastened on his way. ‘*It must be that your sickness is a fiction,”’ he laughingly said, after he had

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An all Vi- cep the Ww: ike €a- ich cal lay ad id - ble ed is ad ch p- 40) 1¢e bent to kiss Madam Filjeano’s cheek. ‘‘For you grow young instead of old. Come, own up that you feigned it to get our graceless grandson back again.” She looked at him with pride and affection—‘‘ How changed you are!’’ she exclaimed. ‘* From a slender, unformed youth you have grown to be a handsome, stalwart man; and, thank God, less a Filjeano than a Moray! You are what I always wished your father would be.”’ The old lady’s pride was pardonable, for Stephen was erect and broad-shouldered, with handsome patrician features—the slightly aquiline nose, the finely-cut mouth and firm chin, the keen gray eyes, were what his grandmother’s must have been in her youth. He was in evening dress, and had a sprig of stephanotis in his buttonhole, and always, after that, the odor of stephanotis made him ill. ‘¢ Do you think it is judicious to flatter me in this way?’’ then he laughed; a happy, boyish laugh. The light of wel- come died out of Madam Filjeano’s coun- tenance, and a look of stern resolve took its place. ‘‘Stephen, sit down,’’ she said, per- emptorily, ‘‘I have something to say to you. I did notsend for you to see me die, I could do that without your assist- ance,’ she continued, grimly. ‘‘In the first place send the nurse from the outer room, lock the door, then come back.’’ Two hoursafterwards Mrs. Mallory, who was waiting in the hall, met Filjeano coming fromthe room. ‘The joyous look of youth was gone—his face was set in hard lines, and he groped his way as one blind. With a hopeless sigh he sank in the chair the old servant set for him. She silently rung his hand, and he leaned his head against her arm—then she stepped behind him and drew his head to her motherly breast just as she used when he was a child. ‘‘Alas! that my little Steenie should ever come to this!’’ she wailed. Then she resumed her usual manner. ‘‘ The curse has fallen, Mr. Stephen,’’ she said, “and must be borne.’ His only answer was to bury his face in his hands, and she saw that the seal ring that had so lately been worn by her mis- tress was now on his little finger with its impressive motto. ’ THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. 43 Then he rose, and avoiding her look of sympathy passed down the hall. II. The next morning the house was filled with the noiseless commotion of many muffled footsteps. The servants talked in low, hushed tones; people came and went with offers of assistance and messages of sympathy—for there was a broad sweep of crape floating from the ponderous front door. Just at the solemn hour when night softens into dawn Madam Filjeano had awakened from a brief sleep to pass into a long, unending one. There was an imposing funeral, when all that remained of the imperious woman who had ruled in her little sphere as proudly as a queen, was laid in the quiet vault. Then came the visits of condo- lence and the usual conjectures regarding the property, everybody uniting in saying that Stephen Filjeano was, indeed, a lucky fellow. With a handsome income, the prestige of an old name, without care or incumbrance, and probably without great grief, for how could he be expected to mourn for his grandmother from whom he had been separated so long—it seemed that the world should open before him a vast pleasure field. But when he remained in utmost seclusion for some months, then everybody was equally unanimousin saying that it was queer, yes, very queer. Vague rumors were abroad that the Filjeano mys- tery was not done with yet, that madam came back in the dead of night—that strange lights and sounds were heard. Then, suddenly, the house was closed, the servants pensioned except Mrs. Mallory and her son, who remained in charge, and Stephen Filjeano seemed to become a wanderer upon the face of the earth, for he was heard of in the most diverse places—at German spas, at Russian baths, at Nice, Paris or Madrid. It was also rumored that when he staid long in a place the family fetch made its appear- ance; that there were the same mysterious sounds. Now, when at the end of ten years of roaming he was coming back, and the old masion was undergoing a general freshening and furbishing, people won- dered more than ever. Was the house

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44 being made ready fora bride? Would ‘‘it’’ come back, too, and was there really a curse entailed by the reckless doing of some ancestor hanging over the place and its owner ? , Perhaps the subject was nowhere being discussed with more interest than in a lit- tle morning room of the Fielding’s house. As the Filjeano’s mansion was only sepa- rated from the Fielding’s by extensive grounds and a belt of evergreens, and the families formerly were on terms of inti- macy, naturally they were much interested in the return of its owner. ‘*Of course there has been many changes since then,”’ Mrs. Fielding was saying plaintively, with a passive look on her comely features. ‘‘ Your dear papa’s death and our reverses. I should like to do something socially for Stephen.’’ Then she sighed and fell to thinking of enter- tainments she would like to give, and of certain new toilets she would like to pro- vide for Marcia, for what a fine match it would be for her queenly elder daughter ! She was awakened from her reverie, how- ever, by Marcia’s clear incisive voice as she came into the room and threw herself into achair, and proceeded to take off her hat and gloves. ‘‘T have just been at the Kents,” she said, as she straightened out the fingers of her gants de Suéde, ‘‘and there, as every- where else, they were talking of Stephen Filjeano. Mrs. Kent’s cousin met him in Quebec, and says that he is fascinating— so indifferent and cynical, and quite the Grand Signior in manner.” Berenice Fielding sat over by the win- dow busily engaged running together widths of blue and white stuff, but she dropped her work to hear the all engross- ing news. ‘* They say, too,’’ Marcia continued, ‘¢that his wealth is something enormous ; that he has no extravagant habits, and his income just accumulates.’’ Just then two pretty white hands were thrust out from between the curtains that concealed a figure curled up ina broad window seat upon the other side of the room; the hands going through a panto- mime of begging. ‘¢Esther, what do you mean by such foolish motions ?’’ asked Marcia, crossly. ‘*I am only expressing my willingness THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. to relieve our neighbor of his superfluous funds,’’ replied a laughing voice; then the curtains were thrust aside, revealing a dainty, pretty figure, and a bright piquant face. ‘Esther, be quiet,’’ said her mother, authoritatively. ‘‘What else did you hear, Marcia?’’ ‘‘ Nothing, only that he is having the house sumptuously refitted, or, at least, some rooms, and that he comes back with the intention of remaining.’’ ‘«¢ T don’t seem to remember in the least how he looked,’’ remarked Berenice, re- flectively. ‘*Of course ten years may have greatly changed him,”’ replied Mrs. Fielding, ‘* but he was a handsome youth.’’ ‘¢ Well, why shouldn’t you expect him to be changed,”” laughed Berenice. ‘‘A decade of travel with an apparition would be enough to change any man. But I must confess I was never so consumed with curiosity to see a person. A man both handsome and mysterious must be irresistible; but haunted! Who would wish to marry a man with an invisible partner already !’’ And Berenice shook her head in solemn negative, and resumed her sewing. ‘*Nobody asked you,”” murmured Es- ther. ‘* That is, unless Dallas Kerr pro- posed last night—did he?”’ **Mother, why do you permit Esther to talk about such subject, and why do not you insist upon her paying attention to her lessons?’’ questioned Marcia, with a look of irritation on her fair face. ‘* She will never get on in French until she masters those verbs, nor in anything else, unless she applies herself.” ‘« She reads and speaks French well, I am sure,’’ interposed Berenice, ‘‘ and she certainly is doing finely in music.” ‘*It’s very nice of you, Berry,’’ called out Esther’s fresh, young voice, ‘‘ to take the part of the poor persecuted Cinderella. Marcia hates to teach me, and I hate to have her, especially as I am getting a lit- tle ahead of her in some branches.”’ ‘¢ Esther, you are very unkind to speak of yoursister in that manner,”’ and a trou- bled look came over Mrs. Fielding’s face. ‘‘She is very unkind to be always nagging me, and setting you up against me. ”?

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uous then nga uant 1er e, Marcia sat in dignified silence, with a cold, proud look on her handsome face. Her selfishness made it unpleasant for her to do things for other people, and teach- ing she was utterly unfitted for; but when their reverses came and strictest economy was necessary to keep up appear- ances, the governess was discharged and Esther was to have the benefit of the knowledge of music, drawing, and the languages which her sisters had just brought home from a celebrated finishing school; while the governess’ salary was to go to augment their greatly diminished allowance. Marcia, who was a great beauty, was expected to make a grand match, but she was already twenty five, and as yet no Prince Charming, or, at least, none with a sufficient revenue, had made his appearance. In the meantime, here was Esther coming on the scene with an exquisite wild-rose loveliness which bade fair to quite eclipse the blonde stateliness of her eldest sister and the picturesque dashing style of Berenice. Mrs. Fielding felt that out of justice to Marcia she must be kept in the back- ground, and so, although she was eighteen, she was yet in rather short frocks and simply braided hair. ‘‘Another thing,’”” called out Esther from her stronghold behind the curtain, ‘cross as Marcia is with me, I am going to be magnanimous and pray night and morning, and even insert a little clause after ‘ Albert Edward, Prince of Wales,’ on Sundays, that she may captivate our rich neighbor. ‘Then, you see, I should have half her allowance.”’ Marcia’s face grew crimson with anger, but before she could retort Esther went on: ‘*I am so tired of wearing your old clothes; they are too tight—this waist, for instance,’’ and she bent her strong young shoulders, and there was a snap- ping and cracking, and three buttons from the back of her dress waist flew across the room. ‘‘Peace, peace; let us have peace,’ hastily interposed Berenice, who hated scenes, and felt that the atmosphere was charged with one. ‘¢ Look here,’’ and she threw the dress skirt, on whichshe was working, over her head ; ‘* how does this hang? You see VoL, CXXII—No. 4. THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. 45 I am going to have a blouse waist and a Tam o’ Shanter of blue and white—”’ But nobody paid the slightest attention to her costume. ‘¢Go to your room, Esther, manded Mrs. Fielding. ‘*I positively hate that child,” ex- claimed Marcia, her blue eyes looking steel-like with anger. Esther, with heightened color and a great gap in her dress waist, through which dainty white ruffles peeped, rushed out, only stopping to bend over her mother and say: ‘Do forgive me, mammy ; I didn’t mean to bother you.”’ ‘«She is incorrigible,” sighed Mrs. Fielding. ‘‘One hardly knows how to manage her.”’ ‘She is impertinent and vixenish,” declared Marcia. Berenice was softly whistling a military march, and with deft fingers fitting a collar to her sailor waist, but she paused tosay: ‘‘She is simply suppressed and repressed. Why, when we were her age, or a little older, we were ‘ out,’ and had beaux and pretty gowns. I don’t blame the child.” Meantime, Esther, who had gone to her room, was sitting in a low chair by the window and looking off at the dis- tant hills enveloped in a soft purple haze ; at the blue waters of the lake sparkling in the sunlight ; at the dashes of rich crimson which beautified the maple avenue. The free, glad sunshine held out its hands to her, and she readily found an excuse to accept the greeting. ‘¢Mamma told me to go to my room, but she did not tell me to stay there, of course not.”” And Esther nodded her head wisely, and proceeded to change her gown and find her hat. She wandered back of the house, up the mountain side, gathering branches of bright, frost-touched foliage and clusters. of starry wild asters ; then, looking down. on the gray and green of the old Filjeano house, some unaccustomed look of life arrested her attention. Why shouldn’t she go and see the new furnishings? Soon its master would arrive, and then her visits would be atanend. They had been many, but surreptitious ; in fact, she and Mrs. Mallory were great friends, but of course she never said anything about com-

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46 it before the girls, who would immediately accuse her of a vulgar taste. She had spoken of it to her mother, who never seemed to care. She went over on the days when the housekeeper was airing the rooms, and looked through the glass doors of the cabinets in the library at the various curious things, and at books which she longed to read. So she went through the little wicket gate, crossed the belt of evergreens and wandered slowly about the grounds, thinking how lovely it would be if the fountains were playing and the urns filled with flowers, and if peacocks trailed their purple and gold trains on the terraces. ‘The library door, which opened on a wide veranda, was ajar, and Esther walked in, expecting to find Mrs. Mallory. ‘That room, at least, was little changed, she thought—the covers had been taken from the furniture, there were some new rugs, and there was a new bronze on the mantel, and the long-silent clock was ticking busily away. A bright fire burned in the grate, and there was a luxurious pile of pillows on the couch drawn before it, but, most re- markable of all, the door of one of the book-cases was open a little ways, and there at last was Lorna Doone within reach ! All thoughts of finding Mrs. Mallory and taking a peep in the drawing-room fled. ‘The coveted book was in her hand, and nestling among the pillows of the couch she prepared for an hour of delight. She had long before exhausted the fiction of the home library; her sisters’ novels were carefully placed under lock and key, and whenever her imaginative mind craved food she was bidden to read some- thing substantial, or to study. Hour after hour passed by, lunch time came and went ; she was in Doone valley, she was hand in hand with Lady Lorna, she seemed to see the wonderful necklace sparkle; then, from sheer weariness, she paused, her eyes ached; she stopped to think a moment ; if she ever had a lover, she refiected, he should besomething like «¢ great John Kidd ”—tall and strong, so that she would be able to look up to him and believe in him. She closed her eyes for an instant, just to rest them, and fell fast asleep, only awakening when the book fell from her hand and the jar brought THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. some lumps of coal clinking down into the pan of the grate. Somewhat cop. fused, she was only dimly conscious at first that a tall gentleman stood leaning against the mantel, looking at her with curiosity. She opened her lovely eyes very wide and tried to sit very straight and be dignified. She had such a feeling of pro- prietorship in the library, that she quite resented the intrusion of this stranger, ‘‘T wonder who you are, and how you came here?’’ she asked, rather inco- herently but with quite an ‘‘ account-for. yourself”? air. Thestranger’s handsome gray eyes were twinkling with amusement, and he smiled a little, showing a gleam of white teeth beneath a heavy brown mustache. ‘‘T have the misfortune to be Stephen Filjeano,’’ he said, with a very low bow, ‘¢and I came by steamer from Montreal.” ‘¢Qh, what must you think of me!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet— wide enough awake now—‘‘ making my- self at home in this way? But, you see, I have so longed to read ‘ Lorna Doone,’ and the doors of the book-case have always been locked before—”’ ‘¢ Pray, give yourself no concern about it,” he said, courteously; “I am only too glad if the book has given you pleas- ure. And if I may be permitted to guess who you are, I shall say, Mrs. Fielding’s little girl.” ‘‘T am Esther Fielding,’ she said, while a look of annoyance spread over her pretty face. ‘‘ But Ican hardly see why you call me a ‘little girl ’"—of course, I am not very large, and my dresses are ridiculously short, and they insist upon my wearing my hair like a China- man’s cue; but lam quite old after all. Iam eighteen !”’ and she straightened her pretty, girlish figure with a great assump- tion of stateliness. ‘*] beg your pardon, Miss Esther,” and again Filjeano bowed very low; ‘let me congratulate you upon being so vener- able. But,”’ he continued, with a quizzical smile, ‘‘ although just nowI thought you thirteen, when you are eighteen, do you suppose that if, by-and-bye, when you are thirty, somebody calls you twenty-five, you will be so indignant and in such haste to rectify the error ?”’ c- ee ae ee ee ae ee a lUlULrllO Ol CCU

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n into t Con. ous at aning * with r wide id be f pro- quite inger, v you inco- it-for. were miled teeth phen bow, eal. ” ae!” et my- see, one,’ ways bout only leas- uess ng’s aid, over see irse, SSeS sist na- all. her mp- r, ” ‘ let 1er- cal you you are ve, iste ‘¢ Oh, I don’t know,’’ answered Esther, doubtfully; ‘‘ Marcia, for instance—”’ then the young girl paused, aware that she was entering upon a forbidden theme. ‘¢ But it isn’t nice to be too young; you never have anything or goanywhere ; you wear your sisters’ old hats, old gowns and gloves until you don’t know who you really are. Only the other day, I had on an old hat of Berenice’s, one of her dresses which had been made over for me, and her parasol over my shoulder, I was walking in the garden among the shrub- bery, and up came Dallas Kerr—‘ Berry, my darling,’ he said. It was a little em- barrassing for him, don’t you think?” Then Esther laughed—a happy infectious laugh, which Filjeano could not help joining. Just then Mrs. Mallory came to the door with some message. ‘¢Oh, Mrs. Mallory!’ Esther exclaim- ed, going towards her, with a look of entreaty. ‘* Will you please explain to Mr. Filjeano, that I am generally very well-behaved, and not in the habit of trespassing. You see, finding the book- case open, I helped myself to a volume, and have been reading ever so long—since ten o’clock.”’ ‘¢Then you can have had no luncheon,”’ said Filjeano. ‘*No; I am famished. I am going home this moment,’’ and she reached for her hat. ‘«Stay and partake of my hospitality,” urged Filjeano; ‘‘I will have something sent in. Mrs. Maliory, will you order luncheon for Miss Esther? Let it be brought here.’’ ‘¢Does your mother know that you are here, Miss Esther?’’ asked the house- keeper; evidently not thinking it quite a conventional proceeding. ‘‘She will be anxious.”’ ; ‘*Oh, no; I often take a bit in my pocket and spend a half day on the mountain side. She’ll not care.” ‘‘I shall keep you company with a cup of chocolate, if you will pour it for me,”’ said Filjeano, presently, when the tray was brought in and placed by Esther’s side on a little table. Esther poured and handed a cup in a grave, old-fashioned manner, which greatly amused Filjeano, who liked to THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. 47 watch her dainty ways and graceful mo- tions. ‘¢ Let me pour you another,” she urged, shortly, with quite the air of a hostess of long standing; and while her eyes were intent on the little china pot, Filjeano was thinking what a lovely child she was, with her exquisite oval face framed in its setting of fluffy, bronze-gold hair, and the long, dark lashes sweeping the rose- flush of her cheeks. She raised her velvety-brown eyes, with their sweet, earnest look, as she handed him the chocolate. ‘‘ Do you like it very sweet ?” she asked, anxiously, holding the tongs towards him, with a lump of sugar in their silver claws. ‘Yes, yes,” he laughed, ‘that is the only boyhood trait which I retain.” Then he toyed with his spoon and made a pretense of drinking the chocolate. ‘So you are dissatisfied with your youth,” he said, looking at her more keenly than the question warranted. It was one of the anomalies of life that the young and innocent and happy should desire to be something else, and by-and- bye when they were old and wrinkled and wretched look back with that pro- found regret which embitters human life. Filjeano, who knew all this only too well, continued: ‘*Miss Esther, do you know that the world is full of people who would willingly barter wealth and fame for even a year of youth?” Esther opened her beautiful brown eyes very wide: ‘‘T cannot understand that. It seems to me that wealth and power would leave nothing else to desire. Why, if you are rich, you can buy anything, don’t you know? ” she said, naively. ‘«Except happiness; ’ and a grave look overspread Filjeano’s handsome features. ‘¢Perhaps,” he said, with a sad little laugh, ‘‘if you could be resolved into your native elements, you would choose to be an old gray boulder, instead of a bunch of sweet blue violets, perennially young, renewing its fragrance and beauty every spring. Let me give you a bit of advice, my child—don’t sigh to grow old, lest one of these days you look back, and cry with regret: ‘A/a douce jou- vence |*”

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48 PRIDE. ‘¢ But,” said Esther, shyly, ‘‘ the gray old stone grows young, too. [know where there is a large one, and every spring there are more and more mosses on it; beautiful silver and green and brown ones, that make themselves into little rosettes and curious patterns like flowers. And it is all covered with strange fossils, just as if it had been once alive, and those were the things that happened to it, and what it thought.” Filjeano laughed at her pretty conceit. ‘If our thoughts and actions were to be petrified and confront us, this would be a dreary world indeed.” The clock chimed three, and Esther rose in great trepidation. ‘¢What will my mother say! ” ‘‘Let me explain to her; I shall do myself the honor of calling upon her and your sisters very soon.” A sober look stole on Esther’s face. ‘¢T am not likely to see you.” “e Why ?”? ‘¢T am not ‘out,’ sol never go into the parlors when callers are there. But if ”— then she blushed a little and looked down —*‘‘ you would ask for me, perhaps they would let me come in. You see, I get so tired never seeing anybody but mamma and the girls.”’ ‘¢T can imagine that it must be dull for you.” ‘sOf course I see the rector, Dr. Houghton, when he comes, and our next neighbors, the Kents,” said Esther, modi- fying her statement. ‘‘ But there are no young people, only Harry Kent, and he is just a great boy,” she added, with the scorn a romantic maiden usually expresses for a youth of her age. ‘‘Tam not ‘young people,’ either; I am just a grave, elderly man. Why should you wish to see me?”’ “Other people may come while you are there—”’ ‘«T understand,” he said, with a pecu- liar expression; ‘‘ you have a woman's natural liking for society and pleasure; some entertaining callers might come, and I would serve you as a stepping. stone. I'll not forget to ask for you.” ‘¢ Shall you come to-morrow ?”’ ‘¢Perhaps—on the whole, I think | will; to-morrow afternoon.” Esther went slowly home, planning ag she went. Her mother met her at the door, with an anxious countenance. «* Where have you been ?”’ ‘‘T have been out to luncheon,” answered Esther, with quite a society air, ‘*Up on the mountain with the dog,” said Mrs. Fielding, lightly. ‘¢Indeed not. I lunched with Mr, Fil- jeano.” ‘«] did not know that he had arrived,” she said, with surprise. Then, as the enormity of Esther’s social crime dawned upon her, she held up her hands in horror. ‘¢ How could you do such a thing !”’ she exclaimed, ‘‘ don’t you know that it was most unconventional ?”” ‘« Was it?”’ returned Esther, carelessly, *<TIt was just lovely, anyhow. I poured the chocolate.” ‘¢If you were not such a child I could never survive your imprudence. Never, never dosucha bold, forward thing again.” ‘¢Why, mamma dear,’”’ and Esther's face crimsoned; ‘‘I don’t see why it was wrong for me to take the book when the doors were open. Of course, if Mrs. Mallory had been there I should have asked permission. And I am so tired of being called a child. You will find one of these days that I am quite grown up.” ‘‘T fear I shall, at this rate,” sighed Mrs. Fielding. Esther went to her room to cry a little —just why, she could not tell; then she brightened, and busied her pretty little head with a very deep scheme. [TO BE CONTINUED. ] Pride, BY JOSEPH DANA MILLER. "ss sun, sweet emblem, day by day, That rules so large a stretch of space ; Sun that a universe can sway, Yet stoops to kiss a daisy’s face.

