Godey's Magazine 1891-02: Vol 122 Iss 728

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Vout. CXXII. No. 728. (,ODEY’s | ADy’s RooK. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1891. O. Kk. BY OLIVIA LOVELL WILSON. WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. WILCOX SMITH. ’ Th T was piteous to see how wistfully Fanchette wie looked from one face to the other, while Patrick Henry, always taciturn, got into a far corner and by his attitude expressed his recognition of the ill-wind that was turning the family weathercock Polly alone retained her cheerful de- meanor, for she sidled along M. Tosti’s shoulder, and in a mingling of French and English uttered her resolve to ‘‘do or die, sink or swim, but never give up the ship !’’ As for M. Tosti, he stood the picture of sympathetic indecision. A great idea was resolving itself in his mind, and there was scarcely space for it. It implicated a blue knit sock, one of many knitted for him years ago by his mother. M. Tosti kept it for luck, and no one need ask what he secreted therein. It would pay for his funeral expenses, should death overtake him, and leave Marie free of debt. Should Marie find a mate for herself before that time, M. Tosti meant it should be her dower, and trusted both Providence and the son-in-law to bury him with due decorum. Now, M. Tosti reflected, and saw the blue sock in the new light of Mrs. Whit- comb’s distressed face, and the necessity for railroad fare. He had not moved since he asked him to procure her ticket. But, as that good lady dragged out a small horse-hair trunk studded with brass nails, and sat down before it, Fanchette was the means of rescuing the second sugges- 109

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| @ fe) tion of M. Tosti’s life. Fanchette sat down before the trunk, and throwing back her head howled dismaliy. Marie burst into wild sobs, and Mrs. Whitcomb with a moan hid her face and wept bit- terly. ‘Non, non, macher Ami, mon petite Marie,’’ cried M. Tosti, much moved, ‘‘it must not be. You weep and neglect to pack. Monsieur France is in need of you. I have an idea. It is this,” spread- ing his hands. ‘* Madam shall not go on the journey unattended. It is not use for her to try dat. Marie goes even so, I go even so also. How does dat come at you? I vill go at once and procure the fare. Oh ! quick, Marie, we too must pack.’’ ‘¢You go with me!” cried Mrs. Whit- comb, rousing from grief to amazement, knowing M. Tosti never left home under any circumstances. ‘¢Qui, oui, Madame, Marie, I go—” and M. Tosti, now thoroughly aroused to action, sped for the tickets, trailing behind him ejaculations and suggetions in his native tongue as he departed. In a few moments wild excitement was the prevailing tone at the cottage. The horse-hair trunk, and an old carpet sack were hastily packed, Marie not forgetting her cherry ribbon, holding to the praise- worthy motive of at least pleasing Francis’ dying eyes. Mrs. Whitcomb kept think- ing of a new fever remedy, and putting aside some article of wearing apparel to make room for it, while M. Tosti returned from the station with only a remnant left in the precious blue sock ; and threw Marie into a dazed state of mind by his mode of packing. He started to shave himself, and would then make rapid sallies from his small chamber, bearing first one, then another article he thought necessary for the journey, his chin well lathered,and his razor gesticulating wildly, as he chattered his instructions in French. In a moment he would disappear only to return again, his face half plastered with soap, while on the other arm hung various garments, and on one occasion Marie, in a hasty glance upward, received the con- tents of the lather brush in one efe. But Marie was thankful it was not the razor, and went on with her preparations, every moment growing more excited than anxious, at this unwonted expedition. O. K.

Polly was in an ecstacy of delight, anj ae talked incessantly; Fanchette patter 4; se from one to the other, and only Patrig vy ‘ Henry maintained a dignified disapproe§ <0} tion of the scene in progress. am Amidst this confusion came Miss Dority, and, the situation explained, that good lady sat down at once to condole wit Mrs. Whitcomb, ‘but happening upon 4 bandbox upon which Mrs. Whitcom) had laid two mustard-plasters, newly spread, Miss Dority got up very rapidly, and Marie had not yet repaired damage when M. Tosti made one of his sallies, in his shirt sleeves and but half shaved, and seeing Miss Dority’s shocked counte- nance, beat a retreat in much confusion, When Miss Dority did find a chair, Mrs. Whitcomb begged her to take care of Fanchette and Patrick Henry, all of which she promised to do, with a few tears and much sighing. But Polly— what should they do with her? Never for ten years had Polly been parted from her master. : ‘¢Papa, papa,’’ cried Marie, rushing to him, ‘‘ what shall become of Polly?” M. Tosti paused dismayed. ‘Then he dabbed his face all over with the lather- brush, even the tip of his nose. Then he said, solemnly : ‘« Marie, ze bird goes. and Polly goes even also.” That settled the matter. But it required much amiability and secret vexation on Miss Dority’s part to persuade Fanchette and Patrick Henry to accompany her. The poodle abso- = lutely refused, and caused tender-hearted M. Tosti to shed tears, as she was finally borne whining, in Miss Dority’s arms, from the home of her affections. ‘‘One had better be a Frenchman's dog than his wife,”’ sniffed Miss Dority, as she locked her door and deposited Fanchette before her own fire. But the gossips of Ashland had whis- pered ere this that this was only a con- clusion reached by Miss Dority after a vain hope, that deferred, had made her {| You go, J go,

heart sick, and had relieved M. Tosti of |; an endless series of diplomatic tactics. col That night was a long one for poor § ¢, Mrs. Whitcomb, thinking of her boy J jp ¢: tossing with fever, or lying in a heavy stupor. Over and over again she re-

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her of 0r oy vy re- viewed the past: his babyhood, his infant ways, his boyhood, and then the proud vigor of his youth. Shewent to the room he was wont to use, where everything spoke to her of his tastes, and there she remembered his gentle patience with her O. K. Ii! not even weep, her mother, heart ached so with anxiety. The following morning saw them en route, Polly closely wrapped in a cage much too small for, her goodly propor- tions, and ejaculating various injunctions Wiiiregsg WH W448 Wy “MR TODSTI MADE ONE OF HIS SALLIES,” ignorances, of which she was vaguely con- scious; his always loving word of wel- come when she would creep in, from mere force of habit, to see him a moment before seeking her own room; and she came out and shut the door, and could Vout. CXXII—No. 9. to M. Tosti to ‘‘ be careful,’’ and*'ex- claiming, ‘‘ Oh, pshaw !”’ every time’ her cage was moved. M. Tosti himself was a marvelous figure. He wore a silk hat, the age of which was as uncertain as that of the

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112 OG: K. pyramids; and a blue coat, buttoned over a flowered waistcoat, that had served him as a wedding vest when he led the ‘‘ dear saint”? to the altar. His slender legs were encased in corduroy trousers of a mouse tint, and over all this splendor, which culminated in a paste diamond in his shirt front and a blue cravat, he wore an overcoat of fur. The latter was his only extravagance since he reached Amer- ica, and since he bought it at a bargain, of a man three sizes larger than M. Tosti, he might be said to have gotten the worth of his money. Marie could not hide her pretty, slender figure, despite her well-worn gown and the brown cape and shabby fur tippet she wore, and her sunny head, ‘‘ running over with curls,’’ attracted many glances as they boarded the train. Mrs. Whitcomb was on the train, also M. Tosti, when behind Marie there was heard a sharp, joyful bark, and Fanchette, panting from her rapid progress, triumph in her eye, scrambled after Marie into the car. ‘¢Oh, what shall we do?”’ ‘‘Eh? Ah, vat, tis Fanchette. non. She w#// go.’’ A few rapid exclamations, and Fan- chette is in Marie’s arms, the train moves on, and, defiant and jubilant, almost laughing as she witnesses the chagrin of breathless Miss Dority on the platform, Fanchette has joined the family party. *” x * * * * Non, PART II. To use M..Tosti’s expression, Fanchette is ‘‘ inexorable.” The train is well under way, and in vain the railroad officials cajole and threaten. Fanchette, snarling and defiant, holds her place, and finally Marie’s pleading glances win the silence of the conductor, and Mrs. Whitcomb apparently sits upon Fanchette whenever they think some more influential official enters the car. Consequently they live in an hourly panic, from the conductor of the sleeper ahead, the porter of the sleeping-car, and even the chef-of the dining car, all of whom appear at various times in the day-car, to the alarm of Marie, who fancies each one a greater railroad potentate than the last.

M. Tosti had taken his party to the day. car, having more of an idea of the re sources of the blue sock than the comfor of modern travel, and the day passed drearily enough to Mrs. Whitcomb; while Marie, despite her anxiety for Monsieur France, was amused and interested in al] that transpired. Toward evening Mrs. Whitcomb, whose defence of Fanchette had served as a ve slight diversion from sad thoughts, be- came interested in a sad-looking woman, with a rosy, merry babe, about nine months old. The babe was opposite Mrs, Whitcomb, across the car, and was a good traveler, laughing at Marie, who bo peeped over her shabby muff until he roared with mirth. Mrs. Whitcomb finally carried the babe to her side of the car, and as the mother was relieved of the care and fell into a weary slumber, Mrs. Whitcomb kept the child, and when it showed drowsiness, she lulled it to sleep on her motherly bosom, and dozed a little herself. The train paused at a station, and the loud clamor of a gong smote upon the ear. Mrs. Whitcomb, dozing, thought her father’s bees were swarming in the cot. tage on the hillside of New England, Presently the train lunged on, and she was awakened by M. Tosti saying: ‘¢ So, so, the babe still slumbers.”’ He was standing in the aisle, his hat a little the worse for his having also suc- cumbed to sleep. ‘¢ Yes, the poor little fellow is tired,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. ‘*T learn we go at Chicago by the time of seven,’’ said M. Tosti, with some im- portance as the guide of the party. ‘«Yes, I must take the baby back to its mother. We will soon be there now. Ah, Marie, have you too been sleep- ing?”’ ‘Oh, no, madame,” hastily returned Marie, but she had certainly been dream- ing with her eyes fixed on the changing landscape for she had been miles ahead of the train for hours. ‘¢ You will take the baby to its mother,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. Marie took the child, when lo! she found the seat occupied by its mother empty. Bewildered, Marie gazed at the vacant place, then she cried out to her