— _ ae —_—_-- —

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A Tweltth-Night King. MARIAN C, L. REEVES. Author of “ The Wave o’ the Sea,” etc., etc. ce .. Tom” UST those three letters, evi- dently cut with a dia- mond ring in the mirror, > and staring out on him, as Jack Smith stared into it. He had been staring into it, ina brown study, for the last half hour, before those three initials took form there, and flashed out on him. Of course he knew they were cutin the glass all the time ; only he had just hap- pened to notice them. But what one knows, and what one feels, are not always the same thing; and somehow Jack, in his dilemma, felt these letters a sort of message to him. “tA, V.E.,’” he repeated to himself. “All hail! that ancient greeting; meet- ing me oddly enough here, when I am just looking for her /”” And then: ‘All hail! How goes the charm of this very Twelfth-night ? That when one has won the Twelfth-night ring —and surely, though I have cut no Twelfth- night cake, I’ve found a certain magic little ring—when the one who has the ring looks intently into the mirror upon Twelfth-night, a face—the face—comes and looks into the mirror over one’s shoulder.” It was hardly the orthodox hour for spells, with the sun still slanting yonder on the icy lake under His window; yet for all that, a misty face, with faint, illu- sive features, did seem to be gazing at him out of the glass. With a laugh at himself, he drew a let- ter from his pocket-book ; a little letter, worn by the number of times it had been 49 pulled out of its envelope during the last few days. The envelope bore the post-mark of this far-north town of Plattsburgh. The letter said: If not to this John Smith, give to some other of the name: ‘TI couldn’t stay to meet you, Johnny. I know you will understand what it means, when you find I am not there to meet you with the others. I enclose the little ring ; we have both outgrown it since the day you took it off your finger to put it on mine. After awhile, you will come up here and see me, if you like; but now I am going home. I am just writing this on my way, that it may greet youon your arrival in New York, and tell you at once that you are free. But don’t forget that I shall always be glad to see my Cousin Johnny; and that I am, as I used to be long ago, just your affectionate LitTLE Amy.” A curious letter, and a curious enclos- ure; a tiny ring, with a mere spark of a diamond in it. ‘¢ John Smith, Esq., New York Hotel, Broadway, New York,” was the address. It had been delivered to the wrong John Smith just as he was leaving the New York Hotel for a run up the Hudson. In the hurry of departure, he had over- looked it; and afterwards, though sure he was the wrong John Smith, he had not known what to do with it. The small, empty circle had a pathetic air to him; as if little Amy’s -hand might look lost without it. Perhaps the girl was just putting a brave face on the matter, as slighted girls will when their lovers weary of them. Big, broad-shouldered Jack felt he should like to take the poor little thing’s part, and punch the head of faithless Johnny. It was that feeling which had brought him on to Plattsburgh, from his careless sight-seeing stay in New York. He had said to himself that he might

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5° as well see something of winter, now that he was East; his idea of the Yule season being the green one of the California coast. There was really nothing to keep him back from following up the very slen- der clue the post-mark of that letter held out to him. Up the Hudson ; onto Albany ; thence across to the rocky verge of Lake Cham- plain; under a clear and sparkling winter sunshine, it wasa charming journey, even without-the hope of an adventure at the end of it. And now here was Jack at Plattsburgh, at Fouquet’s Hotel, which had beckoned him over from the railway station. And here the mirrorin his room, over- looking the lake, had given him its mes- sage. “A.V. E.” The A. might stand for Amy. The diamond spark in the ring might have cut these initials here! It was the very slenderest clue. But Jack presently found himself fol- lowing it up. Amy had stopped in Plattsburgh on her way home, she wrote. Surely, nowhere in Plattsburgh could she better stop than at Fouquet’s. A moment later, and Jack was turning over the hotel register. He had not far to look before he found theentry: ‘‘ MissA. V. Elliot, Cedarcliff.”’ Then he made good search to find if there were no other A. V. E. on this point; satisfyjng himself, he asked where one might find the village of Cedarcliff. There was no village, only a country- house. The Cedarcliff folks always stopped here from the trains till sent for. Yes, if the gentleman wanted a sleigh he could have one, with a driver who knew the way round by Cumberland Head. So, presently, Jack was speeding out through the broad streets overarched with elms, leafless, but sheathed in icicles, and flashing in a million jeweled points inthe evening sunshine. The great white lake flashed too; the sleigh-bells clashed with a merry peal of marriage-bells, and Jack found himself in the Cedarcliff parlor be- fore he had at all decided what he was to Say. Was Miss Elliot at home ? — and which Miss Elliot? Miss Verena was at home; A TWELFTH-NIGHT RING, would she do, sir ; — for the others were all out this afternoon. The small maid who let him in, went away with the reluctant assurance from Jack that Miss Verena would do. And then Jack reflected that Verena was the second letter in the magic mirror. The first might stand for Amy. But, then, just as well it might stand for Annie, and Abigail. Jack had heard that one might find Abby in abundance, among these Yankee girls. Well, Plattsburgh was not quite in Vermont, so, perhaps, it was not Abby. It certainly was zo# Abby! When this dainty little creature, in some pale-gray fleecy drapery, like a soft evening cloud, came lightly in, Jack stood up with his lowest bow. ‘¢ Miss Amy Elliot, I believe? ” ¢¢'Yes.”” ‘¢And I am John Smith.” *«‘Oh!’’ Her hand went out to him in eager greeting. ‘‘Johnny! It isn’t possible!’? And then, more slowly: ‘¢ No—it is zo¢ possible.”’ Jack was bowing over her hand. ‘¢T don’t think I’m Johnny. I might be, of course; only, I never was; but —pardon me, but a letter I had no right to has fallen into my hands—and I didn’t know what to do with it—I—I thought I ought to find you and return it.” Without a word, she took the unsealed envelope he put into her hand. The room was dim in the declining afternoon; she went away to the window with the letter. ’ Standing there, where the sunset streamed in upon her, she was revealed more fully to him. How wonderfully pretty she was! And was it only the sunset that made her cheeks glow and her eyes shine so, as she turned to him? ‘You have read this letter, Mr. Smith ?”’ He bent his head. He was beginning to think this quest of his a mere imperti- nence. ‘*T could not know it was not meant for me until I had read it,’’ he said, meekly. ‘But, perhaps, Miss Elliot, as your name is Verena—”’ He was holding out his hand for the letter, as if it could not be hers. *¢ My name is Amy Verena,” she said, with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘* Mam- >a ren oO pn ot EH ee ee = «>

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; Were went from And iS the The then, » and night these S not $ not » in soft Jack him sn’t vly: ght but ght = ie led ing OW set ed lly he ma was hoping I might turn out an ‘Heir- of-Radcliffe’ sort of girl; but I haven’t,”’ she said, defiantly ; ‘‘and Johnny knows Ihaven’t ; and I’m only sorry the letter failed to reach him in time to prevent—’’ As she paused abruptly, Jack poured out a torrent of apologies. He would have gone to the ends of the earth to find her out before ; he had the greatest desire to go to the ends of the earth, as has been said, to punch the true false Johnny’s head for him. And, though Jack does not exactly say as much, he somehow be- trays it all to Miss Amy Verena. She stares at him, fairly puzzled for a moment. Then she breaks into a laugh, so merry that he has to join in it. ‘¢Oh! so you have been sorry for the maiden all forlorn? But you needn’t have been, for Johnny wrote, and begged—Oh, but I didn’t mean to tell you that!’’ she cried, catching herself upquickly. ‘‘Only, you know, we were almost children when Johnny went away to Germany, to college and—’? ‘“‘And his steamer was due in New York, and he was to register at the New York Hotel? But this other John Smith arrived first—not from Europe, but across the Continent from California, on a first visit East. And—I beg your pardon, but you are zof going to put on that ring —are you?” The first part of that sentence of his was very positive, as he observed her turn- ing the ring over on her open palm. The two last words were added hastily, upon the startled glance she gave him. ‘¢I? No; certainly not,’’ she answered, blushing. She laid it down upon the mantel-piece as she came forward to the fire, and she A TWELFTH-NIGHT RING. 5t did not observe that as he leanded on the mantel, and talked to her, he slipped the bauble into his breast- pocket, whence he had taken it with the letter awhile ago. As this was not Jack’s last visit, how- ever, she had many an opportunity to make inquiries for the missing ring, if she would. But there was always so much else to talk about ! California, the far East, China, Japan, even Australia; all of which, this Cal- ifornia Jack knew, if he were rather igno- rant of Europe. But one day—[and January was barely out before that day came. Everything of California being naturally of rapid growth—] he asked Amy to come with him and show him Europe. That was the day he laid the ring back on the mantel-piece, before her eyes. The two were standing on the hearth- rug together. As he turned to put the ring on the mantel, he met her eyes in the mirror, looking over his shoulder, He held them fast with his. ‘« Miss Elliot, that first evening—it was Twelfth-night, Amy, when we at home cut the Twelfth-night cake for the wed- ding-ring in it. This charmed ring had come to me by a strange chance, and as I spelled out the A. V. E. it had cut into my mirror, I fancied two soft eyes glanced in, over my shoulder, and two rosy lips. Was it only a dream, sweetheart; or a true prophetic Twelfth-night vision ?”’ Her hands were in his, now; but the sweet eyes were held no longer—the drooping lashes veiled them. ‘¢]_T don’t think it was only a dream, Jack!”

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Another Bair of Simpletons. A DRAWING-ROOM COMEDIETTA., BY FRANK M,. BICKNELL. Characters : TEMPLETON BRAITHWAITE. CoNSTANCE HARWOOD, Scene. Modern drawing-room, Table and chairs, sofa, piano, fire place, small table, ete. [CONSTANCE ENTERS, AND SEATS HERSELF LEFT OF TABLE. } C. (Wearily.) My courage is leaving me; my strength is giving way; I don’t know how I look, but I feel the picture of despair. Who would have supposed that the care of one small, seventeen-year- old girl like my niece could bring with it such a fearful load of responsibility and so many vexations? Who would have imagined that a child of so much natural amiability could make herself sothoroughly disagreeable? To be sure, Bessie has been continually breaking out in new places ever since her poor mother be- queathed her to me five years ago, but heretofore not even her wildest escapades have come near equaling this. Really it is too vexatious to be borne. Just as I have everything so well arranged for our trip to Germany, what does this foolish little girl do but take it into her head that she has fallen in love? And witha pink-faced boy not yet half way through college! Yes, these two infants actually assert with the utmost gravity, that the fancy they took to each other the first time they met is love. The absurdity of it! Why, not one in a hundred—no, not one in a thousand—of their elders know what true love is, if, indeed, there really be such a thing as true love, which I oftendoubt. The presumption of these children would be laughable if its con- sequences did not threaten to be soserious. { can’t imagine what Mr. Braithwaite, the young man’s guardian, was thinking of to let matterscome to such a pass. An old bachelor and a lawyer intothe bargain, he certainly ought to have kept his eyes open. He is said to be very able; but, perhaps, he uses so much ability in look- 52 ing after the affairs of his clients that he has none to spare for his own; but even worse than his negligence in the first place is his apparent indifference after the mischief has been done. One might ex- pect he would fly to my assistance at the first alarm; but, no, not only does he not come of his own accord, but he actually delays three days after I have sent ex- pressly for him. And, meanwhile, I get this note, which becomes more exasper- ating every time I read itover. I should infer from its tope that he thinks me to blame because Azs nephew has secretly engaged himself to my niece. I was angry enough with the boy, but the uncle makes me furious. It is quiteinsufferable! it is positively outrageous! The disagreeable old—but, there, I mustn’t abuse him be- hind his back, or I shall be in danger of doing so to his face. He has put me so thoroughly out of sorts that I fear I shall be led into saying something terribly rude to him. One point I have settled; he has got us into this trouble and he shall get us outagain unassisted by me. Indeed, I have already done all that is possible without the least avail. No matter how firm I try to be with that girl she always has her own way intheend. (Sound of wheels heard from wtthout.) What is that, acarriage? (Résing.) Mr. Braith- waite, probably; it is time for him (goes to window), dear me, can that be he? It did not once occur to me that he might not be a sexagenarian. Why, he is a young man, hardly over thirty! Well, that makes his negligence so much the worse; he is young enough to have known better. I will go and get ready to en- counter him, and as he has made me wait his pleasure three days, he shall wait mine fora while now. (Zxit LZ. D.) [ENTER TEMPLETON BRAITHWAITE. PUTS HAT AND GLOVES ON SMALL TABLE, THEN COMES DOWN THE STAGE. ] Z. Tamveryangry. I have been sim- mering under a high temperature for the

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last three days, and now in Miss Har- wood’s note comes the necessary puff added to the flame that brings me ta the poiling-point. Evidently she lays the whole responsibility on me, when—but I must be calm, or I shall disgrace myself by some intemperate outburst in her presence. (Looks about himeritically.) Soitwas here that my feather-brained nephew. worked up the audacious matrimonial scheme to which I have lately been made a party— and avery astounded and indignant party, too. This thing could not possibly have happened at aworsetime. After laying all my plans to start for San Francisco the last of the month, and getting rid of so many obstacles that had seemed insur- mountable, it is positively ridiculous, my being baulked in this way. I can’t take the boy with me, for he won’t leave the girl, and I dare not think of what might ensue were I toleave him behind. I would have wagered any amount I could talk his folly out of him in fifteen minutes, and yet after three days of discussion I am further from the end than at first. He pleads like a young advocate, and the in- genuity of some of his arguments is really not at all bad. Moreover, if I dosucceed in making a point he won’t see it—con- found him! He doesn’t know when he is beaten, and what is worse, I am not any too sure of victory myself. Still, I can’t get angry with the scamp, so what amI to do? (Sighing.) I fear I am rather young foran ideal guardian; at thirty-one a man may be an old bachelor without being excessively aged ; but it passes my comprehension how these two turtle-doves did so much billing and cooing without awakening thesuspicions of theold hawk— I beg her pardon, I mean the maiden aunt—who has the care of the young lady. I don’t feel very kindly toward her for allowing this to take place under her very beak—I should say nose. Where is the use of being strong-minded and mature—lI suppose she is strong-minded, and I know she is mature—if one can’t serve as a guide and mentor for giddy, inexperienced youth? As we have got into this scrape through her carelessness I shall hold her accountable and expect her to extricate us from it. At any rate I can do nothing more with Albert; he will never submit to my commands alone. ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. 53 Had I not, by a good dea: of manceuvering and the use of three days’ time, sent him away out of town to stay a week, I firmly believe he would eventually have talked me over to his own view of this perplex- ing situation. As itis, he lost no time in sending me back this letter, which I have not yet dared open for fear of being melted by his eloquence. Ah, well, I suppose I must see what the scapegrace has to say. (Begins to read letter which he has taken Jrom his pocket.) [ENTER CONSTANCE. ] C. (After looking at T. a moment.) Ahem! Mr. Braithwaite, I think ? T. (Starting.) I beg pardon! (Aside.) This can’t be Miss Harwood; she looks almost young enough for the niece. (Zyes her doubtfully.) C. Iam Miss Harwood. Will you be seated, sir? Z. Thank you. (Zhey sit.) C. (Stifiy.) I suppose, sir, I owe the honor of this call to the—the very incon- siderate behavior of your nephew, Mr. Albert Crayshaw ? TI. (With an effort to speak calmly.) And of your niece, Miss Bessie Wards- worth. Yes, I am here to see how we can best put an end to this silly affair into which you niece— C. And your nephew have led us—I understand. (4 pause.) You are, if lam not misinformed, the legal guardian of Mr. Albert Crayshaw ? Z. Iam. C. And you are, therefore, supposed to exercise some authority over him. T. (Drawing himself up.) Supposed ? (Aside.) She is sure to make me lose my temper. C. Isaid supposed because it struck me, that if your authority were anything more than a supposition, the young man hardly could have had the—the brazen-faced assurance to become engaged to my niece as he has done, without your knowledge or consent. ( Aside.) Dear, dear, I am for- getting myself! He will think me quite a termagant. TZ. But, madam, you cannot expect me to watch over my nephew every minute of the day and night. I may be his guardian, but I am not his guardian angel.

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54 C. (Dryly.) No; I am sure I never should dream of thinking you were. ZI. (Aside.) She is spoiling my temper. I feel that I shant be able to keep it in decent condition much longer, if she goes on in this way. (A/oud.) Miss Harwood, may I ask if Iam right in thinking your niece, Miss Bessie Wardsworth, to be an orphan and a minor! C. You are. Z. Then there is one thing that I don’t understand. C. Only one? Fortunate being ! T. (With forced calmness.) Do I mis- take in believing the young lady to be under your care—nominally? C. (Haughtily.) Sir? Z. Isaid nominally because 1. seems to me, if your care were anything more than nominal, the young lady could hardly have become so far involved ina love affair under your own roof— C. But, sir, be good enough to remem- ber that Iam not my niece’s keeper. I do not own her, body and soul, and it would scarcely be practicable for me to cage her like a canary. TZ. Perhaps not; but it does seem as if you might arrange so that she could not be made love to ad /bitum by the first soft-hearted simpleton who chances to set eyes on her pretty face. C. (With sarcasm.) Oh, yes ; I suppose I might oblige her to wear a veil when there is danger of her being seen, or Icould even shut her up in a convent, just as you, sir, might put your soft-hearted—and headed —simpleton in a lunatic asylum, where his too great susceptibility would not get him into any more trouble. L. Really, madam, your opinion of my nephew is flattering. But how comes it that you refer to him as being both brazen-faced and soft-headed ? It strikes me, you are slightly inconsistent there—— though that is nothing remarkable in a woman. C. Sir, allow me to suggest, that the way in which you keep up this bickering is unprofitable as well as undignified. L. (Aside.) Oh, my poor temper! I am fast losmg my grip onit. (Adoud.)Madam, permit me to remark that one person can never quarrel alone ; two parties, at least, being absolutely necessary— C. Then I have to thank you for try- ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. ing to make me the other party. I have heard of people who go about spoiling for a fight, but I never happened to be so unfortunate as to meet one of them be- fore. IT. (Aside, and rising hastily.) By jove! it’s gone now, surely! (Begins to walk to and fro to calm himself.) C. Well, sir, when you have finished your pedestrian exercise, I should like your attention, as I have something to say to you. T. (Pausing.) If you are to continue in this strain, f should much rai her be excused from listening. (S7/s dwn.) C. Sir, you are making yourself excess- ively disagreeable. 7. Madam, my natural politeness pre- vents me from returning that compliment, C. Oh, pray don’t let such a trifle hinder you from relieving your mind. T. (About to make an angry retort, controls hims Uf.) I willnot. Miss Har- wood, I am in the wrong, and I ask your pardon. I have been turning my worst side out. Believe me, whea my wishes are not opposed, I am far from being un- amiable. C. Indeed! Then, since you make me that astounding confession, | will tell you a secret in return. You may doubt it, but when I have everything my own way, I can boast of a temper quite angelic. Come, Mr. Braithwaite, shall westop this unseemly quarreling and start afresh on a more amicable basis ? Z. With all my heart. This business has vexed me a good deal, and upset my equanimity more than I could have thought possible. Still, perhaps I have only my own carelessness to blame. It is not easy to be on one’s guard against dangers of whose very existence one is ignorant; else I certainly should have kept a stricter watch over my nephew. C. Oh, you need not take a]l the blame to yourself; I am willing to admit that I have been rather lax with my niece. (Sighing.) Children are such trials in this fast age. They want to be men and women before they leave school. The boy and girl lay violent hands—as it were—on the man and woman. TZ. Yes; and the man and woman lay violent hands—so to speak—on each other. te co.

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| have oiling be so n be- jove! wk to ished like ig to tinue Tt be ) Cess- pre- ent, Tifle tort, Tar- your ‘orst shes un- -me you It, ay, lic. this on 1658 my ave ive t is nst ive me tI 1is nd he ay - Cc. And get married while yet in their teens. T. Exactly. Marry in haste, and get parents’ consent at leisure—that seems to be the modern adaptation. Do you think these two infants have been long en- gaged ? C. Not long, certainly, but while it lasted, very busily engaged. They met for the first time about three weeks ago. ZT. Incredible! Are the ravages of love so fearfully swift then? C. So it would appear. My niece tells me they call their disorder ‘love at first sight.” Certainly, its effects have been appalling. Why—will you believe it ?— These absurd children have actually felt the need of seeing each other not less than three times every day for the last fortnight, on a pretence of having been appointed a committee to do something or other about a lawn-tennis club. 7. While in reality they were prepar- ing to defy our authority. Had-you no suspicion of the proposed insurrection until you discovered the little rebels in— ahem ! in arms? C. (Smiling ru-fully ) ‘In arms” is very good, Mr. Braithwaite. Yes; I did surprise one little scene that ought to have set me to thinking. It was late one after- noon, I was at work on this side of the room, and they were playing chess on that. Chess and cribbage are games they often play—or pretend to play—but I have noticed they usually give the prefer- ence to chess. When I crossed the room to thread my needle at the window that afternoon—it was getting dusky—I dis- covered their reason for the partiality. TZ. Indeed! I can’t conceive what ad- vantage chess should have over cribbage —for them. C. It is very simple when you know it. The parties to a game of cribbage are each obliged to use both hands for play- ing, whereas in making the moves ona chess- board, only two of the four hands being needed for active service, the re- maining two can occupy themselves in squeezing each other behind the table. T. True enough; but who would ever have thought of that without being told ? C. It seems that they thought of it. Perhaps, however, the idea was not origi- nal with them. But did you ever hear of ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. 55 such folly? In my opinion if there is one thing about so-called love-making that is nearer to idiocy than another, it is for the—the victims to sit and hold each other’s hands. What possible satisfaction there can be in the proceeding, I utterly fail to see. TZ. So does everybody else with a prop- erly balanced mind. (Aside.) Really she is 4 most sensible woman. (A/oud.) And did these misguided creatures perceive that you took note of the situation, and discontinue the electric current? C. Oh, yes; they broke the circuit in- stantly and looked very foolish at having been found out, too. But that was noth- ing to theirconfusion when I walked in on them last Friday. I had started to godown town shopping when the discovery that I had forgotten my portmonnaie obliged me to turn back. When I came into the hall, which was rather dark, the first ob- ject I saw was your nephew—evidently just arrived—standing with my niece in an attitude—(AHesitutes.) T. Suggestive of the waltz position? C. Thank you! yes; suggestive of the waltz position greatly caricatured. It was a trying situation, I can tell you. My niece had been so overcome by her feel- ings that she was unable to hold up her own head. Your nephew was doing it for her, and at the same time he was gazing down into her face with such a languish- ing, die-away air as I hope never to see again. T. (With a pitying shrug.) umph! was there ever such another pair of sim- pletons ? C. Isincerely trust not. As I looked at that pair I was irresistibly struck by the thought that if all lovers were obliged to do their wooing in front of a mirror, and could see for themselves the ridiculous appearance they present, what an amount of nonsense might be suppressed. Z. Upon my word, that idea is worthy of development. In place of a lover’s assistant you would substitute a check to courtship. (Aside,) Certainly she is the most sensible woman I have met in a long time. C. Then, apart from the absurdity of their behavior, I can’t conceive of any light employment that would get to be more tiresome physically to the partici-

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56 ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. pants. Yet there is no knowing how long those children might have remained in that truly touching relation to each other, had it not been for my inter- ference. T. How did they act when you ap- peared? What had they to say for them- szlves? P C. They did nothing; they said noth- ing; they were dumb with consternation ; and so wasI. For some moments we stood staring. at each other speechless and aghast. Finally, just as I was going to give voice to my indignant astonishment, your worthy nephew plucked up a little courage, and came forward to try and excuse himself. T. Then he had the courage to pre- tend that his conduct admitted of excuse? C. He did, most certainly ; and to do him justice, the pretence was not too badly sustained. Somehow, he put me quite in the wrong, and made me feel like a stern and pitiless despot. Mr. Braithwaite, your nephew knows how to talk. T. That he does, the young scamp. He intends to be a lawyer after he gets his education, and meantime he takes every opportunity of exercising his argu- mentative powers. C. Yes; he poured forth such a flood of eloquence that I was near to being overwhelmed, until, with great difficulty, I stemmed the current and saved myself from being quite swept away. I fear the lecture I gave him after I got the floor caused him to think me a dreadful vixen. TZ. I hope you were able to get rid of him without too much trouble. C. Well, he went without being taken by the shoulders, and that is about all I can say. And after his departure I was left to a moist evening with my niece, who had dissolved in tears at the very outset. Since then we have had three and one-third very lachrymose discus- sions. Z. Three and one-third ? C. Yes; three of one day’s duration each—on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and the fraction this morning. Z. May I ask with what result? C. Oh, none whatever; or, yes; the first three ended where they began, but the last, which was left unfinished, rested with a slight advantage in favor of the opposition. 7. You have lost ground then? C. Yes. To tell the truth, Mr. Braith- waite, I am almost discouraged. My reasoning powers are powers no longer, whatever they once may have been. [ have said everything I can think of at least twenty times to no purpose. There really is nothing more I can do without absolutely forcing my niece’s obedience —a thing I should be extremely loath to attempt. Z. How then do you propose to act? C. (lWearily:) 1 don’t propose, M . Braithwaite; 1 am tired out, and can (» no more except look to you for an exer- cise of your authority with the young man. T. (Rucfully.) Exercise of my author- ity! Why, that is already exhausted by too violent exercise, and I haven’t moved his obstinacy one peg. What shall I do? I can’t put him in irons, as if he were a mutinous sailor. C. But certainly you must have some plan of operations. TZ. I wish to heaven I had ; but I must confess I was relying on a decisive move from you. C. And the result of it all is that you and I are equally unprepared for war. T. I fear such is the painful truth. (4 piuse.) Well, then defeat stares us in the face, unless we can do something to ward it off. Perhaps we had better preface our campaign by hunting up ammunition and supplies. C. That would seem to be the ficst step to take; and we must not forget to make another and very strict survey of the enemy’s allied forces in the hope of dis- covering a weak spot in their entrench- ments. Your nephew is still in the city, I suppose? TZ. No; he is out of it, and not very still, either. In my abject inability to cope with the scamp openly I used a stratagem, and, making him believe he could be useful to me in a business way, I packed him off for a little journey. I went a part of the way with him myself, and then returned under pretence of being called back here by a telegram that I instructed my own clerk to transmit to me at a certain point on the route. This

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of the raith- nger, hn. @ of at Chere thout ience th to ct? Nn (s 2xer- Dung hor- 1 by oved do? re a ome nust ilove ANOTHER PAIR is the way he has attended to the business I gave him to do. (Zakes letter from pocket.) This voluminous epistle, the contents of which are capable of making an electric lamp shed tears instead of light—if you will permit the expression— came to me by the first mail after his arrival at his journey’s end. Will you allow me to read a few extracts, just to show you what I am exposed to? (Reads.) ‘‘My respected, but cruel and unsym- athetic uncle:—I shall be the most mis- erably wretched being above the ground if you continue to oppose the fulfilment of my happiness. You never were in love, and are therefore wholly incompetent to judge appreciatively of my present state of mind.” He tried to impress the same thing on me before I transported him. C. That is exactly the purport of Bessie’s harangues with me. 7. Ah! And what reply did you make ? C. Iwas compelled to—what do you call it?—dodge the question. The truth of her assertions was too patent; I never have been in love, and I fervently hope I never shall be. TZ. That is my case, and those are my sentiments exactly; so, you see, I also was forced to make evasive answers, and cover my confusion sometimes—I regret to say—by losing my temper. Shall I go on? (Reads.) ‘*You do not look on womankind—the greatest blessing Heaven has vouchsafed to man—as do most of our sex. There is something lacking in your mental or moral composition. You are incapable of regarding woman in the natural light, in the way it was intended she should be regarded. You are in that respect—if you will pardon the word—a monstrosity.” Humph! He is compli- mentary. (eads.) ‘‘ You have never known the bliss that comes from the con- sciousness that the dearest, most charm- ing and bewitching creature in the world regards you as all in all, as the only thing on the whole earth worth living for. You cannot even faintly imagine the sensation that would pervade your entire being if one you loved were to place her soft little hand in yours, and gaze up into your face with her beautiful eyes brimful of—” Stuff and nonsense ! C. Brimful of stuff and nonsense? OF SIMPLETONS. 57 TZ. No, no; excuse my outbreak of pro- fanity. (Reads) —‘‘ brimful of love and trust, and say that she was all yours; that with you life was more than everything ; without you it would be less than nothing. You have never encircled with your arm a slender waist, and drawn gently toward you the yielding form—”’ (Drops letter and sinks back as if overcome.) Miss Har- wood, do I look pale? C. (Laughing.) Not particularly so. Why? T. Because I am beginning to feel a little sea-sick— from being rocked on those waves of sentiment, perhaps. Did you ever hear the like? C. Yes; from my niece. She has shown me the fitting companion-piece to that touching picture. With her the ‘‘dearest, most beautiful creature,’’ be- comes ‘‘ grand and strong and tender ;” he takes her hand in his; he looks down instead of up; the ‘‘lovely eyes,” etc., remain about the same, I think; the waist ‘¢is encircled by a protecting arm;’’ and then there is ‘‘a manly bosom;”’ and I don’t know what more brought in some- how to finish off with. And all my pro- tests are set aside with a defiant, ‘‘ Well, you never were in love, and you don’t know anything at all about it, so there!” until I almost regret not having had at least a touch of the disorder that I might be able to refute her arrogant charge. ZT. It is rather humiliating thus to be controverted by two snips of children just because they can pretend to be wiser than we in this particular thing. I say pre- tend, for I am much inclined to think there is no such athing as love; or rather that what is commonly called love is merely a disease of the fancy that may be cured, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, by the separation of the patient for a few days, from the element that has disagreed with—I mean disordered his mental equi- librium. In my opinion it would take years of exposure to so seat the disorder as to makeitchronic. As for love at first sight, it is the folly of children to think— (stops suddenly as if struck by an idea.) C. What isthe matter, Mr. Braithwaite ? ZT. Why, Miss Harwood, will you be- lieve it, I have just happened to remem- ber that after all I once was a victim of the so-called tender passion myself,

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58 ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. C. Indeed! you must have been ina sad way to have forgotten it so completely. T. Let me tell you about it so you may judge for yourself. It was a good many years ago when I was young and foolish. I was traveling somewhere by rail one day when an accident obliged me, with thirty or forty other passengers, to spend considerable time at a lonely, little station in the middle of the woods. Among my fellow-sufferers I noticed one—an exceed- ingly pretty girl—who seemed particularly bored by-the tedium of the wait, and, be- ing quite in sympathy with her feelings, I ventured some advances toward making her acquaintance. She was rather shy at first; but that soon wore off, and ina little while we became very good friends. By and by, at my proposal, we went out to walk on the platform, which was about as prosaic a stretch of spruce planking as Teversaw. From the platform we strayed across the track and wandered down toward a river, the waters of which could be seen sparkling through the trees. There we spent a delightful half-hour, and then came back to the station, for fear the train might leave without us. Learning that we had yet some time to spare, we found a shady spot near by, where we sat down, and I—what do you think I did, Miss Harwood ? C. Oh, perhaps you fanned the young lady, Z. No. You may not believe it; but by this time that lovely girl had become so irresistibly charming in my eyes that I then and there took her little hand in mine and—and asked her to be my wife. C. Mr. Braithwaite, do you mean to say that you made a proposal of marriage to a young lady whom you had known scarcely an hour? Z. Oh, it was nearly two hours, I assure you. Yes; I am in earnest. I really asked her the importanc question. C. Incredible! And what did she reply ? TZ. Alas! C. She refused you? Z. She neither refused nor accepted ; before she could say anything at all her cruel guardian—who had just awakened from a nap in the station—appeared on the scene in a state of terrible excitement and literally dragged her away, leaving me the most disconsolate young man ip existence. C. (After a short pause.) Well, when did you meet her again ? TZ. Never. C. Never at all? TZ. Never at all. C,. And have you had no communica. tion with her since? Z. None whatever. C. Did you make any effort to hunt her up? Z. Not the least. C. I don’t understand you, Mr. Braith- waite ; what you say doesn’t seem quite— reasonable. Z. Well, circumstances over which I had no control prevented my taking any action in the matter, and I have no doubt before many days she quite forgot me. C. That is not unlikely ; still for aught you know, even yet she may not have ceased to pine for you. TZ. In that case the pine must have de- veloped into rather a mature tree, for our meeting and parting took place—let me see—eight from thirty-one—twenty-three years ago. C. Oh, I begin to see; that love scene happened when you were a boy— T. Of eight years, yes; and she wasa charming little damsel of six. Miss Har- wood, when my nephew accuses me of in- sensibility to the tender passion, he wrongs me cruelly. During at least one entire day I was devotedly enamored of that bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, gold-haired little girl, my first, last and only love. C. Mr. Braithwaite, I have been think- ing of what seems rather a strange coin- cidence: that in my own early days I had an experience almost identical with that of your little girl. I. Is it possible? C. Yes. It happened so long ago that I should hardly have remembered it until now had not an authoress aunt of mine based on the incident a little story that helped to fix it in my mind. ZI. How very singular! hear about it? C. I cannot recall the details with clearness—thestory did not adhere strictly to fact—but I know I was going some- where with Nancy, my nurse, when the train stopped in the midst of a forest, and May I not ~~ = Se 4 a a | Th heel ete ee

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unt ith- ~~ 1 I ny ubt ive ne Sa ar- in- gs ire lat ed k- ad at at il ne at ot th e- 1€ id. ~ we were told that an accident had hap- pened. I remember I was a good deal frightened at first, for my ideas about railway accidents were vague in the ex- treme; but after we had left the train, and I saw how calm Nancy was, I felt somewhat reassured. We went into the station, where nurse, who always took a nap when she could do nothing else, soon dropped off to sleep. Shortly afterward alittle boy came and spoke to me, and offered me some candy— T. Candy! bless me! I forgot; it was with the help of a handful of candy that I ingratiated myself with my small friend. Can it be that— Where did your ad- venture take place? On what railway, I mean. C. Ah, you ask me too much. I was but six years old at the time, and I have only the faintest memories of the occur- rence. There were some woods and a river, and I remember that the station was not very nice, and, I think, it was painted red. T. (Zagerly.) So was my station painted red, and certainly it was very far from be- ing nice—quite a barn, I should say. If I recollect rightly, it was surmounted by a sort of an imitation of a cupola— C. With slats in it likea window-blind ? Why, that was just the case with mine. TZ. These coincidences are wonderful. Are they not? Must it not be that your station and mine were one and the same? C. And that you were my little boy ? ZT. And you my little girl? It can hardly be otherwise, but to make doubly sure of it, let us compare notes a little further. You were at the time about six years of age? C. Yes. 7. Good! and—and—., C. And how old am I now? T. Oh, I protest I had no idea of ask- ing any such impertinent question; but I should like to know either the date of your adventure or how many years ago it happened. C. What fine distinctions you make! No matter ; I am not yet so old as to have lost my memory. Iam nowtwenty-nine, and six from twenty-nine leaves twenty- three. C. Bravo! Things that equal the same things equal each other. Miss Harwood, ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. 59 the strongest circumstantial evidence bears us out in the presumption that we have met before, in childhood’s happy hours. C. What an interesting discovery ! TZ. It isso, indeed. It brings me once more into the companionship of one whom I thought the most bewitching little creature in the world. Why, when I re- member how confidingly she put her dainty little hand in mine and looked up into my face with her beautiful eyes— C. (Who has taken up the nephew’ s let- tery.) ‘* Brim full of love and trust ;”’ that comes next, Mr. Braithwate. 7. Eh! what are you saying? C. I was simply helping you out with the extract you were quoting almost ver- batim, from Mr. Albert Crayshaw’s letter. I. (Much disconcerted.) Confusion! that boy’s nonsense has begun to demor- alize me. I hardly know what I am talk- ing about. But, Miss Harwood, without being in the least sentimental, I should like to take once more the hand of the only woman I ever loved. C. (Giving him her hand for a mo- ment.) ‘There it is if it will afford you any satisfaction. But are you quite sure there are no more little episodes, with some other heroine, hidden away in your memory, awaiting some chance to evoke them ? Z. On my honor, that instance is unique ; else I should not recall it with such peculiar pleasure. C. Your memory must be good. Now to me that little incident of long ago is nearly closed in by the mists of the past. However, you were older than I. T. Yes; I could not well forget it. Why, almost everything about that de- lightful hour is now as fresh in my mind as if it were a part of yesterday instead of belonging to a day twenty-three years ago. Ican see exactly how you looked when I first set eyeson you. You wore a blue gown with a bonnet to match. C. I have that bonnet now, laid away among other relics of my babyhood. TZ. It had a smart little plume and some gay ribbons on it. Ah, it was a delicious, entrancing, intoxicating little affair! C. An intoxicated little affair you would say should you see it in its present crushed and shapeless condition. By the

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60 ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. , way, what was I doing when you first the sofa—and myself—for the sake of noticed me? Sitting in a corner with illustration. (Zhey sit on sofa; apart at 11 my finger in my mouth, perhaps. jirst, but gradually draw nearer.) be! JT. Notexactly. You were standing by. T. Now let me think. After we had rid the side—in fact, clinging to the skirts of been sitting a moment, with our feet no ~-your nurse, and looking with an en- gracefully dangling a long way from the chanting— ground, I took your hand—(hes¢fating), ve C. (Holding up letter, laughingly) Excuse me, but for the sake of illustra. tra Take care, sir! tion, may I not? (Zakes her hand), th T. Well, then you were looking over Thank you. As I was saying, I took in at me, while I in another corner near my your hand and, looking rather silly, no ye uncle, was returning your shy glances doubt, I made the declaration that I to with others somewhat less shy no doubt. thought you the nicest and prettiest girl Ww: How long we thus contented ourselves I had ever seen. a’ with silently regarding each other I can C. Indeed! And what return did I (i not say, but, by and by, I remember of make to that fine speech? ri sidling up to you and taking the initiative TZ. Spare the blush of modesty, and or in a conversation something like this: let it suffice for me to say that you replied y' ‘¢ My uncle says I may play with you if inaway which emboldened me to change th she is willing,’ the she referring to your the position of my left arm, thus. (Pauis nurse. ‘‘Pooh!’’ you answered, with a arm across sofa-back, behind her.) di saucy shrug, ‘‘she won’t know anything C. (Drawing away.) Mr. Braithwaite! w about it; she’s asleep.’’ TZ. (Still holding her hand.) Oh, I p C. It comes back to me a little now. beg—for the sake of illustration merely. x I can dimly recall a feeling of guilt at C. (Resigning herself.) Well, then, w leaving poor old Nancy on thesly, andI for the sake of illustration, so be it. I am sure my infantile conscience pricked suppose I allowed you the liberty then ; a trifle at thinking how myabsence would very young girls are so careless of ap- Ww alarm her when she should awake. pearances. tl TZ. It certainly did alarm her, but that JT. You certainly did; and not only d comes later. We got acquainted very that, but you—(/esifa/es). it fast, and I will venture to say it was not C. But I what? v more than ten minutes after I first ad- TZ. But you also allowed—bv way of n dressed you that we were rambling about illustration—this! (Av‘sses her, sud- the environs of the station as sociably as deny.) : if we had been play-fellows from the C. (Rising, in great haste.) Mr. cradle. When we had roamed until we Braithwaite, you have carried your illus- 1 were tired, I found a resting-place on— trations altogether too far ! r let me see, what was it? Oh, I remember ; T. (Who has also risen, much con- I it was an old packing-case under a tree. fused.) I—I beg ten thousand pardons! ' ] And, by the by, I was able to afford you I didn’t mean to do that; I did not, I material assistance in seating yourselfon indeed. In recalling those events of s that box; in fact, I lifted you up there twenty-three years ago, my imagination I bodily in my arms. Then I clambered after and perched myself at your side. Do you remember? C. N—no, I hardly think I do. ZT. What followed left in my mind an impression particularly vivid. If you will allow this sofa to represent the pack- ing-case—for the sake of illustration and will be good enough to take a seat here by my side, I can rehearse the entire scene almost exactly as it happened twenty-three years ago. C. Certainly, I shall be glad to lend transported me back so effectually that I quite forgot I was not still a boy, sitting by your side on that old box under the tree. You will not be too severe with me, I hope, for that little slip—not of the tongue, but very near it. C. (Stull greatly discomposed.) 1 don’t know about your excuses, sir. I think you were perfectly aware of what you were about; yes, sir, perfectly. JT. Really, I was not. I quite lost my head. I am not used to this sort of thing, you know; and the situation was ee eee eel i ie, ee

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e of rt at feet the ng). stra- na ), took » nO it I girl and lied nge us ite! ly. en, N ; ap- nly ta- Ar. uS- Ne s!' ot, of on ng he th of so fraught with very peculiar temptations. I never sat so near a charming woman before; and, as my nephew says, I am ridiculously unsophisticated. Will you not forgive me? C. (Relenting.) Well, although I am very angry with you,I will let your ex- traordinary piece of impertinence pass this time for the sake of the cause, and in remembrance of that day twenty-three years ago. But you will be good enough to arrange to continue your rehearsal without practical illustrations, and from a position on the other side of the table. (They sit, she on sofa, and he on chair right of table.) Now, sir, you may go on and tell me how I treated you after your presumptuous behavior of twenty- three years ago. 7. By no means so cruelly as you are doing now, I can assure you. My salute was taken in such good part that I re- peated it, and then made bold to ask that memorable question, ‘‘ Will you be my wife ?’’ C. (Smiling.) A modest request. JT. But before you could give me a word to encourage my hopes, your now thoroughly - awakened nurse swooped down on you and bore youaway. Almost immediately afterward the train started, with you and your nurse in one car, and me and my uncle in another. C. It must have been a great disap- pointment. J ZT. It was one of the greatest of my life. In fact, I think that is what has made me the confirmed old bachelor that Iam. Where another man might fall in love, I fall into meditation on that sweet memory of my childhood, and exhale in sighs my regrets for what might have been, but was not. C. Dear me! I hope they all will be exhaled before many years. TZ. Never, while I have left enough breath to bear up asigh! Ah, how often. have I thought of that little fairy in blue, wondering what manner of woman she had become, how many hearts she had broken, and who was the man lucky enough to win her at last ! C. And all the while there were no hearts broken, and no lucky man. ZT. The first part of your statement I am much inclined to doubt; the second VoL. CXXII—No. 5. ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. 61 causes me a feeling of relief and gratifi- cation. Not that I have any right to think that the remembrance of—of me had anything to do with it. C. No; that would be expecting rather too much, under the circumstances. TZ. V'll wager, now, that you have never given me five minutes of thought from that day to this. C. Then you would lose. At several times in my life I have been reminded of you by a reperusal of the little story I spoke of—I have religiously kept a copy of it; and, furthermore, I have a sou- venir of that day twenty-three years ago. That is more than you can say, I'll war- rant. 7. Alas! it is even so. What is it that you have preserved so carefully ? C. A piece of the candy you gave me. JT. Really, I feel highly flattered. You can’t have thought unkindly of the giver, to say the least, if you denied yourself the pleasure of eating a sugar-plum for the sake of keeping his memory sweet. C. Oh! as to that, the prosaic truth is, that particular sugar-plum was anything but a plum; it was so hard and stale that it was quite uneatable. TZ. And you are not displeased at once more meeting your former playmate? C. Oh, quite the contrary. (After a moment's pause.) Pardon me, Mr. Braith- waite, but time is passing, and we have wandered from the business of the meeting. T. True; I had forgotten all about it. We have come together to subdue two rebellious children—who think they have fallen in love. C. It amounts to the same thing. T. (Leaving his chair and seating him- self atone end of the sofa.) I don’t know but what you are right. It must be hard to distinguished between the genuine and the spurious article. But the question is, what can be done about it? (Moves a little nearer to her.) C. If we could only show them how ridiculous they are making themselves— T. (Abstractedly placing his hand upon hers.) Yes; if we could but make them see the utter foolishness of their behavior. But when two people are in love with each other I fancy they don’t care much what the rest of the world thinks of them, or whether they appear like a pair of

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62 ANOTHER PAIR OF SIMPLETONS. lunatics or not. And I’m nct sure as they are so very greatly to be biamed for it, either. C. Why, Mr. Braithwaite, how exceed- ingly tolerant you have become all at once! 7. Perhaps they do love each other ; in which case don’t you think it would be cruel to blight their young lives by a forcible separation ? C. Y-es; perhaps it would. T. And after all is there any great ob- jection to a union between them—setting aside their extreme youth, I mean? C. It would overturn all my previous arrangements, still— JT. So would it interfere with my pre- concerted plans, however— C. It would not be impossible for me to modify— 7. And I suppose I might give up— C. Can’t we effect some sort of com- promise ? TZ. I think it would be well to try it; we can’t offer any direct opposition with- out using violence, and that would be very unpleasant. C. Quite out of the question. ZT. A middle course certainly is the wisest one for ustopursue. I don’t know as there is any imperative need of my going to San Francisco—at least just now. C. And I was about to say, there is no absolute necessity for me to start for Europe—on the instant, at any rate. TZ. Then we might remain at home for the present and allow this foolish little pair to see each other with reasonable fre- quency; and after a while if they should not recover from this fancy, we will give our consent to their union. C. Very well. What think you of a Stipulation asto time? Let them wait, say three years. Z. Three years! Oh, they never would consent tothat. Three long years! should you want to wait that length of time if you were in love? C. I don’t know; I—never was in love. TZ. Isnot yourimagination vivid enough to suppose a case? ‘To—suppose yourself in love, as they are? C. I—why, Mr. Braithwaite, what earth- ly use could there be in my doing that? TZ. A great deal—to me, for if you only could do it, then I should draw from the hypothesis a—an inference—perhaps er- roneous—that might embolden me to plead the cause of those persec*‘ed chil- dren, and—my own. C. And your own Z. Yes; Ishould venture to ask you if it is not almost time for you to answera certain question I once put to you? Twenty-three years is a long while to wait for an answer, Miss Harwood. C. (Turning away her head.) know —but—but, what should—you want the —the answer to be? TZ. There is only one answer that could possibly satisfy me. I asked you to be my wife; will you? C. (fFaltering.) I—I—oh, Mr. Braith- waite, you are very precipitate, and just think how the children would ridicule u; after all that has been said against love at first sight. 7. Ah, but this is not love at first sight. You must consider that I have adored you for twenty-three years. C. True; but, you see, it is not the same with me, for I never cared—for you —before— T. (Triumphantly.) Then you do care for me now, don’t you? C. (Much confused.) Do you want me to make myself an object of derision in my old age? TZ. Not at all. It is you who are bent on loading my declining years with bitter disappointment. Do you know that you are allowing a trivial consideration to weigh against the life of an invalid (forces a hollow cough), whom a severe shock would be sure to—te—shock severely? C. (Laughs nervously.) How severely, shocking ! T. (Reproachfully.) Have you no heart ? C. (Jn a low voice.) Thad one—this morning. 7. From your uncertainty on the point I shall infer that you have lost it since then. (TZrying to draw her towards him.) Come here and see if you can learn anything of its present whereabouts. C. Ah, but you foreget how supremely ridiculous we are making ourselves in the eyes of all our friends. Z. Oh, I hope not. I think they will admit that we have followed the example of the great majority, even if they do say we are Another Pair of Simpletons. =s3 2 oO @ & «© *» &—&| |S eS

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ne to chil. Jtalica. you if wer a Zs ; you? IN ing. Signs were ile to ~ abroad which even Northern eyes know could read. ‘The t the orange trees were beginning to look ould more yellow than o be green as the fruit \ outnumbered the aith- “ih leaves; the fronds Pe 7Zii\ of the palms waved le u; with more queenly grace as they ap- love proached in size the fan of Cleopatra. There were days of rain when the air first struck cold and damp to the bones, alter- nated with clear days when the sun shone as if it were already June. On these days the the sky no longer wore, as it had done in you the past months, the look of a China blue eye, but gazed down upon us through orbs do of amilder, yet deeper, a lovelier blue. It was time to show our ingratitude to Se- ant ville, the city that had sheltered us so 2 in well, to escape from it as from a prison, taking the key of the fields. ent The unrest peculiar to spring spread to tter our fellow-boarders—the priests—man- you ifesting itself by certain twitchings of to their robes to which there is no season, Ces neither summer nor winter, by a minute ock but appreciable change in the angle of their Three-corners, and they were not ely unwilling to make a visit to the old con- vent of San Isidoro at Italica, their excuse no for joining us in a dia de campo, a day im the country. his Early one morning we set forth mounted on asses, crossed the iron bridge and int clattered through Triana, greeted by as ce many of the inhabitants as were sober and ds stirring with more respect, owing to the an priestly convoy, than we were accustomed ts. to from the surly natures, and with less ly mockery in the customary salutation of he which they used the longer form: Que no haya novedad! Voya natedes con ill Dios! And turning to the right along ‘le an excellent road we soon had a distant ay view of the sequestrated convent Cartusa. At the donkey rate of travel some time ! \ BY WILLIS STEELL. ae PRING was com- must elapse before we reach the con- vent, but we did not wish to hurry. The morning was lovely; the broken hedges on either side of the road exhibited the cactus in every stage of growth and in every variety of the green color; the young olive orchards sparkled with dew; and, moreover, we were forever turning back to catch Seville’s white houses in the act, as itseemed, of hastening towards the cathedral, where the town is densest, to say matins. We passed now and then the high white wall of a farm house or country estate, and here and there we looked in through the open door at the squalor of a cottage or posada, but we met few travelers either on foot or mule-back, and this environ of Seville seemed to be thinly settled. It was the more startling, therefore, during this silent ride, to turn a bend in the road and fall suddenly upon a man- ufactory in full blast; the whirring of potter’s wheels drowning the songs of the birds, for the convent dedicated to Our Lady of Las Cuevas is now used for turn- ing out ceramics. It is in the hands of English capitalists who copy the patterns of antique Hispano-Moresque lustre to decorate modern money-breeding wares. The noble church is used for the work- shop, and only the chapel remains intact. We lingered an agreeable hour there, ex- amining the sculptures in niches and the carvings of the coro, but the robed por- tion of our party manifested entire in- difference to these things, while they studied with almost childish curiosity the wheels, tools, truss, and everything in the church workshop. When we had mounted once more, and were following up the Guadalquiver towards Italica, a secular member of the party inquired of a grave father if the sight of the convent so mis- used was not distressing. His reply seemed curious: ‘*‘ Why should it distress any one?’’ he inquired. ‘It is answering a need ofthe times. Had they shutit up and left it to decay one might reasonably grieve ; silence can never take the place of truth, but honest labor partly may.’