com ensu dese conc to N bey< cove that occt cani gatk osit opp louc sugs

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companions, and the consternation that ensued beggars description. There lay the rosy babe unconscious of desertion, and as the enormity of the conduct of the mother, presented itself to Mrs. Whitcomb, the situation seemed beyond expression. She gasped and sat down, and this time covered Fanchette in such dead security that the whole car understood what had occurred to stir emotion in Fanchette’s canine bosom. In a moment a number of passengers gathered about them, some full of curi- osity, some taking advantage of the opportunity to address Marie, others loud with advice. One surly bachelor suggested tossing the babe and dog out of the window together. Whereat Polly, who had been unwontedly quiet and be- wildered by the noise of the train, sudden- ly called ; ‘‘ Papa, papa!”’ in so childish a tone that the bachelor fell back in sur- prise, saying, ‘‘Can it talk?’’ Thereby calling forth shrieks of laughter from the others. No advice or suggestions could alter the situation, however. Here was a babe left on Mrs. Whit- comb’s hands, and nocircumstance could make the imposition other than an appeal to her-motherly heart. The babe must be taken along, and while mourning the depravity of such a mother, Mrs. Whit- comb held the little wanderer and wel- comed him almost with tears. The conductor laughed upon learning the state of affairs, and said perhaps the mother had been left at the station where they stopped for refreshments. But he had heard of several cases of similar de- sertion, when the mother never claimed her child. Still, if this mother was simply left at the station she would telegraph to Chicago; Mrs. Whitcomb could leave the babe, at any rate, at the Home for the Friendless, until called for. This advice Mrs. Whitcomb rejected, although the anticipation of the moment when the babe should awaken and cry for refreshments thrilled her with dismay. Fortunately they found a small bag in the seat where the mother had last been seen, and in it was a bottle full of milk. Mrs. Whitcomb appropriated it at once, as a Q;. K. 113 panacea against a dark moment of the future. M. Tosti appalled at this last addition to their swelling number, relapsed into philosophical reflection, and Marie grew nervously expectant. On arriving at Chicago the crowded depot, the confusion of voices, the rush of travel bewildered Mrs. Whitcomb and the quiet little Frenchman so completely, that Marie had to throw herself into the breach. And then it was that M. Tosti came to look for the trunk check, and could not find the blue sock. There was nothing to be done but hunt it, as Marie foresaw, for the little father was in great agitation, and moaned apace as he searched waistcoat, trouser’s pocket, overcoat, the search extending to the torn lining of the latter. He even sat down to take off his boots, but at that moment Marie flew at his head, and lifting the silk hat, found the sock secured in the lining. The check was then forthcoming, and Mrs. Whitcomb, who had accommo- dated herself on a truck close at hand (for they were still in the open part of the depot), now gave the address to the hackman, who was to convey them all, with the trunk, to Henry Whitcomb’s lodgings. Mrs. Whitcomb had been guarding Fanchette and Polly, with the babe in her arms, during this exciting episode, and she now sank back thankfully in the hack, and remembered that only a few streets lay between her and dear sick Francis. They were set down before what seemed to be a very imposing mansion, the marble steps giving it a palatial aspect to the art- less Marie, and after a prolonged haggle between M. Tosti and the Irish driver over the value of a plugged quarter, they ascended the steps. There was a row of little bells that M. Tosti examined curiously. Then he rang the first one, and they stood waiting. ‘¢ Henry said he lived in a flat,’’ quoth Mrs. Whitcomb, softly, not to disturb the baby’s slumber; but I’m sure ¢his isn’t flat; it’s very high. It must be the wrong house.”’ ‘¢ Hang it,’’ ejaculated Polly, from her shrouded cage, where she had been mut- tering ever since they left the depot.

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114 A FEBRUARY TWILIGHT. ‘It must be a mistake, or some one would answer the bell,” groaned Mrs. Whitcomb. ‘‘Wou'dn’t they answer it any way, madame? ‘They know not we are the wrong people,’’ said Marie, shivering, as the cold wind searched her thin coat. ‘¢ True, Marie. There, there, precious lamb—ah !—”’ For at this moment the door unlatched and slowly opened a little way. ‘¢ Does Monsieur Whitcomb herein re- side?’ inquired M. Tosti, with a low bow. But he spoke to empty space. ‘Good land,’’ exclaimed Mrs. Whit- comb, ‘‘ it must a blew open.”’ ‘¢ Let us step in, then,’’ said Marie. So saying, they stepped in to a dimly- lighted hallway, a shivering little group, Polly still muttering, and the baby rous- ing to smile blissfully in Mrs. Whitcomb’s face. ‘¢ Precious lamb,’’ said Mrs. Whitcomb, almost tearfully, ‘‘and now what shail we do?” She looked at M. Tosti, but he said nothing; Marie leaned tired and wan against the wall. Polly said, in a mel- ancholy tone: ‘«Give us a rest,’’ and then the baby began to whimper. [TO BE CONCLUDED. ] A february Twilight. BY LETITIA VIRGINIA DOUGLAS, -¥22 ED flame the skies with sunset’s glow ; ot The brooding earth lies gray below— The twinking stars just faintly show Where Heaven’s windows shine. The angel’s palaces are bright With a celestial, pearly light— God has trimmed all His lamps to-night With His own hand divine! Mysterious twilight shrouds the eyes Of Nature, as she sleeping lies; . But God is watchful—He is wise— He watches while she sleeps. Nay, not footfall of timid hare— Nor frightened doe can stir in lair— But He seeth all, and guards with care; And loving vigil keeps! And well I know, the tender gloom That wraps in gray my silent room, Breathes not foreshadowing of the tomb, ’Tis but the holy shroud That hides His presence; as of old The dread Shekineh did enfold His glory—as the Book has told— He spoke from out the cloud! And twilight is Shekineh, too— It only hides from me and you His nearness, when the evening dew Begins to fall around, Hush, dear one! hold thy breath—be stil], And know that thus He do’th His will; Be silent—fold thine hands, until You hear His voice’s sound ! February, 1891, laug! what ee ping mam En flush servi repli The dow: that Basi. the ¢ criec blin; poin is ne Basi. atter Lac} out 1 glan was"

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ly- Ip, US- b’s ib, all id an el- by

Winder the Ehastening ; OR, THE PRIDE OF THE WHITTINGTONS. BY ADNA H. LIGHTNER. Author of “ Shadow and Sunshine,” « Creta,” «« A Wayside Violet,” etc. II. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.

FTERbreakfast the following ‘ morning, Beu- lah reminded her papa of the promised ride, declaring her readiness to 20. ‘* All right, little mischief; there is no use ‘ounting upon ® you forgetting anything,” said Basil, laughingly. ‘*Shall we go nutting— what does mamma say?’”’ ‘“‘Oh, yes, yes!”’ cried Beulah, clap- ping her hands merrily. ‘‘Say yes, mamma! ”’ Edna was silent a moment, her thoughts flushing and paling her face; then ob- serving the impatience of Beulah, she replied : ‘‘Certainly I shall say yes, darling. The wind last night must have shaken down great numbers of nuts. I am sorry that I cannot accompany you.”’ ‘*Why, dear, are you ill?’’ inquired Basil, hastily; ‘‘ if so, we will postpone the drive.’ ‘¢Qh ! mamma, you isn’t sick, is you ?” cried Beulah, her red lips already trem- bling at the possibility of being disap- pointed. ‘¢ Not at all, dear,’’ said Edna. ‘‘ There is no reason to disappoint our darling, Basil, simply because I have something to attend to jthis morning; you and Mr. Lacy can take care of her I am sure, with- out my assistance.”’ Hugh gave Edna a keen, searching glance, and at once concluded that she was concealing something, then he said:

‘¢Mrs. Whittington, we shall miss you, of course, but if you find it inconvenient to accompany us, I will promise to watch over the little lady and return her safely to you. When do we start, Basil?’”’ Basil had decided to wait until after- noon, in hope that Edna would be at leisure, but realizing that Hugh was anxious to go at once, and that Beulah was quivering with eagerness, he replied : ‘‘T am ready at any time, Hugh. I think that we had better drive to the wood by the chapel, the nuts are always plentiful there.” Edna gave a sudden start, and her face flushed hotly at his words. ‘¢Oh! don’t go there, Basil! I mean, if I were you I would go up to the ridge. Iam quite sure that the nuts are larger and finer there,’’ exclaimed Edna, after a moment’s stammering. ‘‘T believe that you are right, dear; they were fine there last year,’’ said Basil, as he gave Beulah a toss up which pro- duced shrieks of laughter from the little rogue. ‘It does not matter where we go, only, if we climb the hill we shall be obliged to go on horseback. I guess that Brownie will carry double. Beulah, what do you say to a horseback ride?’”’ ‘¢Oh, papa! And I may drive the horse ?’’ Beulah exclaimed, breathlessly. ‘<7 guess mamma wants to go now.” They all laughed heartily at Beulah’s idea of driving a horse under the saddle, and while the merriment of Hugh was just as mirthful as that of Basil, yet he was watching Edna and making up his mind with dangerous accuracy in regard to the young wife’s desires and arrange- ments. Of course he did not know anything definitely. He only closely guessed that she possessed a secret, and that she did not wish Basil to go near the chapel wood. ‘*Yes, you shall drive, darling,’’ said Edna, still smiling at her odd notion. ‘¢ Go tell Nona to dress you warm.”’ 115