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64 ITALICA. The village of Santi Ponce, which is the modern name of old Italica, lay about four miles further on, and the road thither, as well as the country on both banks of the Guadalquiver was uninteresting, or would have seemed so any other day but this—our first without the walls. At the convent of San Isidoro we dismounted, and the priests remained in the church while we went on foot to the village. Santi Ponce, built on the site of Italica, is a miserable collection of hovels white- washed-to the foundation, where there is a strong unpleasant juxtaposition of colors, the white wall and the black unpaved street. There were few inhabitants in sight, an old woman or two leaning over the lower half of a door cut in the Flemish fashion, and near the Casino a group of men loutish and ill-favored. We saw no children, but in traversing the hamlet we heard several, and were relieved of the fear of the extinction of this place, lowest in the order of villages. Santi Ponce occupies but one of the seven small hills— the other six have gone to leam and garb- age—upon which, like Rome, once stocd Italica, a city of wealth and culture under the Roman domination. Scipio Africa- nus founded this town as a retreat for his veterans, and its rapid growth must have surprised him, while it filled his pockets, if, asin modern times, the founder reserved all the corner lots. Italica gave birth to three Roman emperors; Trajan, Hadrian and Theodosius, and under Hadrian it became a Roman subject, and some of the overplus of decoration with which he crowded Rome he permitted to remain here to awaken in the savage minds of the Iberians respect for his authority and ven- eration for his self-asserted divinity. For a time Seville was left far behind in wealth and population, but the pride of Italica went before a drougth. Its ruin dates from the change in the course of the Guadalquiver, which now finds its way many miles to the left, though formerly it bathed the walls of Italica. The ancient bed of the river is still discernible, and booths are erected there during the annual flicker of animation in Italica’s ashes the Fair of Santi Ponce. Italica’s period of greatest prosperity was under the rule of the Moors, who named the city Ishbil the Old, in distinction from Seville, but after the river had spoiled the land, they quickly surrendered it to Desolation, a more faithful master that has relinquished nothing except the stones of the amphitheatre, and even those had to be taken by force. Some still remain in its grasp, and the circular sweep is still to be distinctly traced be. tween two hills. Different accounts are given of the disposition of the stone of the benches, and the facings of hewn stone of which this Spanish coliseum was constructed, ana it is probable that each account is true. Guzman the Good, quarried some to build the convent of San Isidoro, where he chose to be buried, and the corporation of Seville, on two occasions, supplied themselves with the antique seats; once for river dykes, and again, in 1774, to make a road to Bada. jos. A few stones still turn an edge to the sunlight, expectant of excavation, but more are entirely buried, and their mounds and the chasms whence their fel- lows were drawn, the whole overgrown with brush and weeds, trace out the am- phitheatre altogether. This arena of Italica is as disappointing as most of its contemporaries in various parts of the classical world, none of them lending any assistance to the imagination when it seeks to call up the exciting scenes we know each has witnessed. Tous, wandering at hap- hazard over the mounds, came a young priest to announce breakfast, and we accompanied him very willingly to the convent, where, or rather in a bare little room off the chapel, a sort of secular sacristy, a table had been laid. It was spread with those wonderful dishes of oil tomatoes and eggs, with more than a sprinkling of red pepper—such as the Spanish love, of which the village padré had the true receipt. Foreseeing our he- retical taste, our priests helped out the repast by cold chicken and a goodly pro- vision of sausage, they had seen packed before leaving the Casa Carasa. We ate with appetites as lusty as those of the gladiators who used to refresh themselves near this very spot, after they had returned from a bloody bout in the arena. When these matters of life had been attended to, we could think of those of death, some notable names of people who are buried in San Isidoro hurrying us in mind from an = A. & | ae ua Oo hlCUre lee ee Oe el eee lee Ol el aes

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r had \dered Master pt the Some rcular d be. S are le of hewn A was each x00d, nt of ried, | two 1 the » and Bada. ge to '» but their r fel- rown am- 1 of f its ’ the ding en it 5 we r the unce very ther sort aid. shes the idré he- the DTO- ked ate the lves ned hen to, yme ‘ied om the first to the other divad extreme. Among them lie Guzman and his wife, and that beautiful martyr Dona Urraca Ozorio, burned by Pedro the Cruel. Fer- dinand Cortez first found rest in peaceful San Isidoro, after his troubled and glori- ous career had closed at Castileja. His bones have been removed to Mexico, but the spirit of the conqueror still haunts the convent, where he was merely, so to speak, a casual guest, or a fleeting tenant. Returning to Seville by a different route, we were able to visit Castileja de la Cuesta, where Cortez died, poor and unhonored. Nothing impressed us there with the sense that the shade of the mighty adventurer revisits the spot where he spent his miserable last years; nothing spoke of his living presence there; no vil- lager could point out to us any of his haunts, nor the house in which he died. Perhaps the dead enjoy in a greater de- gree than the living the faculty of forget- ting the miseries they once endured, and hover over only the places and people that gave them pleasure in life. I cannot imagine any spirit getting pleasure out of Castileja, or that once having escaped from it would ever wish to return there. Yet from the little plaza on the summit of the hill, the view one obtains of Seville, her plains, and the Sierra Morena beyond, is worth all the squalor and wretchedness one must pass through, to get it. Para- dise no longer seems so beautiful since a belief in Purgatory was pronounced to be superstition. We did not linger there all the after- noon, however, for the cafion promised us a much finer view farther on; so, strongly against our donkey’s will, we mounted again, and skirted Seville to the southwest, until we came to a bluff, on the edge of which is situated the village of San Juan de Alfarache—where a long line of ruinous wall and a shattered tower are all that remain of what was once the Moorish river key of Seville. At a quay at the foot of the hill, one can take a boat back to the city, and as we started to climb to the monastery for the view of San Juan, a gay water party were just disembarking. We reached the church without much effort. It is built on the brow of the hill, and from the terrace in front the cafion pointed to the beautiful ITALICA. 65 landscape open be‘ow us, with a pardon- able expression of ‘‘I told you so.” Really he had told us we should see the most beautiful natural picture in all the world, and he had not to be a Span- iard to say so. There lay Seville spread in the plain, like a lazy Sultana in her bath. All white she seemed at first in the ardent rays of the afternoon sun—but after a little colors grew out of the color- less scintillations. ‘The Moorish turrets sparkled like emeralds and turquoises, and the high Giralda lifted itself over all, flesh-colored like the massive. but well- polished arm of a beautiful Goth. The green and gold plain extended behind the city to the horizon, where it rose with a slight undulation like a wave to touch the sky. Groves and plantations, distant as well as near, were so clear and distinct that we could almost count the trees, and yet we could not make out the city of Ca:mona where it was designated for us, owing to that same African white- ness which blends so well with the sun. We crossed the village to descend, and were surprised to find. what a poverty- stricken place it was. Often in looking at it from Seville we had admired that little group of houses, hanging like a sea- gull on the edge of the river. We had not the same misgiving in regard to its perpetuity which we had felt for Santi Ponce. ‘There are swarmsof children in San Juan—swarthy, almost black, young ones, thin and nearly naked, that remind one of a crowded nest of robins. Poor as the people are they live in what looks like a luxuriant paradise. The orange and olive gardens which surround the village looked more productive and handsome than those we had passed in the morning. The way back lay through an intervale among lovely little hills. On both sides, and extending to the summits, were fine country places, some with handsome sum- mer houses, the blinds of which were tightly drawn, indicating that the time of migration from the heat of Seville had not yet come. Many of these places had ornamental gardens in front of the houses, and avenues of palm trees which led up from the gate-way. Mentally resolving to obtain permission to visit one of these descrted places, we crossed an immense orange grove that stretched almost down a RR A NU TE ot

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66 FAREWELL. to the tide, and for the rest of the way back to Triana we rarely lost sight of the swirling torrent. The sun had just set when we reached the Triana bridge, and turned over our beast to the muleteers waiting there. While the rest of the party hurried home we remained to watch the passers-by. Two streams of people meet here at this hour, the working men and women of Triana, who earn their bread in Seville, and the laborers of that city who workin the manufactories of Triana. Among them were many beautiful women, with wonderful eyes, that flashed opalescent, and their brilliant dresses and uncovered heads, each with a carnation or rose, made a brilliant, phantasmagoric proces- sion. It was soon past, and the warm, human darkness of southern latitudes had fallen. Shadows crouched blackest where the houses of the Barrio of Triana come down to the very edge of the river; on the other bank, white poplars behind a row of osiers swayed in the gentle breeze like kindly ghosts, whose pale silvery shrouds looked purple in the obscurity. The green wall of verdure made by the gardens of Las Delicias had grown intoa black, impenetrable mass, and only the Great River, as it swept on its majestic course, seemed, by the lights that gleamed and died on its trembling surface, like the starts and exclamations of a troubled sleeper, to remember there was such a thing as day. Alarming but delicious was this sudden change from turmoil to quiet. We heard with regret the foot-fall of returning pedestrians, and the rattling of chains of a boat about to leave the roadstead. The boat drifted away, the people glided past, and a silence clear and deep, like that of the stars, descended again. Now a dark shape—the boating party—makes its way with effort but noiselessly upstream. The guitars, touched softly, give breath to the quaint, Moorish sequidilla. The song floats low like a perfume, and mingles paternally with the perfume from the banks—compounded of flowers, of fruits and the spring-scent of the earth. It was the good-night kiss of sleepy nature. Farewell, BY NINETTE M. LOWATER. AREWELL! ’tis a bitter, bitter word, And it falls like the pall of night On the heart as light as the gladsome bird, And calm as the lake no wind has stirred, And warm as the sun’s soft light. The heart may moan when its loved ones fade Like the dying light of day, But we lay them down in the grassy glade, And roses bloom in the cypress’ shade, And the shadows lift away! But the deepest woe that earth can tell, Is when two tender hearts That have loved so long, and have loved so well That one pulse ne’er rose if the other fell, Each to its grief departs! Departs alone, with a wailing cry But a dying heart can tell; Oh, ’tis sad to see our loved ones die, But ’tis harder far, with averted eye, To hear the word « Farewell!” e fl b eo ~ et A A OP ee YO rR OO —_ 4 - ff

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the estic med > the bled ha den 2ard ling S of The ast, t of lark way The the ong rles the lits vas Talks About Flowers. HOUSE CULTURE. OW universal is the admira- tion for flow- ers. Aristo- crat and peasant—t he child of high degree and the half- clothed beg- gar at the gate, seem Indeed, the love of bute of humanity, for, while all have not equal perceptions regarding the infinite variety of the floral kingdom, all acknowl- edge their beauty, and feel their influence. How often, when I have walked through streets inhabited only by the very poor, I have heard the words, ‘*Give me a flower, lady; please do—just one.’’ At this moment memory recalls an Easter celebration, when one of the poets of to- day exclaimed, with a gesture towards the pulpit as we passed through the church door together, ‘* Zhere was my sermon —those flowers preached to me far more than did the voice of the clergyman. Who, looking on those blossoms, could help but believe in the risen Christ?” Horace Smith writes of them: “Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, Far from all voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find, in flowers of God’s ordain- ing, Priests, sermons, shrines.” And more and more are flowers becom- ing a part of the home-life ; and well it is for us, as a nation, that this is true, for as Edward Everett Hale, in speaking of the troubadours, says, ‘‘ They had an im- portant place in the rapid changes and curious developments of the time in which they lived. Every new manuscript dis- interred in France tends rather to raise than lower the estimate which is to be formed of their power and merit,” so with BY EMMA J. GRAY. the added attention that is given to flowers will come an added imprint of all that is ennobling and refined, and make of us, therefore, a more intelligent and cultured people. ‘Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers— Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook.” To meet with the desired success in the cultivation of house plants, a great ‘deal of study and intelligent thought must be given. If one thinks anything will grow in the house, if it is only kept from frost and sufficiently watered, she has but to try to find her mistake. Few studies, however, give larger recompense than floriculture, and experience, though a se- vere teacher, is sometimes the best one; and the motto, ‘‘If at first you don’t suc- ceed, try, try again,’’ will, if put to the test, reap a full reward. A few important matters, though, must be observed, if the practical culture of flowers is ever a succes. the soil. If this is too stiff and heavy it will retain too much water, also be too cold for the roots of the plants to strengthen and spread; therefore, to ob- viate the difficulty add and work well through a moderate proportion of sand or stable manure. The sand should be rather coarse, and from the surface as much as possible. This will make the soil lighter and more porous, and will also prevent it becoming sour, on account of its benefit to drainage. Besides, for many bulbs and slips, a sandy soil is a positive necessity to growth. Leaf mold is very beneficial tu soil. This is found abundantly ‘n the woods, but can at times be purchased from the florist. Peat, which is a black mold, made up of roots, wood and other similar sub- stances, and found in swamps and bogs, proves also a blessing to poor soil. A good mixture, made up of four parts peat, One of these is_

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68 TALKS ABOUT FLOWERS. two of sand, one of garden loam, and one of leaf mold, will be found just the thing for many varieties of plants. Re- member, too, that common soot, mixed with the soil will act as a fertilizer, is useful in keeping away insects, and in- creases the color of red and blue blossoms. And if the soil around the roots is too dry, take an old fork and stirit up. Be sure your soil is as nearly right as you can make it before you pot your plants for winter uses. Do not be discouraged and say you cannot get these molds; try one and another gardener until you do, and it will repay you. Put the responsi- bility upon one who does know if you are not sure yourself. One thing is cer- tain, if your soil is clayey, stiff, cold and poor, your plants will give anything but satisfaction. Like everything else, no one thing can be neglected if you desire a complete whole, and the trouble in starting right gives threefold recompense afterwards. If your plants are already improperly potted, then do the best youcan. Liquid manure might prove beneficial in water- ing. Be careful in applying this to have it sufficiently weak; two parts of pure water to one of the manure water would be strong enough. Use it weak and often, rather than strong and seldom. It is also essential to the proper growth of plants that the drainage be further per- fecied by means of broken bits of char- coal. These should extend on the bot- tom of the pot to the depth of about half an inch, with an additional half- inch of moss; then next comes a layer of earth, which should be damp, without being muddy. The plants should be watered two or three hours before, as this tends to keep the earth well around the roots ; and if any of the roots are found to be dead, cut them off before planting, as they would retard the growth. There- fore, when your plant is all ready, place it gently in the pot, being careful to have the earth, which should be firmly pressed down, about one inch from the top of the pot, otherwise the pot could not re- tain the water, and very soon the plant would suffer from lack of sufficient moist- ure. The plant must then be watered and kept in the shade two or three days. If the soil keeps damp, moisten the foliage, but do not add water to the plant until needed, as this gives the roots opportunity to get a good start. If the plant does not promise well, keep it for a few days on a board under which isa hot brick. This is often a great help to the roots. The leaves are almost sure to drop no matter what care is taken, but new ones soon appear and take the place of the old ; so do not be discouraged. Be careful not to give too much root room, or nothing but foliage will be the result. If plants do not thrive you may be sure there is some good reason, probably they want repotting, and this may be done even in midwinter by procuring soil from the florist. It is not infrequently the case that soil is filled with vermin. When this is true the plant will die if the roots are not washed and surrounded by fresh, healthful soil. Be careful, also, to keep all plants moist by means of dampening the leaves as well as watering the earth. The soil of a pot or box may get water- logged ; for this, the remedy is to put it on its side by the fire, and so drain and dry; then bore holes in the. bottom, so as to allow the water to run and so pre- vent further injury. Sometimes the best treatment for a plant is to let it go dry fora day or so. This may seem strange advice, but even in the wettest climates there are clear sunny days, in some seasons weeks at a time, and yet the plants live on. Of course, the leaves should never be allowed to drop, or the plant to sustain even a slight injury. A knock on the side of the pot will tell you if the root is in need of water; a dull, heavy tone shows there is enough already there, but a hollow sound indicates need. It is also beneficial to keep a pan of hot water near them. Ifa plant seems really sick, or unhealthy, put it in the kitchen for awhile; the constant steam of the atmosphere there will be found very help- ful, frequently causing them to take on new life and delight all eyes by the lux- uriant foliage as well as beautiful blos- soms. Indeed, a great amount of com- mon sense must be used for the successful cultivation of house plants. There is a large variety of worms and insects which feed on the leaves and sap the life of plants, making it impossible for them to give beauty or blossom. un te ce ee ee Se ee eee ee 2. oe. Ee oe

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. the t for Among the most common is the angle worm, who, passing through the soil for food, swallows some, and this is brought to the surface, and forms what is known as worm cast. If these worms are seen, they should be removed; if they are hidden, pour on a weak solution of lime or ammonia water, which will force them to the surface, where you must seize them before they again disappear. The red spider is often annoying. It is about the size of the eye of aneedle, but can eat the delicate parts of alarge leaf, soasto entirely destroy it in a very short time. They are generaliy found on the under part of the leaf; so, before leaves perish, examine them, and see if these little brown, or red, insects are not in close proximity. You must look sharp, or you will be deceived—they are almost like specks of dust. ‘They are usually produced by too dry an atmosphere. Flour of sulphur, sprinkled on a hot iron, placed where the fumes will rise between the leaves of the plants, will probably destroy them. Washing leaves and stems of plants with soap-suds will remove many varieties of eggs and insects. Indeed, nature insists on cleanliness; therefore, only idleness or ignorance is the cause when plants present an ill appearance, or die. The leaves must be always watched, or they will be clogged with dust. Indeed, to insure success in house culture, your eyes must be wide open and awake to all forms of injury. There are, also, diseases of plants known as damping-off, mildew and black tust. The first is caused by lack of air, TALKS ABOUT FLOWERS. 69 or too severe changes in temperature. The remedy would be powdered charcoal sprinkled in, or among, plants, for this disease is most apt to occur where plants are overcrowded, as is sometimes the case with window boxes. Mildew has a white fungus growth. This is caused where the distribution of moisture has been unequal. To stop this, take a tin pepper box and very lightly dust the flour of sulphur on the parts affected. Black rust is a black, moist fungus growth, and is produced by excessive moisture and not sufficient warmth. For this, also, use the flour of sulphur, and remove the plants to a hotter atmosphere. All plants should be pro- tected from severe changesof temperature; therefore, if the room in which they pass the night becomes decidedly colder to- wards morning, they should be shielded, or, what is still better, always keep them in an even heat. Plants require fresh air, which may be given by letting down the windows, but they must also be protected from drafts of cold air, for, like yourselves, they will receive injury from thecold. The leaves of all plants should be sprinkled once a day, and always with water at the tem- perature of the room in which they are growing. Window plants should be turned to the light once a day, else they will grow lop-sided. Also relieve them by cutting off all dead leaves, flowers or branches. If some or all of the above suggestions will be applied to house plants, I am willing to predict an abundance of beauty and blossom.

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E have fairly said good-bye to the old New Year custom of inviting all our men friends to call New Year’sday and bring all their acquain- tances with them. This used to be the height of hos- pitality, and a hostess measured her popu- larity by the number of guests whom it was her privilege to welcome; while a man tested his social powers by a record of the calls which he found it possible to crowd in the hours between two o'clock Pp. M. and midnight. The custom still continues in some places, and cannot but be called a pretty one. Yet, for the women’s sake, its waning popularity is welcomed, because with its disuse goes the tiresome necessity of standing ‘‘in state’’ all New Year’s day and night, and so making a weari- some beginning for the New Year gayeties. The newer fashion is to send out cards to those whom we may wish to have call. The cards are after this style: MRS WINTHROP CRESSON THE MISSES CRESSON MISS SCHUYLER At Wome JANUARY IST 1891 Ill Gore STREET A card is sent to each gentleman whom one considers a suitable calling or society acquaintance, and the ladies attire them- selves as prettily as possible to extend the right hand of New Year fellowship and welcome. There is none of the old-time pro- miscuousness about this form of hospi- tality, for each hostess invites only those whom she actually wants. Another and more popular way of re- ceiving on New Year day is to send out cards giving the exact hour when calls will be most agreeable. ‘Thus; MRS STUYVESANT METCALF MISS METCALF MISS FISH MISS HEWITT At Wome § o'clock 1707 GERARD AVENUE NEW YEAR'S EV'G !891 Pew Year HFestidbities. BY AUGUSTA SALISBURY PRESCOTT. 7° As few come promptly at eight and none immediately depart, the reception hour is prolonged as late as agreeable. It is more and more a society fad to turn holiday evenings into opportunities for ‘‘glorifications,’’ the like of which could not be tolerated in polite society at any other time. Old-time straw-rides, drives in wagonettes and tally-ho expedi- tions are planned for evenings that have no special rules to govern them. A specially interesting fancy-dress party is already being planned for New Year’s night. Each one of the guests is to dress in a costume imitating an_ historical character. And the first ‘*set’’ is to be danced by those who are so fortunate as to guess the character that some one else is copying. Some idea of the elegance of these toilets may be gathered when one recalls that passage in Ward McAllister’s ‘* Society as I Have Found It,’’ in which he tells that he expended a: thousand- dollar legacy ina fancy ball costume. At some parties the characters are all Shakesperian; at others, they are taken from Dickens’ books; still others are well-known theatrical representations. At all, there is great informality and as much merry: making as possible. The New Year quadrille is always a feature at these gatherings. The quad- rille is called ten minutes before mid- night, and all are requested to select partners. But, mark you, the partners must all be of the same sex—two young men invariably dancing together and. two young women opposite them. In no case can this rule be violated. At the proper signal the dancing he- gins, each young man bowing to his gentlemanly partner, and each young woman courtesying deeply to her lady escort. Away they whirl through the figures in perfect silence, until, suddenly, at the stroke of twelve, the music comes to a dead stop. The dancing ceases, and then comes a wild rush, each young man makes a dash for the girl he most fancies, and, if he captures her, she is his for the final New Year dance. When the nature of this play is fully e 2 ee of > ©

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and ition 1 to ities lich iety des, odi- ave EE ae a oe understood beforehand, certain little whispered conferences may be seen taking place here and there about the rooms, and animated little groups of talkers are observed laying out plans for the cam- paign. Such scraps of conversation as these are overheard: ‘‘Now, Miss White, when the music stops, I will rush across that set and—’’ ‘‘Dear Miss Daisy, don’t stir from your post, I know exactly where to find you; and, if you see Broomley coming, you just get behind—”’ «*Run, Miss Grace, run like a deer, at the last stroke of the music, for I am so far away—”’ And so forth, and so forth. Oh, New Year parties are rare, rare fun ! The ceremonious dinner party is not unknown for the first day of the year. Rarely more than twelve people are invited, although, on this ocgasion, the number may, with propriety, be extended until it takes on the enormous proportions of a state club repast. It is, of course, taken for granted that one must have ample accommodations be- fore inviting many guests to dine at the table. It is in the very most question- able taste to ask a larger number than can weil be entertained. The regular form for a ceremonious dinner invitation is this: MR AND MRS KEITH KENNETH REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF MR axo MRS MALCOLM DOUGLAS’ COMPANY At Dinner ON THURSDAY JANUARY THE FIRST AT EIGHT O'CLOCK 211 FIFTH AVENUE Another favorite form is as follows: MR anD MRS PAUL ADAMS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY At Dinner ON THURSDAY THE FIRST OF JANUARY AT SEVEN O'CLOCK 17 TEMPLE STREET If one has a guest of honor, one may enclose a card on which is written TO MEET THE HONORABLE MR AND MRS JOHN BROUGHAM OF ENGLAND NEW YEAR FESTIVITIES. 71 Or the card may be embodied in the gen- eral invitation in this way: TO MEET THe DUKE ano DUCHESS ofr MARLBOROUGH OF ENGLAND MR AND Mrs HENRY COCKERILL REQUEST THE HONOR OF YOUR COMPANY At Dinner ON THURSDAY JANUARY THE FIRST AT HALF-PAST SIX O'CLOCK 767 HUDSON AVENUE For such formal invitations, an engraved note is not only good form, but it is also de rigneur. An answer to a formal invitation is worded with equal formality. If the daughter is invited it may read thus: MR ano MRS WILLIAM CHEEVER AND MISS CHEEVER ACCEPT WITH PLEASURE MR anD MRS JAMES GREEN’S KIND INVITATION TO MEET THE HONOFABLE MR ano MRS JOHN BROUGHAM At Dinner e THURSDAY THE FIRST OF JANUARY DECEMBER THE TENTH 16 AsHLeY PLace With regard to the acceptance of din- ner invitations, not enough can be said in condemnation of those who, either slight an invitation, failing to be present after sending an acceptance, or who ar- rive later than the hour named. , Such a lapse of good manners is em- barrassing all around. The hostess feels nervous lest the belated guests should not arrive and her table be partly vacant ; and the guests are always more or less uneasy and unable to converse while waiting for the dinner simmons. If you accept a dinner invitation, be on hand at the proper time or die. One of Sydney’s Smith’s requests may not be out of place as a guide to those who are sometimes inclined to neglect social du- ties. Ofhim it is said that, fearing he might die suddenly, he left a line request- ing that one of his executors should be sent in his place to meet all unfulfilled social engagements.