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116 While Beulah skipped away, Basil gave orders for their horses, and soon they were ready. As Beulah was lifted up before her papa, he turned toward his wife, and said: ‘¢Are you sure, dear, that you could not spare the morning for a ride? Let me order out Gypsy. It is not too late to change your mind, Edna.”’ ‘*No, Basil, not this morning,’’ she re- plied, pleasantly. ‘‘Don’t let baby drive too fast. By-by, darling.” With a graceful bow from the gentle- men, and a merry shout from Beulah, they cantered off, leaving Edna alone. When the nutting party were half way up the hill, Beulah began to express her disgust at the slowness of their gait, and insisted upon making the horse canter. She was so persistent that Basil turned to Hugh, and said: ‘¢Hugh, I am almost persuaded to turn back and go to the chapel wood yet. I do not like this up-hill business myself, and we shall find all the nuts we can carry there, I am certain; then Beulah can have her canter.”’ How often a very little thing changes one’s entire life, even the trifling whim of a child. ‘¢T was about to propose that myself, Basil,’’ said Hugh, with secret exultation, for he had been wishing for some excuse to suggest a change of destination. ‘‘The paramount object of our ride is to please Beulah, and this is a decided displeasure to her ladyship. Right about, Beulah! March!” Little thinking of all the crushing mis- ery that would result from their change of mind, Basil turned his horse about, and giving the rein to Beulah, they started for the chapel woods. They found nuts in abundance, and after rambling around until the child was tired out, they mounted their horses and turned their heads homeward. Their way led past the old chapel, and as they neared its ivy-covered walls, Basil started in surprise at the sight of his wife’s favorite riding horse tied to a tree; but as his eyes roved beyond to the porch of the chapel, he beheld a sight that turned every drop of his blood to ice and caused a moan of intolerable anguish to burst from his lips. UNDER THE CHASTENING. Hugh heard it, and following the fixed gaze of Basil, he, too, was transfixed with horror unspeakable. Edna was upon the steps, bidding q gentleman good-bye; and he had drawn her close to his side, while her arms en. circled his neck, and her distressed face was uplifted to his. What a sight for a loving, trusting hus. band! As he continued to gaze like one fascinated, the gentleman bent his head and kissed Edra with passionate tender ness. We may doubt the careless gossip, the exaggerated newspaper report, aye, evet| the word of our dearest friend, but w cannot disbelieve the evidence of our own eyes, and that, with the noonday sunshine falling upon the scene. In that one mo ment of horror, merry, roguish Basil died, and a sorrowing, heartbroken man filled his place. Pale even to ghastliness, he turned his gaze from the scene that would always re main with him, and addressing his com. panion : ‘¢ You have seen, Hugh. Let us return to the house.”’ Could that voice belong to Basil—that hoarse, anguished voice ? ‘¢ My God, yes, Basil! ’’ Hugh replied. ‘‘ There must be some mistake ; this can- not be true.”’ A smile of derision, more pitiful than the bitterest display of anger, or grief, overspread Basil’s face for a moment, then he bent his head and kissed the wonder ing face of Beulah and drew her still closer to him, as if she were all he had left to care for. ‘¢ There can be no mistake,’’ he said, at last. ‘*Come away, I can bear no more.’’ Like a funeral procession they started for home. Not one word was uttered by either of the gentlemen or Beulah, and even the horses drooped their heads as if in instinctive sympathy with their riders. Beulah had not seen her mamma, but she was old enough to understand that something was wrong, and, for the mo- ment, her young heart responded to the depressing influence; but it was all for- gotten after reaching home. Basil went immediately to the library and locked himself in, scarcely conscious of alon the s him true. suffe Basi side grea thro wait dire defi agai the hus] as s grot hor: the tasy tree he: a bi bre diff gla but wo!

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e fixed d with ling a drawn MS en- 1 face g hus. ce One - head 2nder. Pp, the - even ut we T Own shine > mo died, filled d his ys re com- eturn —that lied. | Can than zrief, then nder- still » had said, r no irted d by and as if lers, but that mo- the for- rary ious UNDER THE CHASTENING of what he was doing, only desiring to be alone with his crushing misery. Noteven the shadow of a doubt came to comfort him; she was false, his darling was un- true. Hugh paced up and down the verandah, suffering almost as much jealous misery as Basil, until he saw Edna ride up to the side entrance and dismount; then, with great haste he sought the stable, and throwing a saddle upon a horse without waiting for the assistance of a servant, he sprung to its back and dashed away in the direction of the chapel. He had no definite purpose in view, only the hope of again looking upon the man who had won the heart of Edna Whittington from her husband and child. But the chapel was as silent as a tomb, and only the trodden ground and barked tree where Edna’s horse had stood, were left to declare that the whole affair was not a horrible phan- tasy—a thrilling delusion. Hugh had secured his horse to the same tree by which Edna’s had stood, and as he returned, disappointed from his search, a bit of paper was caught up by a passing breeze and fell fluttering at his feet. In- differently he bent and picked it up, then glanced mechanically over its contents, but in an instant he was devouring each word with feverish eagerness. It was the letter Edna had received the day before—the letter which had caused herso much unrest and annoying thought— and in a moment Hugh fully understood the situation, and a strangely satisfied smile came to his lips. ‘Then a sugges- tion—oh! how often, how fatally often such suggestions spring up, as if at the call of some magician, at the very thresh- old of the human heart. It was a hint of retaliation, at first vapory in its subtlety, but soon assuming systematic design, as his mind became accustomed to its destroy- ing presence, He had been wishing, only the evening before, that something would transpire to throw Edna into his power, and now his faint heart hesitated to take advantage of fate’s favor. It was not many minutes that the good within him offered any resistance to the army of evil desires which had already taken possession of his heart ; then the fire of passion stirred his soul anew, and springing to the saddle he turned back to 117 Oakridge, a far worse man than when he left its shelter but an hour before. And again we are made to remember that “ Love makes or mars a life.” After Edna had returned from her ride she sought her own room, and throwing aside her hat and gloves she began walk- ing hurriedly up and down the floor, her heart glad—oh ! so glad, that she would not be obliged to deceive her husband again. Edna was making a fatal mistake, but she was not the first one in this world to come to the destructive conclusion that in some way right would result from a wrong, but she was one among repentant thousands. With a girlish blush she de- cided that Basil deserved a little extra favor for not forcing her to explain where she had been the day before, and for so graciously taking Hugh and himself out of her way when she so much desired it. Another rosy blush at what was passing through her mind, and she had decided to look her very best for him at dinner. Like an eager child she gave herself into the hands of her maid, saying: ‘‘ Bettina, if there is any beauty in me, be sure and bring it out to day.”’ ‘‘Have you company to dinner ?’’ the maid asked. ‘‘ Yes, Bettina,’? Edna replied, with the sweetest laugh imaginable, ‘‘the grandest, noblest company in all this world. My dear husband dines with me to-day.” How that young wife remembered her childlike foolishness, in the lonely years that reached out into her darkened future. A vision of loveliness—delicate rose silk, flushed smiling face, sparkling brown eyes, and the perfume of tuberoses— halted at the door of the drawing-room, but Basil was not there; only Hugh, whose passion: filled eyes seemed to de- vour every detail of the lovely picture. With some pleasant words of apology for leaving him, Edna hastened away to the library where she expected to find Basil. With a roguish smile on her lips, she sought to open the door, but it resisted every effort, and she called out: ‘¢ Basil, let me in! ”’ Did she hear aright? Was it a deep groan of agony that penetrated the heavy oaken door? Was Basil ill?

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118 UNDER THE CHASTENING. ‘¢ Dear, it is I, Edna! Quick, open the door !’’ No reply followed, only the sound of the key turning in the lock; then the door was slowly opened and Basil stood before her. No, it was not Basil. This pale, desperate man, with wild eyes and dis- ordered dress and hair could not be her husband! Mother-like, her first thought was that Beulah was dead—some accident had happened while they were in the woods, and Basil was keeping it from her. Springing forward, she grasped his arm in both of her trembling hands, and ex- claimed : ‘¢Oh! Basil, Beulah is not dead? Tell me that our baby lives!” Slowly Basil stepped back, and holding Edna from him by one slender wrist he gazed in hopeless despair upon the beautiful flushed face before him. He remembered afterward, of thinking at that moment that as we strive to make the dead beautiful at the last, so Edna had sought to make herself glorious as the dawn, to appear at the funeral of his dead hopes, his shattered idol, his broken heart. ‘‘No, Edna, the child is well,’’ he said at last in low, even tones. ‘¢Then you are ill, dear!” she cried, as she sought to press nearer to him; but his grasp, almost painful, held her aloof, and she could only lift her eyes to him in the wildest dismay. ‘Oh! Basil, what is it ?”’ ‘*Can you ask, Edna?”’ he replied, his voice like the hush before a tempest. ‘“‘I would that I had died ere this hour of disgrace.” There was a half-startled lifting of the sweet, agoniz2d face, a wondering, per- plexed gleam in the dark eyes, and piti- ful reaching out of the small, shapely hands. ‘*Why, Basil, what do you mean ?’’ she asked, falteringly. ‘‘What do I mean!” he repeated, tauntingly. ‘‘Nothing, only that I had the unexpected pleasure of witnessing the parting between a strange gentleman and my wife this morning, on the porch of the chapel.”’ ‘* Basil, I will explain. Cannot—”’ You surely

‘<Stop! Not one word. I want no ex. planation of such a scene,’’ he said, his voice wild and furious. ‘¢ Mamma! papa! where is you ?” How that sweet child-voice cut its way, like the dissecting knife, to the heart of each listener. How care-singly the baby lips linked those two names together, while their possessors were drifting, un- consciously, fatally apart. The white-robed fairy opened the door and peeped in, her arch face dimpled with mischief, ‘‘Oh! here you is. Din- ners ready. Well, I guess my mamma is dressed up. Oh! but you is nice—all but the tears in your eyes. Papa, who mussed your hair? Come quick, Mr. Lacy is tired waiting; he just walks up and down the floor.” The little chatterer sprung into her papa’s arms as she spoke, and began smoothing his hair with her dimpled hands, while she turned her head critical- ly first one side and then the other, to see the effect of her efforts to improve his appearance. Basil kissed her tenderly and placed her upon her feet. ‘¢Go with mamma, Beulah. Edna, I will join you presently at the table,’’ he said, as he stepped out into the hall, then passed down to his own room. Like one coming from a chamber of death, Edna started down the stairway, with Beulah’s hand clasped in hers, to the drawing-room where she had left Hugh a short time before. She could not think rationally, all was confusion in her mind, but Hugh was their guest, and she must act the part of a gracious hostess even though her heart should break. Hugh gave a start of dismay as Edna came slowly into the room. Even with his knowedge of the affair, it seemed in- credible that a few minutes could have wrought such a transformation. He was sure of one thing ; there had been no lift- ing of the cloud from between the wife and husband. With proper courtesy he feigned ignorance of the unpleasantness, and strove to appear unconscious of her changed appearance. The careless prattle of Beulah was very acceptable to both just now, as they passed out to dinner. Ina few moments Basil joined them; but none cared to more than taste the tempting viands,

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ex- ray, of aby 1er, un- oor led in- 2 is -all rho Mr. her ran led al- his nd he en of y; to aft ld in id SS except Beulah; and it was a relief to all when they rose from the table. Edna separated herself from the gentle- men as they entered the hall, and passed out upon the verandah, followed by Beu- lah. As she stood leaning against the iron railing, her slender form drooping like a graceful white flower half-broken from its stem, and her hands clasped con- vulsively together, Beulah came close to her side and gazed up into the troubled face, her child-mind failing entirely to grasp the situation. The red lips began to tremble, then great tears gathered in the brown eyes. ‘‘ Mamma, has I been naughty? Lissosorry.’’ How that sweet grieved voice touched Edna’s heart, and falling upon her knees beside the wonder- ing child, she hid her face on the white neck, and murmured softly : ‘No, darling, you are mammz’s pre- cious treasure. Youmust not mind mamma to-day, for Iam troubled sorely, and baby could not understand about it. Go tell Nona to amuse you a little while. It would be so nice to gather a wreath of bright colored leaves for mamma.’’ Edna forced a smile to her lips, bend- ing and kissing the child as she spoke, and, partially reassured, Beulah bounded away in search of Nona. Then up and down the verandah the distracted young wife continued to walk, in the wildest dismay. With a shudder she recalled Basil’s words and cruel anger. Why, the very thought of them was ter- tible. He mustlistentoher. She would explain all regardless of the result; the truth could not make it worse. Norebuke, no angry words addressed to her, had ever fallen from his lips before, and she did not dream of the stubborn pride that lay hidden under his merry sunshiny smile. A sound of footsteps behind her caused Edna to turn swiftly around. Perhaps Basil had relented,and had come to say that he would listen to her explanation ; but no, it was Hugh Lacy, and he could but de- tect her disappointment, as he reached her side. ‘¢Mrs. Whittington, I believe that this letter belongs to you,’’ he said, as he offered her the note he had found in the wood. ‘¢ My letter!’’ she exclaimed, hurriedly. «« Why, Mr Lacy, where did you get it?’’ UNDER THE CHASTENING. 119 ‘IT found it on the ground near the chapel, this morning,’’ he replied. ‘¢ And you have read its contents? You know all?” she gasped, hardly knowing what to s1y. ‘¢ Pardon me, yes,” Hugh replied. ‘‘It had no envelope, and I did not imagine that it contained any private communica- tion, until I had read it.’’ ‘‘Oh! Hugh!” she cried, forgetting her usual formality, in her eagerness. ‘*¢ You will not betray its contents ! Prom- ise me, Hugh!” His name falling from the lips of Edna thrilled his heart through and through, and he could but ask himself why fate had made his life barren of the love of this one woman, the only idol of his soul. ‘I am yours to command, Mrs. Whit- tington, but what shall you say to Basil ?”’ said Hugh, cautiously, for he wished to know her intentions. ‘¢ Basil will forgive, I am sure,’’ she said, too proud to acknowledge that her husband had refuse to listen to an expla- nation. ‘‘But, Hugh you have not promised me that never under any cir- cumstances will you disclose the secret that you hold.’’ She persisted, her eyes up- lifted to his face in child-like questioning. For the time Edna forgot her dislike for Hugh, and in her anxiety and eager- ness she drew near his side and uncon- sciously laid her hand upon his arm. How could she know, or even guess, that the touch of her hand was, to his passion- ate heart, like a burning torch to a bun- dle of dry fagots; that the sight of her fair, uplifted face and clear, dark eyes, maddened him with a desire to clasp her close to his arms, to possess her in defiance of the entire universe. ‘¢I will promise you anything, Mrs. Whittington,’’ he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. ‘‘ You surely know that my life would be counted as nothing, if the sacrifice of it would bring happi- ness to you.”’ In his excitement Hugh laid his hand upon the fair white one resting on his arm —for his life he could not have helped it— but quickly he realized his blunder, when Edna threw up her head swiftly, her lip curling proudly and her eyes flashing with displeasure, as she instantly removed her hand and'stepped back from his side.

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oe eet Caen te CR 120 UNDER THE CHASTENING. ‘¢ Pardon me, Mrs. Whittington,’’ he exclaimed, hastily, ‘‘ you could not be- lieve that I would be rude to you inten- tionally ; I had forgotten myself in my anxiety for you and Basil. Can I be of any assistance to you ?”’ ‘No, thank you, Mr. Lacy,” she re- plied, ignoring his apology, but returning to the formality of ‘‘Mr. Lacy” again. ‘‘Do not let me detain you longer. I fear that you have not enjoyed your after- dinner cigar.’’ Hugh understood the delicate dismissal, and bowing gracefully, he left her alone. For some time after he had lighted his Havana and walked away through the trees, Edna trailed the richness of her elegant dinner dress over the rustling au- tumn-tinted leaves that lay scattered upon the verandah, quite unmindful that the air was becoming chilly as the sun with- drew its rays. Her fair, dainty head was bowed, and her hands clasped across her breast, as if to still the throbbing of her heart; and yet, her heart was not hope- less, only unhappy ; hope was stolen from her afterward. Better that Heaven draw a veil of ob- livion over the mind and heart of that young wife, than that she be forced to meet the mocking demon of the morrow. Alas ! how often we stand beside the open grave of our happiness, and know it not. How closely we may press the very verge of our destruction, and, even like a blind man upon the brink of an awful precipice, be unconscious of our danger. Out under the trees, in the quiet of that peaceful English home, Hugh Lacy was arranging the most pernicious plot against its inmates that ever found origin outside the gate of perdition. The merry laughter of Beulah, as she played and romped with Nona, just beyond where he lingered, had no restraining effect upon his busy mind. He could see Basil pass and repass the library window, his hand- some head bowed with the first disgrace that had ever darkened his existence, yet the sight brought no relenting. Even the drooping form, and sweet averted face of Edna, upon the verandah, only seemed to feed the insatiable demon of his soul with more consuming desire. How little we know of that which lies slumbering within the hearts of those of whom we mingle, until they are tempted and tried; then the pure gold of true worth comes to the surface, or cunning and intrigue spring up from the fertile soil, as mushrooms bound into maturity in a night. The hours passed by unnoticed by Basil, as he faced the first enemy that had ever attacked his honor. He had worshiped Edna as few men worship their wives, He had thought her pure as an angel and far above reproach. One could in a meas- ure understand his love, when, in the bitterness of his woe, and yet with the certainty of his wife’s guilt, he could cry out, “Oh, God! I cannot give up my darling! She is more than life to me, even though her soul is foul with a damn- able sin!’’ Then that cruel, indomitable pride of the Whittingtons, that no blight could kill, no curse destroy, would rise up in his heart, and he would hurl bitter denunciations at his wife, that were blood- curdling to hear. When the servant sum- moned him to tea he replied that he did not wish to be disturbed ; and when the words were repeated to Edna, all the eager glow that had come to her face at the thought of seeing Basil died out, leay- ing her silent, pale and sad. Edna did not try to entertain Hugh; her heart was too gloomy for pretense, and then she knew that he would excuse her seeming incivility, for he fully understood her distress. As the evening wore on the suspense became torturing to her, and leaving Beu- lah and Hugh deep in the mysteries of the child’s latest fairy book, she stole out of the room and up to the closed door of the library. ‘Basil, please open the door,’’ she said, pleadingly. For an instant Basil resolved that he would listen to her explanation, although it could not lift the cloud from his heart. As long as life should last he would re- member that vital moment. All the long- ing tenderness of his being reached out toward his wife—the mother of his child; but pride, that millstone about the neck of humanity, pointed the finger of scorn and contempt at his wavering, at his weakness. How the opposing forces of his being fought the battle, even to the death. Then white-robed Mercy, and he! the yo Be sta fro kis jus

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oted true ling rtile rity sil, ver ped ves, and 2as- the the cry my ne, nn- ble xht jon ter od- m- lid he he > ad er od se of ut of le =P eh Ww We her sister Love, sheathed their swords of persuasion and stole away, leaving the grinning mocking demon of misery toss- ing high the cup of exultation and tri- umph, for pride had conquered. ‘¢ Basil, I must see you,’’ she persisted. But no response came from within, and with a heart heavy as lead Edna turned away and entered her dainty room—her roomand Basil’s—and hearing the voicesof Beulah and Nona coming from the adjoin- ing apartment, she passed on; she could not endure to be alone with her misery. ‘‘Oh! mamma, please put me to bed, and sing ‘Rock-a-bye to me!’’’ cried Beulah, at thesightof her mamma. ‘I don’t like Nonato-night. I just want my own mamma.”’ How eagerly Edna clasped the sweet child to her heart. There was one soul, at least, who loved her, and just now, in her hour of bitterness, the thought was all the world to her. ‘Yes, darling, mamma will sing to you,” she said. ‘Nona, I will care for Beulah this evening. You may go down stairs for a while.” Nona left the room, glad to be relieved from duty and permitted to go below for an hour’s gossip with the servants. Beulah climbed into Edna’s lap and kissed her sad, tearful face. ‘«Mamma, is you too sick to sing low— just loud enough for me to hear?” ‘No, dear, mamma could not be too sick to please her baby. You shall have your song.” With a tender, caressing touch Edna began to disrobe the dainty, dimpled form of her child, stopping often in her love- task to kiss the white, rounded limbs. At last the long white night-robe was put on and Beulah placed in her snowy bed ; then kneeling beside her, Edna began to sing that old lullaby—old, yet one that was ever new to the child-fancy—her rich voice low and sweet as the lament of some lonely bird : “ Baby is sleeping so cosy and fair, While mamma sits near in her old oaken chair; Her foot on the rocker, the cradle she swings, And though baby slumbers he hears what she sings, Rock-a- bye baby, on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all. UNDER THE CHASTENING. I2t Grandma sits knitting close by the fire-place, With snowy white hair and a smile on her face ; The years have passed by, yet it does not seem long. Since she rocked baby’s papa to sleep with that song. Dear little baby, their joy and their pride, Long may he be with them whatever betide; The kitchen, the cradle, that lullaby strain, Oh! Rock-a-bye, rock a bye, mamma is near, Then rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, nothing to fear, For angels of slumber are hovering near, So rock-a-bye baby, mamma is near.” While that tender lullaby fell like the touch of angel fingers upon the drowsy eye-lids, closing them over the brown eyes, Hugh Lacy entered the library with his mind and heart under the full control of Satan. ‘« Basil, old boy, I am sorry for you,”’ he said, crossing the room and laying his hand upon the shoulder of his friend. “Can I do anything for you?”’ ‘‘Nothing, Hugh, unless you will take a revolver and end my misery. That would be a kindness to me just now.” Hugh did not reply to Basil’s despond- ent words, save with a well-counterfeited glance of compassion, and sympathetic silence. ‘¢ Hugh, you saw the man plainly that was with Edna—God knows that I dislike talking of family affairs to those whom it does not concern, but I would bow my soul in the very dust of humility if I might reach the bottom of this mystery. Did you recognize him as one whom you had seen before! Great heavens, Hugh! the thought of her impurity maddens me.” Hugh raised his head and looked down upon the suffering man before him. He noted the quivering of that strong form, the trembling hands, the pale, desperate face and horrified eyes, and for one mo- ment a rush of tenderness for the room- mate of his college days, the companion of his early manhood, filled his heart ; mem- ory, in that instant of wavering, brought so many little acts of kindness to his mind that Basil had bestowed upon him. He started as if stung by a scorpion. The bowed form had vanished from his sight and a long stretch of sandy beach was before him, with the ocean tide coming in upon the bar, slowly, steadily, creeping higher and still higher