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A fModel Wousekeeper. BY ELIZABETH CAMPBELL. ELL, Tom, here Iam! Youin- sisted that I should come and make your wife’s acquaint- ance, since you didn’t give me a chance to make it before you married her. And now I hope you won’t both be tired of me before the visit is over.’’ “‘T guess not, mother,’’ answered Tom Archer, cheerily. ‘I’m just glad to see you, and so will Chrissie be as soon as she gets home. She’s gone to market.’’ ‘*Oh!”’ exclaimed Mrs. Archer, in a gratified tone, as she removed her hat and shawl, while waiting to be shown to herroom. ‘‘Goneto market, eh? Well, that’s something in a young wife of the present day. She’s not one of the fashion- able kind—given to three or four toilets a day, and lolling on the sofa between whiles reading novels? Gone to maket, eh? I'd no idea your wife was a model house- keeper.”’ ‘*Qh,she isn’t! ” exclaimed Tom, flush- ing slightly, and with a rather weary laugh. ‘* But she’s trying to be—her education in that way has been neglected, and she’s trying to make up for it as well as she can, dear little puss. She knows I think good, housekeeping a necessity in a woman’s ed- ucation, and she’ll master it yet. I know she will. She’s as bright as a new dollar, and can learn anything she sets her mind to. As for dressing and reading, my Chrissie has as pretty taste as any girl I know; and she can enjoy a good story- book, too! I’d be mighty sorry if she couldn’t—and, though I suppose I ought not to tell you, she can even write a very pretty story herself—’’ ‘¢Oh, dear!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Archer, throwing up hands and eyes in despair. ‘« Literary! A blue—” - ‘* Not a bit blue, dear mother,” said Tom, ‘‘but she is coming. I hear her 72 Ah, Chrissie darling, And this is my voice in the hall. here you are at last! mother.” A very bright, fresh-colored girl, ina perfectly fitting suit of navy-blue it was who responded to these words; and she went up to Mrs. Archer with frank, out- stretched hand, and a rather shy smile as she lifted her face to the elder lady’s. ‘*May I say my mother, too?’’ she asked in a low, sweet voice. ‘Since I don’t remember one of my own.”’ Mrs. Archer kissed her promptly, and at once decided that Tom might have done worse—leastways as far as looks went; and then the younger lady led the way to the room prepared for her mother- in law, and left her there to get ready for luncheon. EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNAL OF MRS. CHRISSIE ARCHER. Luncheon was not a success. I feel ready to cry. Dear Tom tried to make light of it—and, indeed, the biscuit needed making light. They were heavy as lead. The first time, too, that Tom’s mother ever sat down to table with us. I cared more for Tom than for myself. She looked so grim I'd rather she had said something skarp right out. Howl wished I could have learned a little housekeeping before I got married! Buthowcou/d1? Fiitt- ing about from lodging to lodging with dear old father, and living in the bake- shops, as I may say, for nearly everything we ate came ready cooked from the shop. And that chicken—how cou/d@ the butcher swindle meso? ‘Tom’s mother laughed as she guessed the chicken must have been grandmother to whole broods of chickens! ‘The dear old lady has a droll smile, although she looks so stern. I wonder if she'll ever like me. I could put her in astory. She’s quite a charac- ter. Tom must of tell her that I write stories, or she will never believe in me! Anyway, the coffee was good—even Mrs. Archer praised it. That’s because I had so much practice. I always made the c ld sa wre PP S — « ot 4 lel Oo eee oe ee ee ae. Oe ee

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ling, ina was she out- e as she el und ave oks the er- for RS. -e] ke ed er ~d 1g ld re aie © 0 -_ = ovo eh SP le coffee when poor old father and I lived in lodgings—dear father! I can see him now watching the little gas-kettle come to a boii while I set our two cups and saucers, and got the cuffee-potready! Ah! Ishall see himno more. ButImusn’t cry. I know he was glad to go when he knew I was well provided for. Dear old father! he was so tired, so tired. ior 4h Now for my accounts—I must make them out while I remember them, if I can. Arithmetic is my weak point. I never could get my sums right at school. Let me see! Tom gave me fifteen dollars when I went out this morning. Sugar, tea, butter, coffee, and a bag of salt—it was somewhere near $5 I paid the grocer—put it down for $5 in round numbers; that’s near enough. Then the butcher—chicken —-chicken? Five pounds at 25 cents (mother says I ought to have known a chicken couldn’t weigh five pounds) that makes $1.25. Then celery, vegetables, soup meat and sweet breads (Tom likes them, and I’m going to ask his mother if she won’t show me how to cook them) that makes about $3—-$5 and $3 are $8— Iought to have $7 in my purse. AndI haven’t—I’ve got only $4.50—ah! I for- got. Apples—beauties! Snow apples the man called them; that’s another 50 cents —oh, yes, and I ordered Tom’s new shirts, and paid a deposit of $2 on them; anda pair of Jersey gloves for myself 75 cents, and I rode up and down in the elevated train—another 20.cents—that makes, how much? $345 in allSadded to $4 50— $7.95. And that too much. There’sa mistake somewhere. I allowed too much for the butcher or the grocer. I ought to have put down each item with its cost. I'll dothat next time. I’m ashamed of this account. I wouldn’t have Tom's mother see it for anything. But I shall keep it here to teach me better. . . . ‘‘ Well, mother, what do you think o Chrissie ?’’ asked Tom Archer, at the end of the week—his mother had announced her intention of going home that morning. ‘¢ Perhaps it will be better if I keep my thoughts on the subject to myself,’”’ and Mrs. Archer closed her lips with a snap; but opened them again with another snap to add, ‘‘ But I don’t mind saying what I think of you, Tom Archer, I think you're a fool! To marry an inexperienced child A MODEL HOUSEKEEPER. 73 who knows no more about taking care of your house, or making your home comfort- able, than the picture of her does over there on the table! On your income, too—if you could afford to keep your wife as a fine lady I wouldn’t say a word. But at the present rate you'll both be in the poor house before the end of the year.” ‘¢ Mother, you are too hard,’’ said Tom, his face growing hot andangry. ‘‘ Chris- sie is no fine lady, and far enough from wishing to be. She’s only too anxious to learn, and if you would have a little pa- tience with her, instead of sneering at her efforts, or laughing at her failures—”’ ‘¢Tom! Remember who you are speak- ing to—but that’s the way! Find the least fault with the woman your son has married—didn’t I say it would be better for me to keep my opinion to myself? Who was it insisted on having me here? Ididn’t wanttocome. PerhapsI’d better go home to-day instead of to-morrow—”’ ‘¢ Mother, dear, no—pray don’t. Ex- cuse me if I spoke impatiently—lI’m not well this morning.” ‘¢ No—you don’t look well,’’ said Mrs. Archer, with a rather aggravating smile. ‘* Nothing tries a man’s stomach like bad cooking—women can stand it better.”’ Tom did not hazard any reply, but has- tily caught up his hat and hurried away. He was an only son, and devotedly fond of his mother; but he had already come very near having his first quarrel with her. EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNAL OF MRS. CHRISSIE ARCHER. Oh, dear! A week to-day since Tom’s mother came! It seems a year—no year has ever seemed so long, or had so much misery for me. Even Tom’s love has not brightened it. She will never like me, and I have tried so hard, but everything has been a failure. We haven’t had any- thing fit to eat since she came, except the Vienna rolls and coffee for breakfast— and, of course, the rolls came all ready from the bakeshop. I can’t even get a good servant. His mother says there are none, unless the mistress knows how to direct them. I suppose it must be so, for Bridget can’t even boil potatoes, and I thought any Irish girl could dothat. I can never love her—I’ve tried to, but she

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we 74 A MODEL HOUSEKEEPER. won’tl et me. She’s as hard as nails! I mean Tom’s mother—not Bridget. She says she’s going home to-morrow, and I’m not sorry. I ought to be, but I’m not—I’m glad! And I wish, yes, I do wish, she had never come. i was getting on nicely before I saw her, and Tom thought she’d besucha helptome. Why, the pudding I made the day before she came was lovely—Tom said so. The dear fellow was helped to it ¢hree times. I thought he didn’t seem quite well the next day, but I felt so encouraged. And now everything I try is a failure—those sweetbreads! I wonder if it was my fault, or if any one really likes sweet- breads? It must be an acquired taste— horrid, mushy things in the middle, and leathery outside. Then my face is all scorched, and Tom admired my complex- ion so much; and my fingers are burned so it hurts me to write; and my eyes are red from crying—though I told Tom it was from chopping the onion for the potato-salad. And there’s my story—not finished yet, though it was promised a week ago; and it must be copied, every word of it, because it’s all blurred and blotted with tears, and the composition no clearer than the manuscript, I’m afraid. Mrs. Archer caught me at it yesterday— I was trying to do a pageor two. She asked me, with that awful grim smile of hers that I’ve got to dread now, worse than a scolding, how much I got, each, for that sort of stuff. I named the modest sum which my publishers consider these fruits of my brains to be worth, and added, ‘‘ When accepted.”’ ‘*When accepted ?’’ she repeated after me. ‘Qh, then they are refused some- times ?”’ ‘* More often than otherwise,’’ I ad- mitted, with a sigh. Tom’ mother flung up her head with unutterable disdain ; and I felt that I had now fallen to the lowest depths in her estimation. H : talent as a housekeeper knew nofailures. As she left the room she turned and made a last remark: ‘¢Since I have been here the value of twice the sum you have named has been wasted through ignorance and misman- agement. Don’t you think it would be iuore profitable to lock up your writing- desk and give your mind to the cares of your husband’s house? ”’ I was sorely tempted to answer that she had leit me very little mind for that or anything else; but I bit my tongue and Gidn’tenyit. . . « « « ‘¢Tom, what’s the matter with you?” exclaimed his mother that evening, when her son came home, and dropped, me. chanically, into the first chair he stum- bled against. *‘T don’t know—I'm not very bright this evening,’’ and Tom Archer’s hand went wearily up to his brow. ‘¢ You’re flushed and feviish—you’ree going to havesomething. I know you are —you always looked so when you were a child. I’ve seen those looks everytime when you took with something, and I know it now. There’s only one thing you didn’t have when you were a boy, and I do believe you’re going to have it now.” ‘*Oh, Tom! ’’ cried Chrissie, kneeling beside him, and taking his burning hand in her owncool, soft palm, ‘‘I hope youare not very ill, dear—-what canI do for you?” EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNAL OF MRS. CHRISSIE ARCHER. Six weeks since I have whispered a word to this dear old father confessor! Six weeks since I have even held a pen in my hand. Tom’s illness was scarlet fever, and, just as he was getting better, mother slipped on the stairs and sprained her ankle. They were both so good. Of course Tom is always good—that’s noth- ing new. After mother first came I used to wonder if Tom was a little crazy when he talked of her—so kind, such a warm heart, such a devoted mother. There was nothing good and sweet Tom didn’t say of his mother, and I used to stare at him and wonder if his brain was touched on that subject. Now I know it was not his brain, it was his heart, bless him! How could I even think mother unkind or unfeeling! The dearest, best, kindest, most unselfish of human beings! A dar- ling old angel in a poke-bonnet ; that’s what mother is! For the first two weeks Ihardly saw her out of that bonnet. I couldn’t leave Tom’s room, and mother did everything. She went to market every day; she went errands; she always ee ae ee Le a lll eh COU rlCUellCUrlhCUmr

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es of t she it or and 1 ? ” rhen me. um- ight and ree are ime ay Ing and ing ind are i? ” la yr! en let er, ed Of ed en re ’t had Tom’s medicines made up; she did the cooking; she taught Bridget so much that our faithful retainer demanded an in- crease of wages this morning, adding that ‘‘any lady oughter know that nine dollars was no pay for a gurrl that had learned to be a first-class cook.”’ I didn’t dispute the remark—I gave herten. Tom said I ought to be thankful she didn’t in- sist on fourteen; but there are limits to Bridget’s brass just yet. In time, no doubt, she will improve in that, as in other things. And through it all, how good-humored, how positively jolly mother has been. Tom and I call her Mark Tapley. She couldn’t imagine what we meant by it; but when she was laid up with her sprain, I read ‘* Martin Chuzzlewit’’ to her. How she laughed ! Ialways knew there was any quantity of fun stored away in her somewhere, just waiting for a chance to break out. I knew it by the way her nose and the cor- ners of her mouth pucker up in that grim smile of hers I used to be so scared of; MY NEIGHBOR. 75 but mother’s education had been neglect- ed in a literary way. She’s making up for it. Tom lent her my scrap-book, and she’s read every story in it. She says they’re not half as bad as she expected. I looked them over to-day and wondered what she did expect. Her imagination must be even more rampant than mine. But think she is getting quite fond of me, though she will insist on going home to- morrow. She promises to come back soon, however, and to stay as long as we'll have her; and I heard her tell Tom that I had taught her a lesson—the idea! Ihave no time for teaching anybdy. I have too much to learn. She said ever sO many more things, too, so awfully complimentary that I moved away where I couldn’t hear. But one thing I must set down—it was so good of her. She said that already I knew a score of things that she knew nothing about; and she wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that I was a better housekeeper than herself be- fore I was half solongatit. . . . Stl» Neighbor. BY M. A. MAITLAND, H! I would that she could know it ©) In her home across the way ; How my heart is aching, aching With the words I fain would say. How I long to sit beside her All my shyness broken through, And just talk to her, my sister, As e’en now I talk to you. I have watched her at the window With her face so young and sad, And have yearned with tender passion Just for once to make her glad. Just to see the dark eyes lighten With a gleam of joy again, Just to see the set lips slacken From their chiseled look of pain. Yes, her home may be a mansion, And a cottage only mine, Where the windows peep all summer Through a fringe of columbine ; She may ride where I must travel With my burdens day by day, But she misses all the blossoms That I gather by the way. She may dress in costly raiment— She admired of all the town, But I know a heart can languish, Underneath a satin gown! And my own has told me often, As it tells again to-day, That my neighbor’s heart is breaking In the house across the way. Oh! I would that I could tell her, And that I could show her, too, What one woman’s love for woman, Just to comfort her would do; And I long to see her leaning On the tender, faithful breast, Where the weary cease to languish, And the heavy-laden rest.

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upon a lovely summer morning early injune. He found four large and expectant eyes peering inquisitively at him as he ventured a timid squeak of remonstrance. Pitticus was as fine a young duckling as ever came forth to view the world; and with a bit of shell still sticking to his fuzzy, yellow back, his broad bill open- ing with a faint note of surprise, he was truly a pretty fowl. The four expectant eyes above the nest grew wider as they viewed the yellow duckling, and four dirty little hands made a snatch at poor Pitticus. But Pitticus’ mamma had only left the nest a moment, and she came back, and there was some screaming and a hurried disappearance of the round eyes and dirty hands. Pitticus’ mamma was in a rage, and she was not particular about concealing it. She was a pretty young pullet, and had been on her nest four weeks now, had one by one seen her chickens hatch and taken from her, and her patience had been sorely tried over this one obstinate egg that refused to hatch, and her breast had been torn with anxiety concerning her other chicken babies. And now, to have that last long-looked- for egg produce this fuzzy little crooked- billed monster. Nevertheless, she wished no harm to come to Pitticus, so she hastened back to him after a hasty consultation with old Mammy Curean, a veteran hen, who was very wise in all matters. On finding intruders gazing at Pitticus, she ruffied all her feathers, pecked and clucked, scattering the children, and, giving Pitticus a peck on his own account for being so ugly, she settled down over him toanxiously reflect upon her prospects. It was evident she was the mother of this monstrosity; and could she, with the memory of her pretty downy chicks always with her, take care of this horrid child, and be tender and good to it? Tears—real hen’s tears—filled her eyes with vexation, and she sobbed a little. At this moment the hen house door opened. ‘‘ Those rude children,”’ thought Madam Hen, and prepared for battle. But with the children came some one taller, who threw an apron over Madam Hen and carried her sputtering and in- verted from her nest. One of the child- ren seized Pitticus, and in a few moments Madam Hen found herself in a large coop, surrounded by all the downy babies of whom slie believed herself bereft. Her joy was unbounded, and she, with thank- fulness of heart, even welcomed the homely Pitticus among the rest. The entire family were soon happily employed eating corn-meal mixed with water, while the children watched them in- terestedly, especially Pitticus, who, not heeding his want of uniform chicken- hood, contentedly gobbled his dinner. 76 > oe wes OO es" OO OCOOD*_L MM ete , ee eS ee ee eC

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| to ¢ to old was ‘us, ind nd, unt ver of ith oks rid it ? or ts As time went on, however, Pitticus roved an ever piercing ‘‘thorn in the flesh’? to his mamma, He spoke in a rapid way, not at all as her other children ; he proved himself rather greedy, and shoveled in his food, while her other children daintily pecked. He would dabble in mud-puddles and soil his downy yellow coat, and put his whole head under water and shake it vigorously. And then he had such an awkward walk. In fact, she grew more disgusted with him every day. One day Madam Hen proposed taking her familyon a tour, and she started early, intending to make the entire circuit of the garden. Pitticus waddled after, invari- ably gobbling the plumpest worm she managed to scratch up, from under the very beaks of her noble children. Pres- ently they came upon the children, who, with round eyes, had inspected Pitticus so early in his career. They were fond of Pitticus, had given him that name, and watched his growth with interest. Now, these children were constructing something with eager interest. One was digging a hole in the ground, while the other strove to fit a deep pan into the hole thus made. Madam Hen called her brood around her, and with pardonable curiosity waited to see what it all meant. Finally the pan was securely fitted into the hole. ‘¢ Now run quick, Genie,” cried one of the little girls; ‘‘ get some water; here is Pitticus close at hand.” Away sped Genie, quickly returning with a pail of water, which she emptied into the pan. Madam Hen attempted calling her brood off ; it was in vain ; every little chick was on tip-toe with excitement, and, as for Pitticus, he was so vain at hearing his name mentioned that every downy feather quivered with anticipation. Then the pan full of water. Oh! how good it looked to Pitticus. He waddled toward it; every littlechicken followed him, while Madam Hen remonstrated, wildly. ‘‘Grab him, Genie!” cried Laura, dancing around the impromptu pond, ‘‘put him in.” ‘You catch him!’ screamed Genie, making a furtive snatch at Pitticus’ soft little body. VoL, CXXTI—No. 6. THE LAMENTABLE MEMOIRS OF PITTICUS HIGGINBOTHAM. 77 But lo! Pitticus was ‘‘to the manor born,’’ and while Madam Hen clucked excitedly, and every little chick receded from the brink crying ‘‘ca—ca,’’ Pitticus Higginbotham, Esq., sailed serenely on the bosom of the water, paddling around the pan, and ducking his head under water, wiggling his little tail with grate- ful satisfaction. That was the climax of all Pitticus’ misdemeanors in his foster mother’s eyes. She gave him over, then and there, to the perfidious element he had chosen, and . shut the door of her coop on him forever. She cut him off with a (s) chilling it might be said, for after his first cool swim, Pitticus was forever deprived of his adopted heritage. After this Pitticus depended mainly on Laura and Genie for aid and support. He abandoned the hen-yard, tilted his beak heavenward, and became a very aristocratic bird. Genie and Laura petted and fed him, enlarging the pond as he grew, and otherwise be- came his slaves. Once he was fished out of the slop-bucket, more dead than alive, and nursed back to consciousness by Laura and the kitchen stove. Again he nearly strangled himself on a long end of twine, he attempted to swaliow, and was rescued by Genie, who unreeled ap- parently yards of twine from his ‘‘ inner consciousness ’’ before she got the end up. An old rooster nearly pecked his eyesout, and much anxiety was felt for his sight, un- til Genie and Laura’s papasuggested blue glasses or aneye shade for the injured optic. But now, Pitticus, grown into a fine young duck, fell hopelessly in love! It was with a beautiful white goose, who lived next door and who never dreampt of the love Pitticus entertained for her. Pitticus sighed in vain. He could only gaze through the fence, and see his ador- able Goosie, and never hope to speak to her. At this time he grew sad and morose, and abandoned the lake, now in- creased to atub, sunk in the earth and filled with water. In vain Genie and Laura tempted him, with dainty morsels. He gobblec them, it is true, but with no sense of their deli- cacy. At this period, he used to wander in the chicken cemetery, and seek medi- tation amongst the tombs.