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UNDER THE 122 with its foam-crested waves. Far out from shore a little island had shone white and dazzling in the morning sunshine, but now it was covered with water, and stand- ing waist deep in the treacherous flood, upon the slippery ground, was a helpless man. His boat had floated away long before, leaving him at the mercy of the tide. All thought of help had left his heart, and he counted his life-lease by seconds, when a small boat put out from shore and strong young arms pulled at the oars until the veins filled to bursting upon the white brow. With a cry of gladness he watched his brave rescuer come nearer, until he had reached his side ; then he clambered into the boat and grasped the hand of the young man, while uttering broken words of gratitude. Ah, why did this picture come to him now, like the handwriting on the wall. It was he who had stood helpless in the merciless tide, and it was Bas:], his friend, who had saved his life. He had thought many times how gladly he would repay that manly deed, if the opportunity would present itself; yet he was easily swerved from his purpose. ‘IT did not know the man, Basil,’’ he said, hurriedly, ‘‘ I wish that-I could com- fort you, but the proof against your wife is too strong for any sane man to deny.” A groan of agony came from Basil’s lips. ‘*Have you spoken with her, Hugh, upon the subject?”’ he asked. ‘*No, indeed, Basil, what could [ say? Have you not questioned her ?”’ ‘* No, Hugh, I could not live and hear her confess her guilt,’’ Basil cried in ter- rible anguish. ‘‘I must not see heragain. Why, her eyes would deceive Heaven it- self, they have such a glow of truth in them! What shall I do, Hugh?” ‘*D> not ask me, Busil,” said Hugh, cautiously. ‘Ido not understand how you can help seeing your wife if you re- main here.”’ ‘*That is it, Hugt:, I must go away— and to-night,” replied Basil, desperately. ‘*And leave Beulah?’’ questioned Hugh. ** My God! our darling, our baby Beu- lah,” Basil cried. In his misery he had forgotten his child. ‘‘ I cannot leave her here under such influence. No, I will take my child with me.”’ ‘‘T cannot blime you, Basil,” responded CHASTENING. Hugh, well. pleased with his success, ‘* but that is very much easier said than done, You do not imagine, for one moment, that Mrs. Whittington would permit you to take her child from her, Basil?”’ ‘I can imagine nothing, Hugh, only that of all men I am the most miserable, There are many ways to torture a man’s life out of him, all more or less diabolical, but to love a woman as I have loved Edna, and then find, after six years of perfect trust and inexpressible happiness, that she is false, is certainly the limit of misery, the climax of torture. I shall take Beu- lah with me, although it be over the dead bodies of this entire household. Your brain is clear, Hugh. Can you not sug- gest some way out of the dilemma?” ‘‘T think that I can arrange matters, Basil, if you are willing to take Nona with you,” said Hugh. ‘‘Certainly, Hugh, I desire t» take Nona if she will go. She would be in- dispensable to Beulah’s comfort. What is your plan, Hugh?”’ ‘«T see no way, Basil, but to tell Nona the truth—that your wife is false to you, and that you are going away for a while, and desire her to accompany the child.” Basil shrunk back as if Hugh had given him a heavy blow. Great drops of perspiration stood out upon his brow, be- traying the agony of his soul. ‘‘Oh! Hugh, is there no other way than to speak ill of my wife? Must I de- clare her untrue to me? God help me, I cannot do that! Blackened with guilt as she is, I love her—oh! I love her still.” ‘«Just now, Basil, I see no other way, but I may find one before you are ready to go. When will you start, and where will you go?” If Basil had not been s> completely oc- cupied with his own distress, he could not have failed to detect the eagerness and triumph in Hugh’s voice. ‘*T will be ready to start as soon after the house is quiet as possible, and I shall sail at once for America; I would put the ocean between us; that is my only hope for strength to resist the pleading of my wife,’’ Basil said, resignedly. In death like silence that followed his words there came the sound, low and sweet as the tinkling of silver bells, Edna’s lullaby to Beulah:

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‘ but ne, that | to yn] ble in’s cal, Ina fect she TY, eu- ead UNDER THE CHASTENING. « Oh, rock-a bye, rock-a-Lye, mamma is near, Then rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, nothing to fear, For angels of slumber are hovering near, So rock-a-bye baby, mamma is near.” ‘For the sake of Heaven, Hugh, close the door or I shall lose my reason! Oh! Edna, Edna, would to God that I was dead! Can you be false and sing like that to our child? Hugh, if there was any- thing to base a doubt upon—if Edna had father, brother, or even a near male kin- dred, I would try to believe her innocent, but I know that she has not. May the deadliest curse of a just Heaven rest upon the despoiler of my home! Go, Hugh, and make any arrangements that you think advisable. Ihave only one request to make, don’t consult me in the matter, I cannot endure it; only let me know when all is in readiness to start.”’ Basil’s head lowered itself until it rested upon the table before him, and Hugh stood and looked down upon him, hisown heart a battle ground of contend- ing emotions, but there was no giving up of his evil design. If he had chosen his own way in the affair, that way would have been the one which had so naturally fallen to him. Yes, he would make all arrangements ne- cessary for the departure of Basil and his child, and he would take gocd care, also, that Edna should not know how instru- mental he had been in perfecting her misery. All unconscious of the creeping shad- ow of the deadly wrong that gathered closer about her, Ednasang over and over again, “ Rock-a bye, rock-a-bye, mamma is near Then rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye, nothing to fear.” Then, at last, with a loving kiss upon the smiling lips of the child that she would so cruelly miss in the morning, she 123 rose and passed into her room. She usu- ally left the door open between her room and Beulah’s, but to-night she closed it, thinking that when Basil would come in, she would prevail on him to hear her ex- planation, and she did not wish the child or Nona to hear what they might say. Little did she dream that, unwittingly, she was aiding Hugh to crush all the joy from her heart. At the tap of her maid upon the door leading into the hall, Edna dismissed her kindly, as she had done Nona. The strain ‘upon her had been too great, and her only safety from being systematically discussed at the servants’ table, was to hide her tell- tale face from the gaze of her maid. She removed the waxen blossoms of the tuberoses from the lace at her neck; somehow, their heavy perfume oppressed her to-night, and never afterward could she endure the sight or odor of them, they so vividly reminded her of the most miserable period of her existence. As she caughtsight of herself inthe mirror, she started back in dismay. Cou'd that wan, pale woman be the happy, smilirg wife that Basil had looked so proudly upon but a few hours before, as he started upon his nutting expedition? Oh! that she had gone with him and escaped all the terrible heart- ache! One thing was indisputable, she could not live under a continued strain like that which had held every emotion of her being in its grasp during the last few hours. Basil must listen to her. Just as soon as he would come to his room she was going to put her arms about his neck, and holding him fast, confess all that she had done, and while her heart grew hopeful of his forgiveness, all un- knowingly she was nearing the morning of her desolation. [TO BE CONTINUED. ]

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Sens See Satie sett ocd ee Saint Walentine’s Act. BY MARIAN C, L. REEVES. Author of “A Wave of the Sea,” etc., etc. Characters : RoGER DERING, secretary at the Hall. Miss Dorotuy Raynor, heiress of the Hall, but guest of the Wilmot’s. LAWRENCE WILMoT, Mary Dacre’s lover. Miss Mary Dacre. Miss Kitty VANE. ‘¢Orson,’’ backwoodsman, old ac- quaintance of Dorothy. Scene: Old-fashioned wide reception hall at Raynor Hall, Large desk or sec- retary in full view. Party assembled for adance. Cupid, with quiver. Music: all sing Valentine glee. « Saint Valentine to my relief! My heart is stolen, stop the thief! My rified breast I searched with care, Kitty And found fair Mary } lurking there. Annie « Away she started from my view, Yet may be caught if thou pursue— Nor need I to describe her stride— The fairest, dearest maid alive! “ Seize her, yet treat the nymph divine All gently, sweet Saint Valentine! But tell her, she for what was done, Must keep my heart, and give her own,” Pantomime, drawing of hearts and favors from Cupid’s quiver. All pair off, and dance. Mary and Wilmot pause, forward. Mary. It is, honestly, a surprise party. Whether it is a pleasant surprise, may be doubted, from Roger Dering’s face ; though he ¢s dancing with the heiress, Miss Raynor, Wil. Bah! Dering has no right to be pleased ordispleased here. He is not the host. The place is Miss Raynor’s, you know. He’s only /ocum tenens until he has wound up old Raynor’s affairs—Der- ing was his old cousin’s secretary, you know—and until she gets used to the situation— 124 Mary. Used to the situation! At twenty thousand a year! Most people would not find that situation very hard, Eh, Mr.Wilmot? (Aeaningly.) Wil, 1—I—. (Stammers.) Akind little mistress like that, might make it easy. Mary. Oh! I fancied we were talking of it from her point of view. I never look through masculine glasses. They have a tendency to see double. Wil. (Bringing his eye-glasses to beap on her.) Double? Well, I don’t know but you’re right, Miss Mary. They cer- tainly do show me my Valentine double as fair and d—d—. Dance again, Miss Mary? [They dance, upstage. As dancers pass, Kitty and Orson pause, forward. Kitty drops fan, he stoops for it, awkwardly.] Kit. Oh, Mr. Orson; oh, I deg your pardon, I meant to say your brother Val- entine. Ors. (Laughs good humoredly.) That little Miss Dorothy told you that! Oh, I know her tricks, bless you! It was always “ Orson ”’ with her, out there in the backwoods, as she called them, where she was teaching our macademy, the pretty little soul! Only there wasn’t, not to say, much woods, being parairee mostly; with just a revenue of trees up to our house, where she was staying. Kit. And was that all the revenue she had ? Ors. Eh? Kit. I mean, was the macademy re- munerative ? Ors. It didn’t need to be so very ma- roonerative ; everybody all around was anxious to entertain her with hostility. Shucks! Everybody was more or less in love with her, big and little, pretty Miss Dolly. Kit. (Sings.) “* My only books Were woman’s looks, And—Dolly’s all they taught me, Come, Mr. Orson, there is our place. rat] tha: you ( dan ana mo: tha

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At ple ard, ittle cing over hey ear now cer- tble Liss ass, itty our Val- ‘hat the (Dance. ward.) Dor. I'm afraid I haven’t given youa very pleasant surprise, Cousin Roger. Yet I meant to. Rog. Miss Raynor always means every- thing that is kind and good. Dor. Ah, yes! You don’t know how wonderfully Miss Raynor has improved of late. ‘Twenty-thousand-dollars’ worth of improvement per annum; how much does that make in the three months she has been Miss Raynor, of Raynor Hall? Can you compute that, Mr. Secretary? Rog. With interest ? Dor. Oh, I don’t know. I’m dili- gently forgetting all I ever knew of num. bers. ‘‘ Mournful numbers!’’ When I remember how I used to torment the poor, little children with them, in the old school- Dorothy and Roger stop, for- house! Only three months ago! Rog. Three months ago! A cycle of heaven ago! Dor. (With curiosity.) It has been that to me. BuitIam surprised that to ou— Rog. Isn’t this a surprise-party? You have taken me by surprise; will you be angry if I take you by surprise in turn? Dor. Angry! Why should I be? You mean— Rog. That Ilove you, Dolly. That I ask you to be my wife. Dor. (Stammering.) Really, I—I— Mr. Dering, you have taken me utterly by surprise— Rog. A surprise-party. Dor. (Flashing round on him.) Then, if you can make a jest of it, I don’t see why J shouldn’t. (Courtesies.) You do me proud, Sir Va'entine ; but I would rather range the backwoods with Orson, than be mistress at Raynor Hall, with you for its master, Sir Knight. (Orson has moved near her in the dance ; she stretches out her hand to him, and dances off with him.) Rog. And she thinks it is for her money—her money, poor little soul !— that I have asked her to be my wife ! [CURTAIN FALLS. ] Scene II: Same hal. Lights down. One candle burning on secretary. Papers strewn there, in disorder. SAINT VALENTINE’S ACT. 125 [DOROTHY PUSHES ASIDE WINDOW CUR- TAINS. ENTERS, WRAPPED IN FURS, COVERED WITH SNOW. ] Dor. How silly in me to come sneak- ing back through the window, like a thief in the night, into my own house! I'll go back and ring boldly at the front door, and ask to be sent over to the Wilmot’s. (She comes restlessly forward.) It’s a little mortifying to have to confess I was spilled headforemost into a snow-drift, out of the big sleigh, and none of them really thought enough of me, to know they had lost me. (She pauses at desk.) I wonder if Roger Dering—. (Zakes up paper.) Oh, he set to work at these hor- rid papers again to-night, as soon as we got off! I should think he must hate them, and me. Love! It wouldn’t be natural to love me who ousted him from his old home here. I wonder—he’s so dili- gent over the papers—I wonder if he ever hopes to find among them the will Uncle Raynor might have made—only he never did !—leaving poor Roger something in return for the years devoted to the crusty old invalid, instead of dying intestate, and letting everything come to me, who never saw him in my life! I wonder—. (Opens paper ; starts. Reading.) ‘‘ I give and bequeath to Roger Dering ’’—. Oh! (She leans a little nearer to the candle, with the paper in her hand. Suddenly flings it down on desk.) No, no; I’mnotso wicked as that / ( Listening.) Some one is coming. There’s a light gliding along the hall. I hear the jingle of keys. DoTI look likea thief? 1am ashamed to face him now / (She stinks behind window-curtains.) [ENTER ROGER, JINGLING BUNCH OF KEYS, SITS DOWN TO SECRETARY, UNLOCKS DRAWER, PICKS UP WILL. ] Rog. Very careless of me to leave this out for a moment, even while I went for the keys to lock it up. Though of course nobody is about, so late. So early, rather. (He spreads out paper, reading, while he hums) : “ Good-morrow! ’tis St. Valentine’s Day, All in the morning betime; And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.”

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126 [DOROTHY CREEPS OUT OF HIDING. | (She sings): “Good morrow! ’tis St. Valentine's Day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window—” (Roger looks rouna, startled; rises, hand closing on will.) What—why—Miss Raynor—what— Dor. What has happened? Oh, the usual thing at sleighing parties. I’ll tell you presently. But first, Cousin Roger, tell me—that paper? Rog. (Sharply.) This? Oh, this is something quite my own affair. Dor. \ should like to see, please. Rog. Quite my own affair. (Suddenly he thrusts it into candle. Dorothy springs forward.) Dor. | must have it; I wid have it! (Roger holds her back.) Rog. Are you mad, Dorothy? Do you mean to set yourself on fire ? Dor. 1 mean to have that paper ! Rog. (Holding her by toth wrists.) Be quiet, child. It is mine—mine, I tell you. Have I not a right to do what I will with my own ? Dor. Not when it is Uncle Raynor’s missing will. Rog. (Dropping her hands, treads out sparks in burnt-up paper.) If you choose to suspect me of wronging you, Dorothy, I cannot keep it. Dor. If I choose! (Strikes her hands together.) Roger Dering, you found that will, when ? Rog. I have not said it was a will. I found that paper yesterday. (Coo/lly.) Dor. And this evening you asked me to be your wife! Rog. Iam sorry if you suspect me of anything unworthy, Miss Raynor, as your words seem to imply. I will not con- tradict you. You must have it your own way. Dor. My own way! me—you force me— Rog. Pardon me: I force you tonoth- ing. Dor. You force me—to love you, Roger Dering. (She offers him her hand. He stands staring at her.) An hourago, you asked for it, Roger. Now— Rog. Now? When you force SAINT VALENTINE’S ACT. Dor. (Ralling, sweeping him a mock. ing courtesy.) Now, youknow,— “Good-morrow! ‘tis St. Valentine’s Day,” If you refuse me for your valentine, at least you'll not refuse to send me home? Rog. Home? This is your home. Dor. Because you have burnt u Uncle Raynor’s will, leaving his whole fortune to you. Ah, you thought I did notsee! Idid; I read it! (Roger fall back in dismay—Dorothy laughs.) But it is too late—or rather too early—to speak of all this now. Will you send me back to the Wilmot’s? They spilled me out of the sleigh into a snow-drift; and they never missed me. Rog. Lawrence Wilmot? Dor. (Makes up a rucful face, thrust- ing out her hands.) Was in the front seat with Mary Dacre. Out of sight is out of mind, you know. Rog. But— Dor. But listen! Hear the sleigh-bells coming up the avenue. They actually have missed me, after all. And so we shall save you the trouble of having your horses put to— Rog. Your horses. ( Dorothy shakes her head vigorously.) Sleigh- bells ?>— wedding-bells ! Dorothy, what is a will— Dor. (Interrupting, making light of his eagerness.) A will? «When a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t, And when she won’t, she won’t, and there’s am end on’t.”’ Rog. (Grasping her hands.) Dorothy what is a will, between us—any will, but mine, to have you and to hold you— [ENTER ALL SLEIGHING PARTY,SNOWY,AND WRAPPED IN FURS.—KITTY AND ORSON,. EXCITEDLY—MARY AND WILMOT, ETC. } Kit. Oh, where—Isn’t she here? Oh! (They see Roger and Dorothy paired— tableau.) (Add sing :) «« Good. morrow ! ’tis St. Valentine’s Day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.” [CURTAIN. ] END.

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ust- seat t of ells ally we our thes Paul et his end > ab thy but —_ \ND: ON). Cail hf Panis cried the doctor, eagerly; I’m your man !’’ ‘Good for you, Hallam; thought you wouldn’t fail us! Here, Jerry,step around, bring us more wine. Cigar, doctor?” ‘¢ Thanks, Wheeler; Jack throw on another log.’’ It was a dark, stormy night; the rain fell in torrents; the wind howled among the trees, and swept in eddying gusts about the lonely house; but within the cheerful room, grouped around a blazing log fire, it was easy to forget the storm that raged outside. The doctor lighted his cigar, drew his chair closer to the hearth, and with his feet propped against the high fender be- gan his story: ‘‘T don’t expect you to believe me; there are times when I question myself whether the event that 1 am about to relate really took place? Whether it was not a dream, the creation of my own troubled fancy?’’ He shuddered slightly, and gazed musingly at the scar on his wrist. ‘You remember Forbes, don’t you,’’ turning to the groupof men, ‘‘ Ron- ald Forbes of the Willington Rifles! He was a class mate of mine, a tall, hand- some fellow with wide, sparkling brown eyes, and crisp, fair curls; just the sort of man to captivate a woman! Bright and amusing, with a voice like a lark’s in spring time, he was none the less attrac- tive because of his well-known indiffer- ence. After we left college, we, in a manner, lost sight of each other; his life was a very different one from mine; I, a hard-working country doctor, had but little in common with the leader of fashionable society, the petted darling of fortune ! ‘¢ We met occasionally, for whenever I came to town he always sought me out, VoL. CXXII—No. 9. Che Chost at Ashlen. BY MAURICE GORDON. and with the gracious kindliness that never failed him, pressed me to join him in his pleasures. Conscious, however, of the poor figure that I would cut in his gay fashionable world, I put his offers gently aside. ‘¢On one occasion, when he had been teasing me to accompany him to one of the great balls for which New Orleans is famous, he left me, exclaiming: “«*T see that I can not tempt you, but you will, at least, not deny me this one request. Come and see me at my own home, at Ashley?’ ‘«I clasped his hand warmly. ‘ Youare very kind, Forbes, and one of these days I shall surely avail myself of your in- vitation. ’ ‘* A few weeks later I heard of his sud- den departure for Europe, and for several years his old home knew him no more. And then, all at once, the storm that had been threatening us for so long was upon us, and from cottage and hall, men armed and hastened to the seat of war. ‘¢It was on the eve of battle, in a far away Virginia county, that Forbes and I next met. ‘* It was a bitterly cold night, with the snow lying deep on the ground, and the icicles hanging from the trees. We had been marching all day, and at night time, hungry and utterly exhausted, had thrown ourselves down beside our camp-fires, almost too tired to sleep. I was just dozing off, wrapped in my great army blanket, when some one called my name, I struggled back to recollection. ‘¢ «Who is there ?? *¢¢Tt is I, Ronald Forbes.’ ‘‘I sprang up, wide awake at once. I had not dreamed, for he stood beside me, smiling into my amazed face. His crisp, golden curls were sprinkled with snow, his long tawny moustache was white with time. “¢ «How came you here?’ lasked, after I had expressed my delight at seeing him. ‘« «Simple enough, I brought dispatches, the road was dark and through the 127