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78 OH, THE BABY! Genie and Laura were the landscape gardeners, sextons, and chief-mourners of this cemetery, and the melancholy epi- taphs used to soothe Pitticus’ lacerated bosom. He used to compose his own epitaphs, but it was wretched work find- ing a rhyme for Higginbotham. © One epitaph struck him especially, for its brevity and pathos; engraved on a neat, smooth shingle, in steep lead pen- cil, were the words: «In memory of Mrs. Skip, Who died of the pip.” * Another interested him because of its air of mystery : “TI erect this in rememberance, Though he does not lie here ; They threw him in the slop bucket, When I was not near.” Pitticus used to wonder over that chichen’s fate, and although he wished a decent burial, almost wished it might be his end. But one epitaph that filled his duck-heart with grief and envy read thus: «“ This fowl, before he could fly, Took it into his head to die.” The escape from grief by an early death, served to fill Pitticus, in his melancholy condition, with morbid envy. * These are bona fide epitaphs, written over chickens’ graves in a cemetery kept by two little girls, ‘ Pip” is a disease very prevalent with chickens. Presently the lovely white goose disap. peared altogether, and Pitticus morosely turned from the face of humanity, and wandered alone. And now, a dreadful thing happened: One by one a brood of young chickens died, and were found moist, and be. headed. Genie and Laura consigned them to the tomb with many conjec- tures as to their fate, and very mourn. ful epitaphs. Still the ravages continued, another brood of downy chicks, sought early graves. Pitticus, meanwhile maintained a portly and morbid abstraction. But one afternoon ‘‘ murder was out.” Pitticus was seen to grasp a small chicken, gobble it about, twist off and swallow its head and abandon the mangled remains. Horror depicted in every feature, Genie and Laura reported the foul deed, and stern justice consigned the Hon. Pitticus Higginbotham to the pot the next day. He was served up for the New Year dinner. It is only due him, to report that he was both juicy and tender. No one wrote his epitaph, his tomb held no honored place in the cemetery. It was suggested that an elegy be written, but both Genie and Laura failed in find. ing any inspiration, had not Higgin- botham as well as cannibalism stood in the way. And thus ended the career of the Hon. Pitticus Higginbotham. Oh, the Baby! BY LETITIA VIRGINIA DOUGLAS, AY, children, list while I whisper the wonder That I learned last night, of the garru- lous chimes, As they gossiped the ivied bell-tower under, About the news of the present times. They told me “that Eighteen-Ninety was dying, But the reign of the Crown Prince was begun, And I ought to be joyful, instead o’ crying O’er the birth of Ninety-One.” « And what is His Majesty like” I asked them; “Is he fair as the glow of the rising sun, Or dark of brow ?” but too deep I task’d them. They answer’d but « Eighteen Ninety-One !” So I lifted the robe of the Night which bound him, To see for myself what his visage might be; And, lo! the heavens with stars had crown’d him— Truly his mien was of majesty! And I searched his lineaments for a token That his reign would be peaceful as was the last, And, though the baby-lips have not spoken, I saw it plain on his features cast! And I wept for joy that the King was comely, And I wept for the King that was now quite dead, Stiff, and stark, and wrinkled, and homely— «« Alas! he was good to me,” I said. But the garrulous chimes laughed loud inscorning, And bade my silly grief be done— ‘‘ Look up,” they said, “ for it is morning, And this is Eighteen-Ninety-One !” I open’d my arms to the smiling baby, For his dear little face was all aglow. «T shall love you better than Ninety, maybe,” I said to the darling, “ for aught / know.” p. s . on ana 2 2 » oe

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ist, nA be Fashions. A Monthly Resume of Practical fMatters Relating to Dress and Social Events. S HE keynote of win- ter fashions is vel- vet. Plain velvets of excellent quality are largely used as trimmings or part material for gowns. But the great novelty is the lovely velours de Venise, a figured velvet of great price. This material exhibits the peculiarity that the ground is velvet as well as the design, but the pile of the ground is very much shorter. Even the lower pile is long as well as thick, the pile of the design being unusually rich. This velvet is very difficult to manufac- ture, and, owing to its ex- pensive production, is very expensive. A lovely example has a gray velvet ground, closely covered with a filagree pattern in lines of black velvet, the pile of which is twice as long as the gray, The lines are one-eighth of an inch wide. For panels, long Italian sleeves, trains, and long vétements velours de Venise is unrivaled for effect and richness. Another novelty is a woolen and velvet material with broad stripes alternately of velvet and woolen. The woolen stripes are all alike, a curious ribbed effect, looking like loose gray wool couchcd with red thread ona yellow ground. The velvet stripes are alter- nately plain—a deep dark seal-brown—or are finely striped with flame effects in lines of red, blue, yellow, etc., separated with brown lines like the plain stripe. The colors of the fine velvet lines are excellently combined, and inter- mingled to produce a flame effect. Noel isthe name given to a satin broche, in a delicate blue-green color. The pattern, Christ- mas trees or firs, is executed in shaded greens, fading to silver-white. It is an artistic fabric for evening wear, or to provide tabliers or fronts for costumes of darker material. A feature of the season is the jeweled embroid- ery. Gowns, wraps, etc.,are embroidered with gold, mingled with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds; it is rich in the extreme, but great care must be taken that it is worn upon appro- priate occasions. It is especially appropriate upon elegant evening toilettes. For those who do their own dressmaking, it is well to state that the variety of their gowns will be found in their bodices, as skirts are uniformly simple for plain and rich material alike. For ordinary wool gowns the habit bodice re- mains the most popular style, made with the front lapped high on the left side, and sloped to a dull point below the waist; small, flat, lasting buttons close the sloped edge, and a similar row of buttons is down the right side. The square habit back is without plaits, and is stitched on the edges; two buttons define the waist in the middle form seams. The sleeves are close be low the elbows, and slightly full at the top to round above the armholes. One or two rows of stitching finish the edges more stylishly than several rows. A new effect is given to seamless bodices that fasten invisibly on the left side by inserting two slender pieces pointing upward from the waist to the bust, with similar points at the back, and extending in square tabs below the waist. A narrow edging of gimp, cr galloon, borders the

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80 THE FASHIONS. inserted pieces. A different material from that of the bodice is used for these inlaid pieces, as velvet points on a camel’s-hair bodice, and they may also be of a different color, as a gray cloth waist with blue velvet points and tabs. Rows of ribbon form a corselet on pretty house gowns of cashmere, Three rows of ribbon three inches wide, curve across the front of the full bodice, while the back is merely shirred or plaited to a dull point. Gros grain ribbon, the color of the cashmere, is used for this trimming, and is added as a ruffle to the long sleeves, drooping thence low on the hands. A similar full, or a thickly plaited ruche of the ribbon, trims the neck. Sleeves are as varied as bodices, yet are mostly repetitions of those worn the past season, They are made extremely long, curving low on the back of the hand, and covering the wrist in front. These are the tapered sleeves without cuffs, and merely edged with narrow gimp. The ribbon frills noted above are used to lengthen sleeves of last season. Closely fitted sleeves with two points at the top, extending on a silk puff, are liked in cashmere and cloth gowns. The very latest forearm sleeves are drawn on like mittens, and cover an under sleeve of soft material; the mitten sleeves fall with a narrow ruff right over the knuckles. They are nice and warm. Feathers are used upon everything, ostrich'¢ ones being decidedly most @ /a mode. A nov- elty done with feathers is to use them in little tiny aigrettes at the centre of velvet flowers, in- stead of the pistil and stamina. For dressing gowns there are some exceed- ingly pretty flannels—shaded stripes, large spots, and oriental patterns is sober colorings. They are made up with plush or flannel in many pretty styles. One of a medium shade of gray, with the large shaded spots at large intervals, had a full front drawn to the figure by a thick silk cord, fitting back, and short jacket fronts over the full bodice beneath, with revers of gray velvet, a high collar of the same, and cuffs to the sleeves, that were very much enlarged at the upper parts. Another flannel had a réséda and close-set me- dium stripes of green, shaded from light to dark, It was made with a complete front of crimson- pink plush, had a high collar to match the cuffs to the very large, full sleeves. Cordelieres are much used to finish these gowns; all are thick —some like thick ropes just twisted—others seemingly made with fine silk cords, As effec- tive a dressing gown as could be desired is jn heliotrope woolen of a dull shade and white cloth. This hangs in heavy folds from the neck, drawn in with a white cord; a large white collar leaves the throat a little exposed, from beneath which depends an accordion-kilted cape in he liotrope. The sleeves are like those worn by the Sceurs de Charité, very wide and loose, with deep white cuffs turning over them. Flannel dressing jackets look well with fronts of white voile. In pale pink or blue, with the full white front worked with several rows of feather. stitching in the color of the jacket, and cuffs to correspond, they are very dainty. Soft fichus of mousseline, crépe de Chine, etc, are as fashionable as ever, but slightly different in form, being cut deeper over the shoulders, with the frills deepened at that part. Wherever it is possible to put fur, there it oc cupies a conspicuous position; the fronts of long mantles and wraps, jackets, and redingotes are all trimmed with fur; collars, revers, waistcoats, and sleeves, are made of fur, especially of loosely curled astrakan, the kind of fur that is best fitted for the purpose, not only on account of its nature, but by reason of the effective con- trast of the black lustrous substance on the light- colored dull surface of the cloth. Bands of fur are nearly always used this season in vertical lines, very few garments are trimmed at the edge; fur bands ornament the open fronts of long sleeves, the closed fronts of the mantle be, neath, and the opening in the skirt at the back, but all these end at the edge of the cloak. Fur is even seen upon the favorite redingote— the most exquisite shape of which being the 1830 shape, which is made of fawn-colored cloth, and is not quite so long as the dress, for, as dresses mostly sweep the ground now (with sorrow do we record it), cloaks must necessarily be some- what shorter. The present redingote, though quite flat on the hips, is cut in so remarkable a way that it falls as full as the skirt,in large organ-like plaits, Otter is the most used for this style of redingote. Another shape is called the Russian, but it is so like an ulster, that if not the real ulster, it must be, at the least, its first cousin. It is made quite straight in front, and the back fullness of the skirt is formed by six large plaits. The sleeves are long and full, with fur wrist-bands— the same fur being used for the collar, and down the fronts. Bears’ skin is the ordinary fur for this shape. Al fe: slUC wo we ee ee Oe 6OUCO]F a ee me ae oo &

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l is in white ‘neck, Collar >neath in he by the with fronts 1€ full ather. ffs to , ete, entin , with it oc. "long S are coats, ly of iat is count con- light- f fur tical the ts of > be, ack, te— 1830 and 2SSes vy do ome- 1 the Is as )tter it is 3 ade s of The is— own for Parisian shapes go back to the Louis, and es- pecially to Louis XIV. One model is of pale gray cloth, printed with tulips and violets, Another is of green velvet, embroidered with silk the same color and gold beads, This is opened in front like a tea-gown, over a large plastron of the same material. All these shapes have sleeves—indeed, with the exception of the long and short capes, there is not one out-of-doors garment which has not sleeves of some kind or another. The Henry II. cape, is a long cape reaching below the waist, made of velvet or cloth, em- broidered. The high collar is lined with fur. All the aristocratic ladies of Paris are adopting it, and o dit that this is but the beginning of a wholesale revival of all the fashions of Henry II. period. We are promised that linen collars will be worn again shortly, but as yet we only see very full ruchings round the neck, either of lace, feathers, or to match the gown, and certainly they are very much more becoming, excepting to very young faces, and to very young faces every- thing is becoming. The hair being worn so low on the neck at the back has put Medici collars out of favor for house gowns. High collars and low-dressed hair cannot go together; when high collars are worn, the hair must be flat on the neck, or dressed at the top of the head. In the last new piece presented at a fashionable Paris theatre, all the actresses wore the hair in Catagon style at the back, and as the stage is now the mirror of fashion, we may infer that high top-knots have lived. Be it fair or dark, and whether stiff or soft by nature, all ladies’ hair is now required to be onduler, that is, to fall and ripple in large waves, catching the varying lights and shades, which give it lifeand beauty. This must be accom- plished without the aid of either frizzing irons or crimping pins. A celebraved French cotffeur has found out how this can be accomplished, and he is the coiffeur en titre of all the leading beauties; whether our fair American belles will gain the happy secret, time will show. Nothing is so much worn on hats or bonnets as feathers—on hats, long feathers, and on bon- nets, the “Prince of Wales” bunch in front. Large hats are also made of long-haired silky felt, like fur, and are very becoming. The little round crown, however, is of the short haired felt, or of velvet. THE FASHIONS. 81 In bonnets, the two prettiest models I have yet seenare: The first of richly embroidered velvet, made like a little square crown, with a bunch of feather tips in front, from which arises the Prince of Wales’ feather aigrette. Thesecond is a little cap of gathered ribbed silk, covered with a veil of spotted net, bunched into a loose puff in front, and instead of strings, a “ Judy” ruching of black lace, which, proceeding from the back of the capote, encircles the neck, and is fastened at the side bya brooch or flower. This is extremely pretty and becoming, and may be worn by old and young alike. In hats, I may mention a wide-brimmed shape, with the brim cut in squares, like a tower, and a mass of feathers covering the whole exterior of the hat. In front,a knot of ribbon resting on the hair. Another shape has a high, pointed brim, which is also covered with feathers without, and has an aigrette of feathers within the brim, resting on the hair. FASHION, tor DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS. Fic. 1. Reception toilette of dark-green cloth. The skirt is plain, cut in points over a plaiting; the points edged with embroidery in bullion. The bodice is plain, fastened up the back, with deep collar trimming and girdle of gold em- broidery. The upper part of sleeves are of embroidered passementerie, with plain cloth edged with a band of gold embroidery at the hand. Fic. 2, Walking costume for lady, made of gray cloth. The skirt is plain, slightly draped in front, the edge finished in embroidery. The skirt, bodice, and neck are edged with bands of ostrich feathers. Hat of felt trimmed with vel- * vet and small ostrich plumes. Fic. 3. Reception gown of black velvet, the skirt straight; the front breadths are made of olive-green satin; sash ends heavily embroidered and edged with a deep fringe come around from the sides and are knotted in front. The bodice is plain, with vest of satin to match sash ends. Toque of velvet of the same shade trimmed with a bunch of flowers in front. Fic. 4. Bridal toilette made of crépe de Chine. The skirt is plaited in front and at the sides, trimmed down the bodice and skirt with bands of ostrich feathers, The back of the skirt is made of lace-striped gauze, as is also the bodice; sprays of orange blossoms are fastened upon the

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82 THE FASHIONS. skirt and at the waist. Tulle veil fastened with spray of orange blossoms. Fic. 5. Reception gown of pale-gray silk. The skirt is straight in back with a slightly draped front, trimmed witb a rose quilling of yellow silk. Pointed bodice with embroidery upon the fronts, V-shaped neck trimmed with a plaited ruffle of yellow crape. Bonnet of gray crape embroidered with silver and trimmed with yellow flowers. Fic. 6. Evening gown of heliotrope colored peau de soie, embellished with two straight rows of velvet ribbon; these form a robing on the trained skirt, which is decorated with trails of chrysanthemums and feathered butterflies. Two of the chrysanthemums and butterflies are fast- ened upon the front rf the low bodice. Fic. 7. Visiting gown of smoke-blue peau de soie ; the skirt is straight, slightly draped in front and edged with rows of narrow velvet. The bodice is full-pointed, with a zouave jacket formed of rows of velvet, anda pointed corselet to correspond, Full sleeves gathered into a deep cuff trimmed with velvet, Bonnet of velvet the shade of dress, trimmed with aigrette and flowers. Fic. 8. Bonnet made cf gilt cord and trimmed with ribbon bow and lace. Fic. 9. Bonnet of gray felt trimmed with a roll of velvet of a darker shade, witha knot and end of pale-pink surah. The inside of bonnet has a roll and knot of the pink in it. Fic. 1o. Bonnet of brown velvet embroidered with beads; it is trimmed with a plaiting around the edge, a bow and jeweled ornaments. Fic. 11. Hat made of black velvet with trim- J ming and feathers of a pale-gray. Fic. 12, Fan of satin, painted with flowers and edged with ostrich feathers. Fic. 13. Blouse bodice for a young girl, cut in two pieces only, with a tuck run in the fronts to give the effect of a fold over to a vest. It opens at the front with a sailor collar, with habit shirt beneath. The sleeve is plain with one seam. This would look well made in white serge, with collar, cuffs, and habit shirt of blue silk, and could be then worn with a blue serge skirt as a morning gown. Quantity of serge required, three and three-quarter yards; of silk, one yard. ’ Fic. 14. Cap for elderly lady made of figured lace and trimmed with lace and velvet rosettes. Fic. 15. Long wrap for lady fitting the figure, with long hanging sleeves made of brocaded silk, sash ends made of plain satin coming from the side seams and knotted in front. The collar and lining of sleeves are also of satin, Fic. 16, Evening gown of salmon pink peau. de-soie, embroidered with pansies in shaded silks and silver thread. The pointed bodice has a vest of handsome lace with satin checkered with silver cord below it. Longsleeves trimmed with folds of satin and lace. Fic, 17. Stocking suspenders of white sateen, with straps of elastic finished with buckles and clips, or, instead of the clips, buttons may be sewn on the stockings, and the ends of the straps finished with loops of narrow tape, or vice versa. Fic. 18. Ladies’ drawers trimmed with length. wise tucks and insertion, with a ruffle at the edge. Fic. 19. Ladies’ nightdress made of cambric muslin, with a round yoke formed of insertion and tucks, The sleeves are finished to corre. spond; ribbon bows finish the neck and sleeves, Fic. 20. Trimming for ladies’ drawers formed of insertion and embroidered ruffle. Fic. 21. Ladies’ nightdress made of cambric muslin: the top is tucked to form a yoke with strips of insertion coming over it. Embroidered ruffle down the front, and edging the sleeves. Fic. 22, Corset cover made of fine, long cloth, scolloped round the edge of neck and sleeves, and buttonholed, It is embroidered with either cotton 4 la croix or colored ingrain cotton. Fic, 23. Morning dress for lady, made of garnet cashmere; the front of bodice and skirt is full; the back of skirt plain. Jacket braided, and bottom of sleeves. Fic. 24. Morning wrapper of blue cashmere. It is shirred at the neck to form a yoke, fastened at the waist with a girdle. It is trimmed down the front with a narrow plaiting of silk. Fic. 25. Wrapper of pink eider-down flannel. It is straight in the back, full in front; fastened with a girdle at the waist. The collar and sleeves are trimmed with swansdown. Fic. 26. Wrapper made of striped flannel, cut in the princess form; the front of skirt and bodice has a piece inserted with the stripes run- ning crosswise ; girdle around the waist. Fic. 27. Cloak for lady, made of heavy cloth, cut gored in front, with plaits in the back; it is

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‘ocaded 1g from The in, C peau 2d silks > has a »d with od with sateen, es and 1ay be of the pe, or ength- at the imbric ertion corre: eeves, ormed mbric - with dered 2S, cloth, eves, sither le of skirt ided, nere, ened lown nnel, ened and 1, cut and run- loth, finished with a double cape; both the cape and front of cloak are ornamented with braiding, Hat of felt trimmed with feathers. Fic. 28. Fashionable dress sleeve trimmed with passementerie. Fic. 29. Dress sleeve trimmed with leaves cut out of silk or velvet and fastened with a bead ornament. It is open upon the back of the arm at the hand, with crépe de Chine filling up the opening. Fic. 30. Collar and small habit shirt, the col- lar is of velvet, the habit shirt of silk. This can be made in various colors, and is to be worn over a dress, Fics. 31, 32. Velvet collar, cuff, and belt for dress, embroidered and edged with lace. Fic. 33. Passementerie shaped to trim a sleeve. Fics. 34, 35. Front and back of walking jacket made of gray cloth edged with fur. The revers, pocket, and sleeves are of velvet. Fic. 36. Sleeveless jacket made of passemen- terie and suitable to wear over different dress waists. Fics. 37, 38, 39, 4% 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47. Fashionable hat-pins. Hat-pins are very fashionable at present, and are worn in every variety of form; they are sometimes of silver, gold, pearl, often very richly jeweled, others are of cut jet, garnets, or oxydized silver. In fact, they are seen in every possible form. A few of them are given in our illustration. Fic. 37. Round in form, is of old silver, richly embossed. Fic. 38 In form of helmet and pike, is of oxydized silver. Fic. 39. Forming the Prince of Wales’ feathers is of gold. Fic. 40 is of mother-of-pearl, lined with gold. Fic. 41. In form like a Japanese fan, is of tur- quoise-blue enamel, with gold figures. Fic. 42. The figure is ef ivory, and the spray of frosted gold. Fic. 43 is a crescent in moonstone, with en- graved flowers. Fic. 44 is of gold, enameled dark blue, with a head in natural colors, Fic. 45 is of jet, outlined with a thread of gold. . Fic. 46 is of gold, with medallion in the centre. Fic. 47 is of garnets, in form like a crescent. Fics. 48, 49. Back and front of wrap with long ends in front, and jacket back made of black THE FASHIONS. 83 velvet, trimmed with bands of jet passementerie and plaiting of lace. Jet passementerie upon the sleeves, and pointed plastron at the back. Fic. 50. Walking dress of dove-color cloth, with a fine stripe in it; it is edged at the foot with a deep band of feather trimming; the jacket is of cloth, with ornaments and feather trimming. Fic. 51. Lace pin, a jeweled bug mounted upon a gold pin with a round head. Fic. 52. Lace pin, two horseshoes formed of turquoise stones set in gold, fastened with a chain. Fic. 53. Lace pin of twisted gold. Fic. 54. Ladies hat of black velvet, trimmed with ostrich feathers and ribbon bows. Fic. 55. Cap of cream silk muslin, embroidered with pale pink flowerets; it is trimmed with waterfalls of cream lace and pale pink ribbon. Fic. 56. Cap of crépe lisse, edged with the same, embroidered and trimmed with bands and bows of pale yellow ribbon. Fic. 57. Jacket of salmon-pink surah, edged with insertion and lace. The vest is tucked at the neck, and composed on one side of rows of insertion, and the other of surah. Fig. 58. Tea-jacket of white pengee silk, with a simulated Zouave jacket of the same, finely tucked, and edged with lace insertion. The sleeves are raised on the shoulders and tucked at the outer part. Fic. 59. Tea-jacket of pale blue foulard, with plaitings round the neck and sleeves, and water- fall of lisse. Loops and ends of faille ribbon at the neck and shoulder. These jackets are equally appropriate for morning wear, the material being selected to suit. Fics. 60, 61. Back and front of coat for little girl, made tight-fitting; the back and front of bodice is trimmed with braid in V-shape, with revers, both back and front, of otter; cuffs and turned-back pieces upon skirt of the fur. A girdle. of braid around the waist. Fics. 62, 63. Front and back of sailor frock for girl of six years; the skirt is made of navy- blue cloth, box plaited, with pointed tabs at each side trimmed with rows of braid; anchors orna- ment the two front plaits. Blouse of white cloth, with sailor collar, and cuffs of striped flannel. Fics. 64, 65. Front and back of cloak for girl of eight years, made of écru cloth; it is plaited in the back, cut to fit the figure in front, with fur braid bands coming from each side fastened in front. Sealskin collar crossing in front, and bands of fur upon sleeves. Fic. 66. Walking frock for little girl, madg of navy-blue velvet, plain bodice; plaited skirt with shirred front made of surah. The frock is trimmed with small buttons,