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128 THE GHOST AT ASHLEY. enemy’s lines; they needed a clever horseman, so I offered my services. It was not a pleasant journey, but I arrived safely, and while talking over the situa- tion with General Bent, was surprised to hear him mention your name. I asked where you could be found, and me voi/a.’ ‘*T afterwards learned that the ride he had so carelessly described was one of the most daring feats of a war that was rife with gallant deeds! We sat up late into the night, laughing and talking, ex- changing experiences, confiding fore- bodings, and then remembering what I heard once, long ago, turned to him with a challenging smile. ‘ Now, Forbes, tell me something of yourself; what of your lovely young cousin?’ I was startled by the misery of the face he turned to me, against the pallor of cheek and brow, his eyes gleamed like burning coals: ‘¢¢Do you mean Elinor?’ he asked, and in the harsh, husky tones, it was hard to recognize his careless voice. **¢Yes; I understood—’ ‘¢¢ That she would marry a poor devil like Ronald Forbes? Ha, ha! You could not have heard then ?’ ‘¢ * Heard what ?’ ‘¢¢ That I have lost my fortune. Yes,’ for I was staring at him, lost in astonish- ment, ‘everything went to pay security debts, and Elinor’s faithful, honorable nature when she learned that I was pen- niless, that naught was left to me but Ashley, threw me over.’ ‘‘T touched him on the arm: ‘ Nay, then, do not speak of her; she is not worth a memory.’ ‘¢¢ Forget her if you would, but teach me how! It is asign of weakness, is it not? But strive as I may, I remember her still. Sometimes I think I have for- gotten her, when a voice—a song—the mere mention of her name—and it all comes back to me, the old misery—the old mad love and bitter ending. Oh, Elinor, Elinor,’ starting to his feet, ‘sometimes I think if you knew how I suffered, even your proud heart would stoop to pity. Ido not curse you; I can- not even hate you ; but oh, love, love, if I might but die!’ He stood erect in the silvery moonlight, the camp-fire flickering on his ragged uniform and high cavalry boots—a gallant, beautiful figure, a daring soldier, and every inch aman. Even as I gazed, longing to help him, but knov. ing how vain it was to offer comfort, there was the sharp report of a pistol out of the close, hemming shadows; he threw up his arms and fell dead at my feet, with her name, Elinor, on his lips. ‘‘You are growing impatient; one moment, my friends, and you shall hear, ‘‘It was some ten years after the war that I was riding along the rough, lonely road between the towns of Roan and Var. ley. I had been to visit a very sick patient, who lived many miles beyond my regular district, two parishes away, in fact; but he was an old army friend, and I was attending him regardless of the in- convenience. Having done all that | could to alleviate his sufferings, I was now returning to my home. It was growing late, the road was unfamiliar, and a storm was close at hand. ‘I shall stop at the next house and crave shelter for the night,’ I said to myself, and even as I came to this resolution the storm was upon me. I stood up in my buggy and looked around. Field after field, that had once been fertile as a garden, but were now gone to waste, stretched out before me. In the distance a grove of oak trees out- lined themselves against the frowning sky. ‘ There is probably a dwelling yonder,’ I said aloud, and whipping up my horse, Crove rapidly in that direction. Within a few minutes, as I had anticipated, a great, gloomy looking house, amidst dreary and neglected grounds, came into sight. With great difficulty I succeeded in open- ing the rusty gates and entered the yard. Even in my excited state of mind, it was impossible not to notice the utter desola- tion and ruin of the place. ‘*I got down from my buggy, unhar- nessed my horse, and after leading him to shelter under a convenient shed, mounted the wide, high steps to the gal- lery, knocked several times, but there was no response, and then—for I was wet and weary—leaned my shoulder against the great front door, which gave way at my touch, and entered the building. ‘‘T found myself in a wide, lofty hall, furnished in the style of fifty years ago. I was by this time thoroughly mystified, but none the less determined to go on. With a beating heart, I stepped boldly

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en as now- there f the V up with THE GHOST AT ASHLEY. 129 forward and passed into a small, cosily- built room, which I concluded, from the books and papers lying around, to be the family library. It was now fully six o'clock. With the aid of matches, that I always carried, I succeeded in lighting one of the candles on the high mantel shelf. Not content with the light given by one, I applied my match to another. I looked around me. I was standing ina beautiful, stately room, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of rarely-bound books ; an elegant piano oc- cupied one corner; a lady’s exquisitely carved guitar leaned against a table, as though its owner had grown weary of it, and had cast it down, intending to return for it when her mood had changed. A silken-covered easy-chair was drawn close to the hearth; I could almost see the gracious figure that my heart told me had once occupied it. ‘¢On the velvet rug at my feet lay a scrap of linen; I stooped and lifted it reverently ; it was a lady’s handkerchief, and amidst a profusion of embroidered roses in one corner was her name— Elinor ! ‘¢] said it aloud, and as I spoke, my voice sounding strangely harsh through the silent room, I turned involuntarily to the door, half expecting to see her appear, this unknown lady with the stately name. ‘¢ T moved back to the hearth, and now, for the first time, noticed that the great fireplace was piled high with logs, ready prepared for the torch. I knelt down, match in hand, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing a fire crack- ling and sparkling merrily. I drew upa chair, and in a short time had dried my shoes and dripping clothes. ‘¢¢'This is much better,’ I cried, spring- ing to my feet; ‘ now for another tour.’ ‘*T had scarcely taken five steps before I came to a small, oddly carved bracket ; on it lay a velvet-bound miniature case. I dare say I did wrong, but I was young and thoughtless; so, regardless of conse- quences, I lifted it in my hand, pressed the rusty clasp, and bent anxiously for- ward to see the face it held. *‘It gleamed upon me like a flash of sunshine, dazzling, almost blinding me with its beauty. ‘‘The soft dark hair, drawn simply back from the forehead, the rounded cheek and delicately moulded chin, the grave, sweet mouth and perfect lips, and the wonderful dark eyes, with their rare tenderness and expression, all met my entranced gaze, from between the covers of the faded velvet case. ‘¢T stood looking down like a man in adream. Who was she? Where dwelt she now? And what was the mystery of this lonely house? How long ago had she turned her back upon her old home? Many, many years probably, for the dust lay deep on everything I touched ! ‘*T walked mechanically back to my chair. I fell asleep with the miniature clasped in my hand, and the wide, dreamy eyes of the pictured face smiling up into mine. ‘¢ How long I slept, I do not know, but I was awakened by the slow ringing of a clock from some remote corner of the mysterious house. ‘‘The fire was but a heap of ashes on the hearth, the candles had burned almost out; by their dim light I looked at my watch, and found that it was just twelve o’clock. ‘I was about to compose myself for another nap, when the opening of the door behind me, that I had previously closed, drove all slumber from my eyes, and the hot blood pulsing to my heart. ‘* Across the faded carpet, her silken gown trailing after her, her small slippered feet making scarcely any sound as she moved, came the beautiful girl whose pictured face had well-nigh destroyed my peace of mind. ‘¢She was evidently dressed for some great ball, for her snowy arms and should- ers gleamed like polished ivory through the meshes of some rare old lace. Her throat and hair and bosom sparkled with diamonds. ‘When she reached my chair, I rose to my feet, and she leaned towards me, in the dim light, with such a smile, as I think the angels wear, when they welcome friends to their celestial home. “ ¢Alcides,’ she breathed, laying a lit- tle, trembling hand on my arm, ‘ my be- loved, my hero, have you come at last to tell me you forgive me?’ ‘¢¢He were not human,’ I answered, earnestly, ‘ who could look into your eyes,

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130 THE GHOST AT ASHLEY. and cherish aught but kindly feeling toward you.’ ‘¢She sighed rapturously, and leaned her lovely, jewel-crowned head on my shoulder. ‘Alcides,* she murmured, ten- derly, ‘it is sweet to be with you and know you have forgiven me.’ ‘‘T put her gently from me. ‘I am not he,’ I answered, ‘this dim light has deceived you.’ ‘«She stood a few steps away, gazing at me with flashing eyes and heaving breast. ‘Not he?’ she repeated, after a moment, ‘then must I still wander night after night seeking him to crave his par- don? When shallI find peace? When can I rest easy in my grave?’ Then, springing to my side, with sudden unex- pected fury, ‘If you are not Alcides, who are you? Whatdo you here, in the home heloved? Inthe room his presence made sacred ?’ Hersmall, delicate hand closed over my wrist, the sharp, cruel nails cut deep into the flesh. Involuntarily I shrank back, what manner of woman was this? Something cold touched my forehead, an icy chill swept over me, the room reeled suddenly round, the tables and chairs and candles, even the beautiful woman at my side became indistinct. I threw out my arms, with a vague idea of self- preserva- tion, but it was too late, I fell and knew no more. ‘¢When I awoke, the sun was shining through the open windows, a long, golden bar fell across the faded carpet, the carved guitar, the yellow handkerchief with the embroidered name. I rose up languidly. At my first movement an old negro got up from his kneeling posture before the fire, and hurried towards me. ‘¢ ¢ Thanks be de Lord,’ he exclaimed, devoutedly, ‘how is you now, master?’ ‘¢<T’m all right,’ I answered, ‘but I feel a little shaky. Who are you? And whose place is this?’ ‘*T’se old Pompey, and dis am Marse Ronald Forbes’ place, de Ashley planta- tion.’ ‘*With sudden remorse I remembered the many times that Forbes had prayed me to visit him, and this was how 1 kept my promise; after long years, when the brave, light-hearted young master slept the sleep of death, when his old house, his joy and pride, was drear and desolate. ‘¢¢Poor Ronald,’ I said, with a sigh, that the old negro echoed; the miniature lay in the dust at my feet. I turned to the old man, ‘ Who was the lady that came last night, just as the clock struck twelve?’ ‘‘He fell back a step or two, his black face grew almost ashen. ‘You seen her, Marster?’ he gasped. ‘« ¢ Ves,’ I answered, ‘she thought she knew me, she called me Alcides.’ ‘¢¢Dat war it, dat war her name for Marse Ronald! Poor Miss Elinor.’ He was trembling like a leaf. ‘¢¢ Tell me about her,’ I said. ‘**Come away, sir,’ he said, leading me out of the silent room, through the shadow-haunted hall, into the glorious sunlight. I will not give you the story he told me, in his words, but in mine. ‘«Tt seems that from childhood Ronald Forbes and his cousin, Elinor, had been engaged to each other. She was a proud worldly girl and though she loved him dearly ; when he lost his fortune, she wrote to him, asking to be set free. ‘¢Several years after she engaged her- self to another man, but on her wedding night, in all the glory of her wedding gown and jewels, she fainted away ; when they lifted her up, she was dead. She had always lived at Ashley with her aunt, and ever since her death, just as the clock struck midnight, she came to the old house, to the room they had loved, seek- ing her cousin to crave his forgiveness. ‘«The house was known to be haunted, and no one would occupy it. The Forbes family had long since moved away, the negro servants had flitted to other parts, only the faithful old slave remained, true to the last to his kind dead master and the old, once happy home. ‘‘AsI drove away, that bright spring morning, Pompey gave me many kindly wishes, which I returned, in addition to something more substantial; when the road gave a sudden curve, that I knew would shut out the old gray house amidst its dreary grounds, I stood up in my buggy and glanced back. ‘¢The old negro was standing within the shadow of the rusty gates looking af- terme. His face was livid and sad, his eyes dim with melancholy feeling. A bent, worn, unbeautiful figure, but a true hero, nevertheless.