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we Forcign Cossip. Paris, December, 1890. ASHIONABLE oracles have so clev- erly arranged matters this season that inexpensive materials call for much labor—labor that takes much time, and is of more value than money. Hand- cut applications of Indian cashmere, ona different background, and the revived p/umetis, which is Swiss work, braiding, and elaborate insertions, are the stitchery of the day. They vie with patient feats of this kind done in the past; but so it must be, if machinery is not to out-do nerve and intellect. Designs of cut-out cloth laid on velvet, on plush, on soft corduroy, and even on woolen, are faultless in point of execution. We are now in appliqué constellations, but we are coming to panthers and leopards, It is pleasant work, but hours are spent overit. As the great novelty consists in open work, with glowing or soft colors shining through, one of the least expensive combinations is appliqué black lace in the piece on to colored plain silk. It is then made up as if the lace and silk were all in one. After a flounce, for instance, has been attached flat to a colored foundation, it is dampened slightly by being ironed down under a moist white cloth, and the lace thus steamed looks as if woven with the silk. The craze for appliqué is so great that garlands, sprays, and birds of lace are being carried on to quills, by means of an adherent paste; they are for the ornamentation of felt hats and quill fans. Flounces of Jambrequiné lace are seen on striped Watteau silk petticeats. A lambrequiné frill is gathered to form scallops or festoons; but if the flounce be very wide the top edge only is pinched in gathers at intervals, in order to dis- play the design on the lace in the plain parts and along the flounce at its lower edge. The transfer or appliqué of lace, however,on a handsome fabric, is but an easy form of stitchery compared with that of cut-out velvet, on which is bead-work ornamentation. ‘ The Joan of Arc high busk bodices are a breast- plate of velvet on which cut steel is mixed with cut silver beads. A high busk bodice is cut low, and worn over a soft silk full chemisette; but the aord décolleté is used to describe it as being distinct from a high-necked bodice, the cuit part is really square and high along the ‘front line, 84 from one armhole to the other. It looks more like a piece of medieval armor than a bodice, Under-arm pieces look equally more like metal. proof work executed by an armorer than done with aneedle. When a miniature capote is made of the same beading and tinsel embroidery it is like a head-piece from a gold or silversmith, especially so by the addition of stones and cut beads. The trousseau of the Princess Victoria of Prussia has excited much comment in London, having been ordered from different trandesmen in England and Germany. There are ulsters, and jackets, and mantles for all occasions, and from various shops, both Eng- lish and German. ‘Two short capes from Mme. Elise (London), are particularly fascinating. One, of pale amethyst Ottoman silk, has the high collar covered outside with a passementerie made of drab silk cord, mixed with gold and silver threads, and the inside is lined with dark ame- thyst velvet. The other is of plaited black silk, lined with pale pink silk. It has long ends in front, which show a border of pink, and there are long pink ribbons to tie it. As winter is now here, the hats have been chosen to suit the cold season, and are all, with the exception of a couple of sailor hats, made of felt and velvet. A red felt hat is trimmed with red velvet and sable tails. A brown felt, trimmed with brown velvet and gray fur, has a little brown bird perching on the top, and there are a muff and collar to be worn with it. The bonnets are lighter. Several are made almost entirely of feathers, with humming birds nestling among them, and are graceful and becoming, but the most tasteful of all is a crownless bonnet, of which the foundation is pale pink velvet, and on this rests a wreath of dark purple ivy leaves and green berries mixed with black lace. From the back comes, over a tuft formed of pink osprey, bows of pink velvet and bent green stalks, while in front of the bonnet, on the left side, is perched the tiniest of humming birds. One notable fact about these bonnets may be mentioned as a hint to extravagant ladies; not one of them has cost more than two guineas, and some Mave cost less. It is not the custom in Germany to send in wedding presents until shortly before the wed- ding day. Nevertheless Princess Victoria has already received a great number, and they range

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FOREIGN GOSSIP. 85 from the magnificent jewels given by the Em- press Frederick and the Queen of England, down to the simple offerings of the Princess’ humbler friends. The Empress Frederick’s wedding gift to her daughter is a splendid tiara, necklace, brooch, and ear-rings of large sapphires, diamonds and pearls. The sapphires are remarkable, not only for their size, but also for their lovely color, and the hue and shape of the pearls, both round and pear-shaped, are perfect, while the diamonds alone are most valuable. The Queen has sent her granddaughter a magnificent pendant of emeralds and diamonds, as well as unmade pieces of silk for dresses, Indian shawls, and beautiful lace. The gift of the Duke and Duchess of Connaught is one of the prettiest, and is cer- tainly the most uncommon among the presents. It is an Indian necklace of five rows of pearls. In the centre of each row hangs a small pendant, and every pendant is different. The top one is of diamonds, the second of sapphires, the third of moonstones, the fourth of emeralds, and the bottom one of pearls. The workmanship is light, and the whole has a most elegant effect. Another present,which is also out of the common, is that of the Grand Duchess Sergius, and con- sists of a dozen Russian teaspoons of gold with the backs beautifully enameled and a sugar bowl to match. Prince and Princess Henry of Bat- tenberg sent a silver coffee set, the Duchess of Edinburgh a brooch of sapphires and diamonds, Princess Christian a cable chain bracelet with watch set in diamonds, the Grand Duke of Hesse a bangle with sapphires and diamonds, A beautiful ring with one large pearl and one large diamond, set one above the other in a slanting direction, is the combined gift of Princess Vic- toria’s brother, Prince Henry, and her three sisters. There are, among other smaller articles of jewelry, tea-sets of various kinds, clocks of all descriptions, all sorts of silver articles both useful and ornamental, and the donors of these have in almost every case had Princess Victoria’s V. and crown engraved on them, and among all these are to be seen the handiwork of those who, not having money to buy costly gifts, have spent their time over their labor of love, and have had it graciously accepted and appreciated. A lovely princesse gown that fits like moulding can be obtained by the new treatment of dart seams. The inner seams are outward, my dear, and the edges are corded! I have just seen a good selection of the new trimmings for evening gowns, which could be applied with great effect to rich silks and bro- cades. Bands of guipure, composed entirely of embroidered flowers, are lovely. A silver thread is introduced, which gives great effect and does not tarnish, There are gold and silver gimps with gems of all kinds forming a part of the pattern, but for the present nothing is so fashion- able as turquoise mixed with jet and steel—when it accords well with the material. Light-colored feathered bands in curled and uncurled ostrich, shorn ostrich, and marabout are wonderfully pretty, and show delicate tints. Fringes are coming in again, especially bead fringes strung with spangles, and there is a new silver or gold kind which lasts well, because it is composed of glass beads lined with gold and silver. Knotted fringes and ball edges border bodices and panels of evening gowns, Spotted chiffons are used for draping, and the new laces with interwoven satin stripes. Embroidered fronts, four and one- half yards wide, occasionally divided into half the length, are worked in every kind of flower, as well as arabesque scrolls, and are exceptionally lovely. Some of the newest fans are gauze, not very large, but beautifully painted in flowers. The latest idea is a movable rib at one side, which, by means of patent fasteners, will hold any flowers, real or artificial, that may adorn the out- side, or can be slipped to the middle or sides. Appliqué lace edges make gauze fans much prettier, but in addition may have irregular pieces of lace let in, the gauze cut away below. Bluettes are a fashionable flower, and appear largely on the new fans. A touch of metallic gold is often introduced into the painted birds or scrolls, Needle run lace fans, like the old yak lace, are new, and come from Lyons. I have seen one with birds and hollyhocks painted in the centre that delighted me. A black fan, with gray and steel butterflies bordering the edge, is quite new, and so are the ribs placed outside the fan the entire length, and painted with flowers. Real butterflies are introduced on fans, I think I wrote you that one-button gloves were to be the rage. I learn that the one-button- glove idea will only be tolerated when cuffs to sleeves come down right over the fingers, and they are to be dark for the day-time. It is con- sidered quite useless to expose sharp angles at the wrists. The opening of bodices @ da tra- gédienne has brought to view so much of the human structure, without any plumpness to cover it, that it is considered too tragic for every-day wear without a chiffon fichu. MARIGOLD.

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We may live without poetry, music, and art, ; We may live without conscience and live with- out heart, ; ' We may live without friends, we may live with- out books! But civilized man cannot live without cooks! He may live without books; what is knowledge but grieving? . He may live without hope; what is hope but de- ceiving ? : ‘ He may live without love; what is passion but pining? ; But where is the man that can live without dining? OweEN MEREDITH. Twelfth Night Cake. Take one cup of butter, two of sugar, three and a half of flour, one of milk, yolks of five eggs, whites of three, three teaspoonfuls of baking powder, one of orange extract, one pea, one bean, one clove. Rub the butter to a smooth, soft cream, and add the flour with the flavoring extract gradu- ally. Beat very light. Meanwhile, have the eggs beaten, the whites first, and then the yolks: The butter and sugar must be rubbed together until very light. Use fine granulated sugar for this. Add the milk, a little at a time, and rub and mix to keep it smooth. Ifthe whole cupful should be added at once, the mixture will be separated into a whey-like substance, and the consequence will be a coarse-grained cake. If inclined to separate, add a little flour to stop it. Add the flour, with the baking powder in it, and beat up quickly ; then the well-beaten yolks, then the whites beaten stiff. Pour the dough into the pan and set it into the oven. Have a quick heat at first, specially from the bottom. It should rise so as to fill the pan. When the cake is done, and before it is frosted, push into it upon one side of it the pea, and on the other side the bean and the clove. Mark with a broom straw, so you will remember where you put these. Then ice and decorate the loaf. When the cake is cut, gentlemen must be served from the side con- taining the clove and bean, and the ladies from the side containing the pea, according to the an- cient custom. The clove represents the knave, and the bean is the king, and the pea is the queen. Those to whom these fall in the cutting of the cake must assume the characters repre- sented by them for the evening. This is an ancient English custom, which has been revived of late years. A wreath of holly and berries THE HOUSEHOLD. around the edge is a pretty decoration, and ip the centre should be placed a tiny Christmas tree. Have little figures of king, queen, and knave made ata confectioner’s and place upon the top of cake. White Mountain Cake. Take four eggs, two and one-half cupfuls of white sugar, one heaping cupful of butter, one teacupful of sour milk, one teaspoonful of vanilla extract and one of lemon juice, one cupful of raisins, one cupful of candied orange peel and sliced citron mixed, half a teacupful of chopped blanched almonds, five cupfuls of flour. Beat the eggs light; beat the butter and sugar toa cream; mix in the eggs, then stir in the flour and the milk; when beaten light, add the other in. gredients, and just before baking, stir in one tea- spoonful of soda dissolved in a little sweet milk, This will make two good-sized cakes, and must be baked in a moderate oven, Cocoanut Jelly Cake. Take one teacupful of butter, three teacupfuls of sugar, half a teacupful of milk, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar, mixed in three and one-half teacupfuls of flour, half a teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in milk, the whites of two eggs beaten light, flavor with vanilla extract. Put the flour in last when beating up the batter, and the eggs in first. To make the icing, take the whites of three eggs beat light to one pound of granulated sugar. Bake the cake in three shallow pans, as for jelly cake; when cool, put the icing, mixed with grated cocoanut, between each layer. Cocoanut Cake. Cut up and wash a cocoanut, and grate as much of it as will weigh a pound. Take one pound of sugar. Beat fifteen eggs very light; and then beat into them, gradually, the sugar. Then add by degrees the cocoanut; and lastly, a handful of sifted flour. Stir the whole very hard, and bake it either in a large tin pan, or in little tins. The oven should be rather quick. Fruit or Black Cake. Prepare two pounds of currants by picking them clean, washing and draining them through a colander, and then spreading them out on a large dish to dry before the fire or in the sun, placing the dish in a slanting position. Pick and stone two pounds of the best raisins. Dredge the currants with flour when quite dry, also the Qa - neo p i ow fe ot ae a. ae

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and in ristmas n, and € upon fuls of r, One ranilla ful of 1 and »pped Beat rtoa r and er in- > tea. milk, must ofuls nful half oda, iten lour &gs s of ted raisins, to prevent them from sinking in the cake. Take one tablespoonful of powdered cinnamon ; also one tablespoonful of mace and four nut- megs; sift these spices, and mix all together in a teacup. Mix together two large glasses of white wine, one of brandy and one of rose water, and cut one pound of citron into large slips. Sift one pound of flour into one pan, and one pound of sugar into another. Cut up among the sugar one pound of the best butter, and stir them toa cream. Beat twelve eggs until perfectly thick and smooth, and stir them gradually into the butter and sugar, alternately with the flour. Then add by degrees the fruit, spice and liquor, and stir the whole very hard at the last. Then put the mixture into a well-buttered tin pan with straight sides. Put it immediately into a moder- ate oven, and bake it at least four hours, When done, let it remain in the oven to get cold; it will be the better for staying in all night. Ice it next morning; first dredging the outsideall over with flour, and then wiping it with a towel. This will make the icing stick. Bath-Buns. Rub half a pound of fresh butter into a pound of sifted flour, and make it into a paste with four eggs that have been well beaten, and a large wineglassful of the best yeast ; put the dough into a pan, cover it with a cloth, and set it before the firetorise. Whenitis quite light, mix into ita quar- ter of a pound granulated sugar, a grated nutmeg, and two or three teaspoonfuls of carraway seeds. Roll out the dough into a thick sheet, and divide it into round cakes with a cutter. Strew the top of each with carraway seeds and bake them on flat tins buttered well. They should be eaten the day they are made; they are not good unless eaten quite fresh. Scotch Cake. Rub three quarters of a pound of butter into one pound of sifted flour ; mix into it one pound of granulated sugar, and one large tablespoonful of powdered cinnamon. Mix it into a dough with three well-beaten eggs. Koll it out intoa sheet; cut it into round cakes, bake them in a quick oven ; they will require but a few minutes. Doughnuts. Take two deep dishes, and sift three-quarters of a pound of flour into each. Make a hole in the centre of one of them, and pour in a large wineglassful of the best brewers’ yeast. Mix the flour gradually into it, wetting it with luke- warm milk; cover it, and set it by the fire to rise, two hours. This is setting a sponge. In the meantime, cut up five ounces of butter into the other dish of flour, and rub it fine with your hands; add half a pound of granulated sugar, a teaspoonful of powdered cinnamon, a grated nut- meg, a tablespoonful of rose water, and half a pint of milk. Beat three eggs very light, and stir them into the mixture. Then, when the sponge is perfectly light, add to it the other in- gredients, mixing them all thoroughly with a knife. Cover it, and set it again by the fire to rise. When it is quite light, flour your paste- board, turn out the lump of dough, and cut into THE HOUSEHOLD. 87 thick, diamond-shaped cakes. If you find the dough so soft as to be unmanageable, mix ina little more flour; but not otherwise, Have ready a pan of boiling lard; put the doughnuts into it, and fry them brown; and, when cool, roll them in cinnamon and sugar. They are best when quite fresh. Soft Gingerbread, Take one cupful of butter, and one cupful of sugar, beaten together toa cream. One cupful of molasses, three of flour, one cupful of mi‘k, two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, three eggs, one tablespoonful of ground ginger, one of ground cinnamon, and one of ground cloves and allspice, mixed together. Beatall well together, put into a buttered pan, and bake ina moderate oven. Cup Cake. Take one cupful of butter, two cupfuls of sugar, four eggs, one nutmeg, grated, one cupful of milk, two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, and three cupfuls of flour. Mix the butter and sugar to a cream, beat the eggs separately until quite light, add the other ingredients, put into a but- tered caketin, and bake one hour in a quick oven, Barley Sugar. One pint of very strong barley water, strained ; two pounds of rock candy; lemon juice to taste. Boil without stirring; then pour into buttered pans; then score into long flat sticks. It is ex- cellent. Sugar a la Creme, Take one pound of maple sugar, put it into a pan, amd put the pan into another of boiling water, until it melts into a syrup. Then put in half a teacupful of cream, and boil for ten minutes. Put it out into a well-buttered dish; cut it into squares while cooling. Cocoanut Candy. Take equal quantities of white sugar and grated cocoanut; add enough of the milk of the cocoa- nut to moisten the sugar, and then put it upon the fire to boil, stirring almost constantly. When the candy begins to return to sugar, stir in the cocoanut as quickly as possible, and in a minute or two spread it upon dishes to cool, making it off in squares to cut after it hardens sufficiently. Stuffed Dates. Remove the stones from one pound of fine dates, by cutting them open at oneside. Remove the shells and skins from half a pound of almonds; the skins can easily be rubbed off by first pouring boiling water upon the almond kernels; replace the date stones with the almonds, and arrange the dates neatly upon a shallow dish; dust a little powdered sugar over them and keep them in a cool, dry place until ready for use. This dish will cost twenty-five cents. Peanut Candy. Boil together one pint of molasses, one gill of brown sugar, and two ounces of butter, When this is growing thick, add one pint of parched and shelled peanuts; then boil the whole fifteen minutes, and pour into a shallow dish to cool and harden.

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WORK TABLE. Knitted Skirt. Figs. 1, 2. Either zephyr wool or Germantown can be used to knit this skirt, in cream, salmon, tur- quoise, or scarlet. It is knitted with coarse steel needles, The work is done in stripes, which are afterward crocheted together. The stripes are begun at the top. Cast on 64 stitches, Ist row.— Plain knitting. 2d row.—Purled throughout. 3d.—Slip the first; * purl 2 together, put the wool over, purl 2 together, purl 5, out of the next stitch purl 2, 1 out of the front of the stitch as usual and I reversed out of the back; then purl 3, knit (plain) 4, but of these slip the first 2 ona separate needle, which leave at the back, knit the last 2, then knit the first 2 which had been separated; purl 3, purl 2 out of the next stitch as previously, purl 5, purl 2 together, put over, purl 2 together, purl 2; repeat from * once more, ending with purl I instead of purl 2. 4th row.—Knit so that all stitches knitted or purled in the last row will appear the same in this; out of each put over knit 1. 5th row.—Like the 3d, but knit the group of 4 in regular order instead of cross- ing them. 6th row.—Slip the first, purl 10, knit 3, purl 4, knit 3, purl 22, knit 3, purl 4, knit 3, purl 11. 7th row.—Slip the first; * knit 2 together, put over, knit 2 together, knit 5, out of the next stitch knit 1 and knit 1 re- versed (for reversed insert the needle from [t. the back downward), purl 3, knit 4, purl 3, out of the next stitch knit 1 and knit 1 reversed, knit 5, knit 2 together, put over, knit 2 together, knit 2, repeat from * once more, ending with knit I instead of knit 2. 8th row.—Like the 6th. Continue to repeat the 3d-8th rows until the stripe is long enough; then, to finish the lower edge, knit first a row like the 3d; next I row of plain knitting and 2 purled rows, then, for the double edge, 10 rows more as follows: Ist— Alternately put over and knit 2 together. 2d row.—Purled, 3d-6th rows. —Like the last 2 by turns, Then 4 more rows, all to appear plain on the right side, after which cast off. After the stripes are joined the last 5 rows are turned under and hemmed down. The top of the skirt is finished with a round belt, made of gray linen or silesia. Fig. 2shows the pattern in full working size. The skirt can be adapted to any size re- quired by measuring the length necessary. E. T. Fig. 3. Alphabet—Cross Stitch. This simple alphabet is suitable for marking house and table linen, handkerchiefs, etc. The illustration is French, consequently there is no W, but this letter may be easily worked from the V; you repeat the left side of the V on the right side, and work three straight stitches in the centre of the W instead of branching it out as in the right side of the V. r Fic. 2,

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~- © Figs. 4, 5,6. Lamp Shade Ornamented with Gelatine Wafers. Fancy lamp shades are so universally used now, that ingenuity is taxed to invent new de- WORK TABLE. 89 piece of transparent paper, about eighteen inches square, is folded crosswise, and the corners turned to right and left, as shown in Fig. 4, so as to get six layers, Then the oval is traced on the Fic. 3. signs that are easily executed. Our design is made of the old-fashioned gelatine wafers, which may be bought at any stationer’s shop, and can be used as a pretty decoration for lamp shades. To form the foundation of the shade (Fig. 6), a top layer, as in Fig. 5, and cut out through the six layers, which will produce the shape of the lamp shade, as represented in Fig. 6. A hole has to be cut out on the top of sufficient width to fit the lamp glass, For the decoration, three

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$0 WORK TABLE. different sizes and colors of wafers are used— dark blue, pale yellow, and dark red. To secure the accuracy of the design, it is advisable to make a sketch of the design in ink and place it under the transparent paper. The wafers are then slightly damped with a wet sponge, and fixed to the foundation. When finished, the whole is covered with a second layer of trans- FIG. 4. parent paper, cut to shape, and glued to the edges, which are finely vandyked, as in Fig. 6. The top of the lamp shade is strengthened by a lining of thin card-board. A great variety of designs and color combinations can be pro- duced with these wafers, which can be cut in the shape of crescents, stars, birds, butterflies, and other pretty emblems, For the foundation, woven materials such as light silks, cambric, Fig. 7. Baby’s Boot in Tunisian Crochet. gauze, etc., can be used. S. B. Tunisian crochet is tricoter, taken through the chain stitch instead of the loop, as in ordinary tricoter. Andalusian wool and a long bone hook of suitable size are required, Commence with the sole, which is separate. Make 9 chain. Ist row.—Take up and finish the 9 stitches. 2d row.—The same. 3d row.—increase I at the beginning and I at the end of the row, making 11 stitches. 4th and 5th rows.—11 stitches. 6th row.—Increase to 13 stitches, 7th, 8th and 9th rows.—13 stitches, 1oth row.—Diminish 2, leaving 11. 11th row.-—II stitches. 12th row.—Dimin- ish 2, leaving9. 13th, 14th and 15th rows.—9 stitches. 16th row.—Increase 2, making If stitches. 17th row.—II stitches. 18th row.—Increase 2, mak- ing 13 stitches. 19th, 2oth, 21st and Fic. 5. 22d rows.—13 stitches. 23d row.—

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eS Ky het. h the as in wool > size the hain, ne 9 Diminish 2, leaving I1 stitches. 24th row.—The same, leaving g stitches, 25th and 26 rows.— g stitches. The upper part of the boot is commenced at the toe. Make a chain of 11, and work on it 11 stitches. 2d row.—Increase 2, making 13. 3d, 4th, 5th and 6th rows.—Increase 2 in each row, making in all 21 stitches. 7th row.—21 stitches. 8th, 9th, roth, 11th and 12 rows.— Increase 2 in each row, making in all 31 stitches, 13th and 14 rows.—3I stitches. 15th row.—Increase 2, mak- ing 33. 16th row.—33 stitches. 17th and 18 rows.—Diminish 2 in each row, leaving 29 stitches. 19th row.—Di- minish 2 at the beginning and 2 at the end of the row. 2oth, 21st, 22d and 23d rows.—The same as the I9th row, leaving 9 stitches. 24th row.—g stitches; fasten off. For the heel make 42 chain, work 42 stitches. 2d row.—Decrease 1 at each end, 40 stitches. 3d row.—4o stitches. 4th row.—Like 2d, leave 38 stitches, 5th row.—38 stitches. 6th row.—Like 2d, 36 stitches. 7th row. —36 stitches. 8th row.—Decrease 2, leave 34. 9th row.—34stitches. Sew this band to the toe on each side of the last 9 stitches, and work round on the 43 stitches. 12 rows of ordinary double crochet. The sole is then sewn in and the boot is finished by a coquillé around the top and on the front of crochet, worked as follows: Make a long chain, work 7 treble in one stitch, miss 2, 7 treble in next, the 7th drawn back to the Ist with 1 WORK TABLE. gt single, miss 2 and repeat. On the other side of the chain work the same, but the Ist 7 treble must be in the stitch in which the 2d 7 treble is worked. On the edge of each row work 1 single, 3 chain, miss 1 alla'ong. The boot is then fin- ished with bows of ribton. This little boot may also be worked as a shoe by omitting the 12 rows of double crochet. Figs. 8, 9. Table Mat—Crochet Work. The centre and the outer edge of this mat are im crochet work of écru and red crochet thread; the connection between the two is an inserted band of écru linen Java canvas three inches wide; an oblong piece of the canvas is taken, and the centre is cut out, leaving an open space to be filled with crochet-work. The canvas has anarrow hem atthe edges, anda drawn-work band an inch widealong the middle. The border and center are in arose pattern of flowers and leaves. For the border (Fig. 9) begin by working a number of flowers, and of single and double cro- chet. 1st row.—Make a center stitch of red, into which work 18 stitches of single crochet. 2d row.—Join in the white, put 1 single crochet in red, then chain 4, 5 double crochet into this, then seat eee een yy FRLIALST® Oe.

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92 WORK TABLE. 1 single into the third stitch of center, and so on. 3d row.—Take up the red and work a slip stitch on every stitch in the last row, then fasten off. For each of the single leaves work 13 chain with écru, and 9 double crochet, a short double and asingle crochet on the 11th-1st of the 13 Fic. chain; for the double ves a single leaf is worked in the same manner, then in connection with it a second leaf is worked, and at the close of it a slip stitch on the last single of the first leaf. The leaves are edged with red in connec- tion with the making of the stems. Begin with 14 chain, a slip stitch on the first chain of a single leaf, placing it to the right, then a slip stitch on every stitch around the leaf, a slip stitch on the last of the 14 chain, 9 chain, connect to the tip of one of the petals of a flower, turn and work g slip stitches on the preceding g chain, a slip stitch on the last of the 14 chain, on whicha slip was worked once before, a slip stitch on the firg \ Nees. Wet WATE Mh , 3 Td ta plLibati lites ig Os oT SESSA TU Br aaa = nd iV ad \» £ E i) Z 1 \Sip ‘ \ \ \ N \ N 5 ZN PAL = = V2 01. Wy 7 PALA Ay” 9. . chain of a double leaf, turning i: to the left,a slip stitch on every stitch around the leaf, a slip stitch on the same chain on which there are already 2 slip stitches, 14 chain, bringing them between the single leaf and the stem of the flower, a slip on the first chain of a double leaf, placing it on the right, work slip stitches around the leaf, connecting to the single leaf and the a «f of © eae ae a ierlUrlU!hUr lr hh

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1 on the the tip Work 9 » a Slip ha slip the first “ft, a slip are hem the leaf, und the flower as illustrated, a slip on the last of. the preceding 14 chain, 9 chain, a slip on the tip of a petal of another flower, g slip stiches on the 9 chain, a slip on the last of the preceding 14 chain, a slip on the first chain of a single leaf, placing the leaf to the left, work slip stitches around the leaf, a slip on the last of the preced- ing 14 chain; repeat from *, observing the illus- trations Figs. 8 and 9; later work slip stitches on these parts of the stems on which the chain stitches are not already worked over. Along the inner edge of the border work 3 rows, the first 2 with écru and the last with red, as follows:' Ist row.— A double crochet on the tip of the first leaf of the next double leaf, 7 chain, a four- fold crochet, working off only the lowest 2 veins for the present, onthe following 5th stitch of the same leaf, a triple crochet on the corresponding stitch of the 2d leaf, then work off the upper veins of the fourfold, 7 chain, a double on the tip of the same leaf, 5 chain, aslip stitch on the tip of the next uncon- nected petal of the succeeding flower, 4 chain, ‘a slip on the tip of the next petal, § chain; repeat from Fic. #, varying at the cornersas illustrated. 2d row.— A single on each stitch. 3d row.—A double crochet on the next, 1 chain, pass 1. For the center work two rows of the border and sew them together, then surround them with three rows like those at the inner edge of the border. Fig. 10. Embroidery—Design for Needle- Book. This design is worked on cream satin; the border is worked with pale blue silk in long- stitches, and fine gold cord laid on in couching- stitch ; the spray of rose and buds is worked with two shades pink for the rose, with sellow for the knot-stitches in the center, and two shades green for the leaves and stalks. Two pieces of satin of the same size must be embroidered; these are placed over card, the edges turned in and tacked ; they are then lined with pale blue silk; the edge of the lining must be turned in and Voi. CXXII—No. 7. Io. WORK TABLE. 93 slip-stitched to the edge of the outside. The two pieces are sewn together at the back, where the stitches are hidden by a bow of narrow ribbon, Six leaves of cream cashmere are cut rather smaller than the outsides ; they are pinked at the edges, and are sewn inside the case. A piece of narrow ribbon is sewn to each side of the front and tied in a bow. Waste-Paper Basket. (See colored work page in front of book.) This pretty basket may be had in three sizes 3 it is suitable to be used as a work-basket to hold large pieces of work, such as underlinen, large knitted or crochet shawls, etc., or it may be used for a waste-paper basket, or to hold a large flower- pot; the pot would stand in the basket, and the frill of silk would be drawn up to hide the pot. The basketis composed of straw plait and open wicker bars; bands of plush are threaded in‘and out the opem bars; three draperies of Indian silk are drawn diagonally round the basket; these are gathered at the top ratherloosely, and are drawn up quite tightly at the lower edge, and are fixed under two pome pons. The diamond- shaped drapes are of terra-cotta satin; four are embroiderec& with the griffin, and two with the outline designs; two dia- monds with the grif- fins are placed to- gether, the griffins facing outward, with the outline design on each side the two griffins. The diamonds must be fitted to size of basket, The edge of the satin is turned up, and the dia- monds are lined ; the upper edges of diamonds are finished with a double piping of silk; the diamonds are fixed to the basket by the three upper corners; a full loop of silk is placed be- tween each diamond; the lower point of each is finished with a handsome double pompon of shaded green silk; the points of basket are lined with full piece of Indian silk arranged in a frill at the top, standing up one inch deep. A piece of silk about ten inches wide is hemmed down two inches and a half, and has a running slide of ribbon tied at one side; the other edge of the silk is sewn to the basket just below the depths between the points; the ribbon slide is drawn up and tied. This pretty basket can be changed in colors, and forms an exceedingly pretty gift. MABEL WARE,

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@ur Arm=-Chair. JANUARY, 1891. E send out with the New Year a welcome mcs- senger to many homes, and with it we send warm greetings and a cordial hand- shake to all our oldand innumer- able new sub- scribers. Would that we could follow in its wake and see how warmly it is welcomed, its familiar form being eagerly looked for. Dut, as thousands of miles prevents our following in the magazine’s travels, we can only remain at our post and try to make, if possible, our book more attractive than it is. We feel confident from the many en- comiums lavished upon the Christmas number that our readers have been more than satisfied with our efforts; but we have aimed higher, and feel convinced that our New Year number is the handsomest yet issued. Init we commence three new serials, which promise to be of more than usual interest, numerous short stories from popu- lar authors, handsome illustrations, extra paper, cut paper patterns, and a larger book, makes us feel that we can claim for it a warm and gener- ©us patronage. We wish to assure our readers for 1891 that our efforts are not completed; we are not going to rest after sending out one good number, but each and every number is going to be better than the last, forming asa whole twelve bright stars, to be joined together to shine forth from time to time. We have tried in our arrange- ment for 1891 to suit all tastes, so thateach mem- ber of the home circle will find within its pages something especially suited to their needs, whether it is instruction, amusement, economy, ‘or comfort that is desired. Let each subscriber ¢arefully read our prospectus, and see the valuable premiums offered, and let each try and see how many new names they can add to our list, thereby serving themselves as well as us in the handsome premium they will receive for their efforts. Let our friends continue the warm in- terest shown for us, and make the circulation of 94 Gopey’s Lapy’s Book for 1891 the largest ever known, To one and all we wish a glad Ney Year, and that all their and our fond anticipa tions may be fully realized, is the sincere wish of the EDITor, A HANDSOME PREMIUM TO CLUB RAISERS. We call attention to the liberal offer made ty our club raisers upon the extra pink slip in front part of book; also, to school advertisement The school is beautifully located, combining all the advantages of a delightful home with a thorough course oi instruction in all the branches of an English education, Tiere is an unpree edented chance for any one desirous of securing one year of instruction with board, free of cost This can very easily be done by obtaining two hundred and fifty subscribers to GoDEy's Lapy's Book, at $2 per year. Each subscriber receives the full value of their two dollars, and the getter up of the club secures the scholarship entirely Jree. New names can be added'to the club at any time, as they are secured, and persons getting names which fail to reach the full number will receive a handsome premium upon their work, Address Godey Publishing Company, Phila delphia, Pa. A DENVER INSTITUTION. Stanley Wood’s Great Divide has long been noted for its originality, and for the energy with which it has forced itself from the ranks of local favor to the front as a publication of national reputation. The latest invention of its brilliant and aggressive manager is the Gemstone cabinet (a collection cf twenty cut and polished semi- precious stones, worth at jewelers’ prices $12.25), which cabinet is given to every subscriber to the Great Divide, all for $1. The Gemstone cabinet has proved a great success, and subscriptions average over one hundred a day. The question is, how can they do it? But they do.— Denver Evening Times, October 18th, 1890. WHAT A SUBSCRIBER THINKS OF “GODEY.” SouTH HAvEN, KANSAS, August 24th, 1890. Publishers Gopry's Lapy’s Book. Strs:—I am very much pleased with your book; think it the best one of all the magazines enn ae. lhUMtlCrlCUrSlUlUC RCO _ _ nn ne me.

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St ever 1 New ticipa > wish TOR, CB ide te 1 front ment, ng all ith a nches 1prec- uring r two ADY's eives etter. tirely ub at tting > will vork, hila been with local liant inet emi- 25), ) the inet ions tion our [ever read. I like your patterns very much, accept thanks for same. I cannot get a'ong without it. Yours, D. N. The Vose & Sons Piano Company now stand in the front rank of piano makers in producing a class of pianos that have become the favorite wherever they are known. These pianos have been before the public forty years, and have attained an enviable reputation for their good qualities; they combine all the attributes of a perfect piano, and are sold at reasonable prices, The company have established agencies in every State in the Union; also in the Dominion of Canada, South America, and the Sandwich Islands. The demand for their pianos is steady, and constantly increasing, and they are working their large factory at its full capacity. JULES VERNE. After describing the fictitious adventures of many of his characters, Jules Verne has now written the true story of his own boyhood for The Youth’s Companion, which announces this as one of a hundred or more special articles by eminent authors which will be published during 1891. The death is announced of Mr. J. P. Evanss surviving brother of George Eliot. He died on Sunday, October 26, at the age of seventy-four. George William Curtis, in the « Editor’s Easy Chair,” in Harper’s Magazine for December, pleads for a Christmas of rational enjoyment. He says: “ Let Christmas stand for pleasure, and for the reason that it is especially the Christian day. Then Christianity drops her weeds and smiles, Then the whole world takes up the refrain: * Religion never was designed To make our pleasures less,’ If we were to fancy a wholly Christianized world, it would be a world inspired by the spirit of Christmas—a bright, friendly, bene fi- cent, generous, sympathetic, mutually helpful world, A man whois habitually mean, selfish, narrow, is a man without Christmas in his soul.” The adulteration and cheapening of articles of food in this country are becoming alarming, and we therefore point with pride to the record of Walter Baker & Co.’s preparations, which have for over one hundred years maintained their integrity of manufacture and absolute purity ef product. It is a distinctive characteristic of OUR ARM-CHAIR. 95 W. Baker & Co.'s Breakfast Cocoa that no chem™ icals are used inits preparation, it being produced from the finest cocoa seeds by scientific mechan- ical processes only, and for this reason it 1s unequalled in purity, as well as unexcelled in solubility, by any other cocoa in the market. It is healthful, nourishing, agreeable, and economi- cal, and the best drink in the world for young and old, rich and poor, the invalid and the ro- bust. BOOK TABLE. “Summerland.” By Margaret Macdonald Pull- man, with original illus:rations by George T. Andrews. Artistic cover of two colored cloths, full gilt. Lee and Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, $3.75. The illustrations in this book are exquisite, The artist takes her friends « up the winding path that suggests the cottage life just over the hills, with its warm blue breathings of the hidden hearth;” over the “soft hills studded with flowers,” made musical with the “chirp of birds and bleat of sheep;” into “meadows with per- fumed air,’’ besides “the brook fringed with flowing grasses and cool, quiet reflections;” thence to the softly gliding river, «Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank ;” through the “balmy pine woods” to the Old Homestead on the sands, « Where the tide is low, but soft and slow Is creeping higher up the lea,” and the sea is blue with heaven’s own reflection. The treatment of the subject is such that the heart is touched, and made to feel that life hath much sweetness. This is an ideal gift book. “An Old Love Letter.” Designed and sllumi- nated by Irene Jerome. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.00. By reason of fitness of text and of its attrac- tive style, no less than by its choice collection of passages fragrant with the breath of the love such as can be found only in inspired writings, this latest art-gem, with golden words, will appeal as a charming gift for Christmas end Easter. “An Old Love Letter” is a suitable title, because it presents the sfiri¢ ot love in the inspiring words of love found in the New Testament, which have come down to us from the ages. These loving words are set in ornamental lettering, surrounded on each page by an original design illuminated in the old missal style of colors and gold, printed in /ae-

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simile of Miss Jerome’s original drawings, pro- ducing a brilliant effect, the whole forming a delicate and exquisite love letter. “The Guest Book.” Designed and illustrated by Annie F. Cox, Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Gold cloth. Price, $3.75. This is a beautiful as well as useful book, and unique in design and construction. In it may be recorded the coming and the going of guests, with pages for autographs, incidents pertaining to pleasant visits, social calls, and other gather- ings. There are several pages with beautiful de- signs for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and other special occasions. “The Wooing of Grandmother Grey.” Poem by Kate Tannatt Woods, Illustrations by Copeland. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, $2.00. This is a charming book of the olden time, the illustrations are exquisite from the opening scene, where the old grandmother, seated beside her husband, in front of the old fire-place, recalls the details of their ancient courtship. The in- terest is enhanced by a series of appropriate pict- ures, illustrating the events she recalls. This poem is avery beautiful gilt, which will never cease to interest and delight its recipients. “ Baby’s Kingdom.” Designed and illustrated by Annie F, Cox. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, in full gold cloth, $3.75. Here we have a charming book for a young mother ; all the events of baby’s life can here be recorded from its birth up to two years of age. The illustrations are of the highest order, and the sentiments expressed on its pages are at once novel and pleasing, and add a large amount of interest to the illustrations. The thought which conceived the publication of such a book is a most worthy one; as among all the treasures which in our maturing years we might gather, none would possess the peculiar value attached to a book of this character, where a mother’s hand recorded our early biography of the long ago. “All Around The Year 1891.” Gilt edges, tassels, chain and rings. Designed by I. Pauline Sunter. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, 50 cents. A dainty calendar, with designs for each month in the year exquisitely rendered. This is always a useful gift, reminding the recipient daily of the giver. “The Demagogue.” By David Ross Locke (** Nasby”’). Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.50. OUR ARM.- CHAIR. This is a political novel, written in the inimit; able style for which the author is famous. There is a moral to the story, which is not obtruded upon the reader, but which, in short, means that ‘smartness’ is not the one element in a man’s make-up to be admired above all others. “The Round Trip.” By Susie C. Clark. Lee ana Shepard, Boston, Mass, Price, cloth, $1.00, A graphic account of a trip taken through the United States. It is well written, and full of interest, “A Look Upward.” By Susie C. Clark. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, cloth, $1.25, A book whose cheery optimistic outlook and intuitive character form a strong contrast to the prevailing externalism of the day, inasmuch as it touches the hidden springs of spiritual causa, tion and reveals the soul’s innate powers, its inalienable birthright to health, growth, and immortality. «A Summer Holiday in Europe.” By Mary Elizabeth Blake. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. For sale by James Hammond, 1224 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.25. The author, well known as “ M. E, B.,” of the Boston Yournal, possesses all the qualities which make a good traveler, together with a power of description which so many travelers lack. The reader is taken through Ireland, France, and Switzerland, returning by way of London, visit- ing the Paris exposition and all places of special interest, and finding many things worthy of note often passed over by the ordinary traveler. An introductory chapter, descriptive of the real traveler, who is exemplified in the chapters fol- lowing, forms a valuable portion of the book, which will be hailed as a rare addition to the list of books on European travel. «On the Blockade.” By Oliver Optic. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.00. “On the Blockade” is marked by all the pop- ular features of the preceding volumes of, the Blue and the Gray Series, of which it is a num- ber, and deals with many of the same characters. The young readers will be interested in following the career of Christie Passford and his friends, whose varied experiences will be found full of interest, and we are sure they will never want to lay this volume down until the last page has been read. The author has written nothing more in- teresting or romantic, “Little Giant Boab and His Talking Raven, Tabib.” By Ingersoll Lockwood. Profusely

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limit; There ‘uded 3 that nan’s Lee 1.00, h the Il of Lee 1.25, and ) the h as usa, » its lary ton, 224 ‘the lich r of The and sit. cial ote An cal fol. ok, the , Mllustrated by Clifton Johnson. Quarto, cloth. Price, $2.00. . The hero of this story is the grandson of Bo- abdil, the Moor, and the book is an account of his marvelous adventures. His great strength begins to manifest itself soon after his birth, and thereafter he is perpetually performing wonder- {ul feats. The narrative is told most entertain- ingly and naturally, and the interest is sustained throughout. The whole forms a delightful ro- mance for young readers, and for the older reader who is not averse to a tale of the romantic and marvelous, «Pards.” By Effie W. Merriman. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass, Price, $1.00. An interesting story of two homeless, desti- tute lads, who were devotedly attached to each other. Their gradual progress from absolute destitution to comfort and respectability is amus- ingly and naturally told. The scenes and inci- dents in their careers are portrayed in a manner to intensely interest children, and to impress upon them the duties owed to one another, and adesire toimprove. It is certainly far ahead of the average child’s book of the day. «The Kelp Gatherers.” By J. T. Trowbridge. Lee and Shepard, Beston, Mass. Price, $1.00. The young people will be glad to know that, although Mr. Trowbridge is abroad, he has them in mind, and has written a story for them which they will thoroughly enjoy. The characters are drawn as only he can draw them, and all the boys will recognize them, for they live in their neighborhood. The story, with its adventures and lesson, is very entertainingly told, and well illustrated, “A Pocket Book of Private Devotion.” By Rev. IIlugh Hutton, M.A. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, 30 cents. This neat little work contains a prayer for every morning and evening in the week, and also for particular occasions, such as sickness, adversity, death, etc. Each exercise is divided into sections, so that any portion may be used as @ separate or occasional prayer, if circumstances require. It can be easily carried in the pocket, as indicated by the title. «In Trust, or Doctor Bertrand’s Household.” By Amanda M,. Douglas. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. For sale by J. b. Lippincott Company, Phila., Pa. Price, paper, 50 cents. This is one of the Good Company Series, and will be doubly welcome as coming from the pen OUR ARM-CHAIR. oF of the popular and talented author, Amanda M, Douglas. « Coudjos’ Cave.” By J.T. Trowbridge. Lee and Shepard, Boston, Mass. Price, paper, 50 cents, Not a dull page in the book; full of interest from beginning to end. “A Boy’s History of the United States.” By Annie Cole Cody. Illustrated. Worthington Co., 747 Broadway, New York. Price, paper, 50 cents. A new history of our country, one whose sterl ing qualities we are confident will soon make it a favorite with the rising generation. The author presents, in short chapters, life-like sketches of our great men and women, our explorers, con- querors, and pilgrim fathers, gives full and re- liable accounts of many noble deeds and actions, of the different wars, of our political struggles, of our great journals, and altogether has writtena remarkable interesting book. A pleasing feature of this attractive volume are the numerous por- traits of our heroes and statesmen. « A Russian Country House.” By Carl Detlef Translated by Mrs. J. W. Davis, Worthington Co., 747 Broadway, New York. Price, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. A very interesting love story of which the scenes are laid in high Russian life. It presents capital pictures of manners and customs at the Court of the time of the great Elizabeth, makes us acquainted with some of her favorites, tells of festivities garried on with barbaric splendor, and gives us a further insight into the strange Russian character of which Turgenieff and Tolstoi have given ussome glimpses. It is illustrated with beautiful photogravures. « A Sister’s Love.” By. W.Heimburg. Trans- lated by Margaret P. Waterman. With photo- gravure illustrations, Worthington Co., 747 Broadway, New York. Price, half morocco, $1.25; paper, 75 cents. This story is one of the most interesting yet written by this favorite author, and fastens the reader's attention from beginning to end, « The Land We Live In,or America Tllustrated.” By Rev. Edward T. Bromfield, D.D. Worth- ington Co., 747 Broadway, New York. This includes viv:d descriptions of the most beautiful scenery in the United States, The illus. trations are handsome and profuse, the paper fine. Altogether the book would be a valuable one for old or young.

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98 OUR ARM- CHAIR. @ Wee Tots.” Illustrated by Ida Waugh, verses by Amy Ella Blanchard. Worthington Co., 747 Broadway, New York. Handsome colored illustrations fill this book that cannot fail to please the little folks. The verses are quaint and appropriate, and altogether it is a most attractive holiday book. “Worthington’s Annual 1891.” Co., 747 Broadway, New York. This is filled with a series of interesting stories, biographies, and papers on natural history, for the young. It is illustrated with upwards of three hundred engravings by the best artists, and makes a beautiful gift-book, the articles being appropriate for different aged children. Worthington “Sweet William.” By Marguerite Bouvet. Illustrated by Helen and Margaret Armstrong, A. C. McClurg & Co., 117-121 Wabash ave- nue, Chicago, Illinois. For sale by Lippin- cott Company, Philadelphia. Price, $1.50. This very attractive little volume carries us back to medizval times, and introduces us to the lords and ladies who then inhabited the splendid eastle that still looks down from the heights of Mt. St. Michael, on the coast of Normandy. The story is told in a most beautiful and pathetic manner. The characters are charming, and with the singularly appropriate and exquisite illus- trations make it the most attractive juvenile book of the year. “Martha Carey.” By Constance Goddard Du Bois. A.C. McClurg & Co., 117-121 Wabash avenue, Chicago,. Illinois. For sale by Lip- pincott Company, Philadelphia. Price, $1.25. This isa tale of Salem witchcraft. The same material drawn upon by Longfellow for his “ New England Tragedies” is here used with greater fullness and equal historical exactitude. It is wonderfully well written, full of absorbing nov- elty, and its bold imagination carries intense in- terest throughout the pages. There is not one person but who will Jay it aside with regret when the last word has been read. It is a book to burn the midnight oil. “Walford.” By Ellen Olney Kirk. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Massachusetts. Price, $1.25. The case of little Charlie Ross may have suggested a part of this new bcok by the gifted author, beyond that is a lesson in life built on materials found in a rural region where a sup- posed kidnapping had taken place, and this latter part is the real story of Walford.” A desire for money leads to unhappiness and worse, but we must not anticipate readers of the book, but assure them that it isa book that will repay the closest perusal. “Over the Teacups.” By Oliver Wendell Holmes. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Price, $1.50. Tt is the cleverest, cheeriest book ever’written by 2 man of eighty, showing the pungency of the autocrat mellowed by years. The teapot, shown upon the title page, is a vignette of one with 9 history briefly told in a prefatory note. “ Timothy’s Guest.” By Kate Douglas Wiggin, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. Price, $1.00. It is seldom that a short story has such a hand. some typographical setting; it is worthy of the character of the book. “The Story Hour.” By Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith. Houghton, Mifflin & Co, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.00. This is a book for the home and the kinder. garten; it contains fourteen stories all arranged for these purposes. The writer is particularly well adapted to decide upon the subjects, having had an experience of twelve years among kinder. gartners. “A Ward of the Golden Gate.” By Bret Harte, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. Price, $1.25. Just such a book as one would expect from the talented author. In the dexterous craft of its workmanship there is cause for wonder. “Little Folks in Dreamland.”” By Maud Hum. phrey. Frederick A. Stokes & Brother, 182 Fifih avenue,dNew York. For sale by John Wanamaker, Phila., Pa. Price, $1.00. A handsome mounted picture in imitation of water colors. The little folks look extremely happy, and are so pretty that once seen you long to become the possessor of their happy faces. “A Loyal Little Red-Coat.” By Ruth Ogden, Frederick A. Stokes Company, 182 Fifth ave- nue, New York. For sale by John Wana maker, Phila. This is a story of child-life in New York a nundred years ago, well told, beautifully illus trated, and presenting a handsome typographical appearance. It is a book that cannot fail to attract for a holiday present. “A Squire of Low Degee.” By Lily A. Long, D. Appleton & Co., New York. Price, paper, 5° cents. It is an American love story, but one of the best. The self-sacrifice of Alec,” and his devo- tion to the memory of his friend, « Harry,” are well presented. ‘The tale is told with no excess of words, but with abundance of incidents and unfailing interest. « Little Jarvis.” By Mollie Elliott Sewell. D. Appleton & Co., New York, This story received a prize of five hundred dollars offered by the Youths’ Companion; it is full of roble actions, well worthy of commenda- tion. The story is told in easy, simple style, the last chapter being full of pathos. It is a book that will charm any boyish heart. “The Colonel’s Christmas Dinner.” By Cap- tain King, U.S.A. L. K. Hammersley & Co. 1510 Chestnut street, Phila. Price, 50 cents. This novel is written in Captain King’s usual sprightly and attractive vein, and is especially adapted to the holiday season.

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108 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK. WE ARE SO HUNGRYT