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gh, ure me e?? ick er, she for He ng he US he ld en ud te «¢ As I said before, gentlemen I scarcely expect you to believe me, some of you may argue that it was alla fancy, and yet how cov'd I, a stranger, knowing not even where I was, imagine so strange a story ?’’ He rose from his chair and came forward into the liglit. ‘‘And how account for this?’’ he said, looking down at the long white scar on his wrist, ‘‘ was it an illusion of mine, that her sharp nails cut my flesh? Could that, too, have been atroubled dream ?”’ Wheeler threw his cigar into the fire. ‘‘T am sorry to spoil a good story, Hal- lam,’’ he said, apologetically, ‘‘ but know- ing all the truth, I do not think it right to keepsilence. I believe your story implic- ity, [have no doubt but that every thing happened, just as you have related, but your midnight visitor was no ghost.” ‘*No ghost, then how came she there?”’ ‘‘Ah! thatis it; your negro hero was none the less a hero because, in his zeal for family honor, he led you to believe that the poor lunatic who startled you was a spirit.” ‘¢ A lunatic? impossible.’’ ‘*Patience, old fellow. Long years ago I learned that Elinor Vane on her marriage night had lost her mind. After- wards she practically recovered, and at LOVE. 131 her own request was taken back to Ash- ley and tenderly guarded and cared for by old Pompey and his wife. The Forbes family willingly granted the place to her as a home, since they no longer loved it. After a time I heard that she had again become violently insane, and was, of necessity, confined to her own apart- ments. The night of your visit she had probably managed to evade her keep- ers, and in roaming over the old building happened upon you. What! still uncon- vinced ?”’ ‘¢VYes, I can not believe that it wasa creature of flesh and blood that I saw that night at Ashley.’ ‘¢ But, Hallam, it could be nothing else ! She only died about five years ago. I saw her buried. I traveled many miles, because of my old friendship for the family, to attend her funeral.’ The doctor shook his head: ‘Had I guessed the truth,’’ he said, ‘‘I would surely,’’ he broke off with a sigh. Wheeler stared at him. ‘She was not a good woman, Hallam.”’ ‘‘Enough,”’ he answered, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘‘Who are we that we should judge her. Can any one of us boast that we are sinless ?’’ ‘¢ But no one answered.” Love. BY ELLA HIGGINSON, So many women had I lightly won— And just as many had I lightly lost— That when, at last, true love came to my heart, I did not know her pure and earnest face— So different from any I had known— And deemed her quite as earthly as the rest, And quite as lighly won. S many women had I lightly loved, When, lo! But when I stooped For the first time to kiss her tender lips, She lifted two sweet troubled eyes to mine; One look—that seemed to read my very soul... And I? I trembled at that judgment bar, And knew myself unworthy of her love. My passion died, slain by that tender glance; I trembled so I lost all self-control, And only dared to touch her hair. Straightway the color leaped into her face, Andall the doubt fled from her eyes.... And 1? I trembled still, for in my heart I knew That this waslove. And once again Istooped.... And once again, but dared to touch her hair,

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OMPTON MOOR- HOUSE was heir to a fine estate, and to a rent-roll of fifty thousand pounds a year; therefore he went into the best so- ciety of the coun- try, and though people smiled in an indulgent and of- ten pitying manner when he was named, he was generally noted as a good, harm- less fellow, and a lucky catch for some girl, Had he been born in a differ- ent class, and obliged to earn a living, he would have been called ‘‘a softy,”’ and his lines would seldom have fallen in pleasant places, unless he had taken up the profession of a fisherman, for he was a skilful angler. He was also a good shot, an excellent sportsman when he chose, for he really disliked ‘‘ killing things,’’ as he said himself, and all dumb, helpless creatures loved him. For the rest there were people who said he ‘¢ wasn’t at all such a fool as he looked, don’t you know?” and that sort of neg- ative praise was the highest pitch of enthusiasm ever reached, even by his best friends. But he was modest, gentle, and kindly ; and if he understood the opinion enter- tained of him by the majority of people, he probably considered it just, and having no vanity his amour propre did not suffer keenly. Was it, then, an inten- tional bit of satire on his part, or just the irony of fate, that he should choose to fall in love with the beauty of the season— the prettiest girl in Northumberland ? ‘*What a fool I am! Ch, it is worse than folly—it is madness!” thought Compton, when the fact dawned on him ; for his was the worst kind of love, the fiercest, most irresistible—love at first sight, and he was fathoms deep in that fiery maelstrom before he had even sus- pected it. *« She will never look at me, All at Sixes and Sebens. A VALENTINE STORY. 132 BY ELSIE SNOWE. and I may as well blow my brains out, for I can’t live without her! ”’ Miranda Dalton was too handsome for a poor girl, as some one in the set in which she moved had said of her, for so much beauty was utterly thrown away, since romance was dead, and now-a-days all the great catches expected as much money as they brought to the matrimo- nial market; but all the same, the season that Miss Dalton was presented, saw her the reigning beauty, and on the second season it was the same, and it promised to be the same for many seasons to come; but still she might have sung with the humble heroine of the song: «‘ Nobody coming to marry me— Nobody coming to woo.” The most indifferent person in the Dal- ton family on the subject of her marriage was Miranda herself—next to herself the next most indifferent was her father, who was so fond of his daughter that he had no wish at all to see her married; after Mijor Dalton came the servants, who didn’t want to lose the gentle presence of their young mistress ; but of the person- age known as the final member of the family it could not be said that she was indifferent at all—in fact, the most ardent wish of Miss Meredith’s heart, next to her own settlement in life, was that of the charming Miranda. Lucille Meredith, properly speaking, was not a member of the Dalton family at all, though she was in the habit of call- ing Miranda her sister, and often referred to Major Dalton as ‘‘ dear papa,” as she had always referred to Mrs. Dalton as ‘¢dear mamma.”’ As a matter of fact she was the daughter of Mrs. Dalton’s first husband by a previous wife, and as her step mother had been left the guardian of her small fortune, as well as herself, the child quite naturally came to be in- cluded in the family of her step-mother ; and then as the relationship was somewhat complicated, after Mrs. Meredith became

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out, . for : in r So yay, lays uch mo- son her ond ised ne; the Jal- age the who had fter who e of on- the was lent > to > of ng, nily all- red she as fact n’s jan elf, er ; hat ume Mrs. Dalton, it was seldom explained ex- cept to very intimate friends. Mrs. Dal- ton had been a great beauty in her day— as great a beauty as Miranda, and Major Dalton had been madly in love with her ; and though Lucille was only her step daughter he even bestowed a part of that affection on the dark-browed little girl, and was pleased to be called ‘‘ papa”’ by the same lips that were privileged to call his lovely bride ‘‘mamma,’’ and even when his own fairy-like daughter came he felt no disposition to make any change, so that Lucille in the most natural way began calling the new comer her little sister. She was ten years older than Miranda, and sincerely attached to the lovely child in her way, and although there was the utmost dissimilarity between them in every respect, especially in their appearance, it was not until Miranda began to be spoken of as the beauty of the country that Lucille looked at her with any state of envy or bitterness. Her chance of marriage had been slim enough before, but now she felt that while Miranda remained unmarried no man that came to the Grange would even look at her, and no managing mother ever worked for her daughter’s settlement in life more ardently than Lucille Meredith for the happy and prosperous marriage of her ‘¢ sister.’’ With quick instinct she divined the secret of Compton Moorhouse, and she was equally quick to perceive that while others admired, perhaps even loved the beautiful Miranda, Compton was the one who wished to marry her. She took pains to encourage his visits, and when the family left town at the close of each season she managed that young Moor- house should know whether they went abroad, and where, and when they returned to the Grange. Major Dalton had never been rich, and now he began to feel that his means were slender indeed, and the greater part of the year was spent in North- umberland where he was at least under his own roof as yet, though the place was so heavily mortgaged that he began to entertain serious fears about holding it. He wasstill comparatively a young man, proverbially hospitable, and fond of the company of his own sex, and there were always two or three men invited for the shooting, and later in the season for the ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. 133 hunting, and often for a quiet, old-fash- ioned Christmas; in short, for anything that would lighten the winter season and brightened up the old house; and for every festivity of any sort Lucille took care that Moorhouse was invited. Mi- randa and the Major began to observe this obvious attention to the young man, and looked at each other and smiled ; while outsiders laughed and openly ridi- culed the efforts of ‘‘ Old Maid Meredith” to carry off Moorhouse and his fifty thous- and a year. But Compton never for a moment misunderstood her. From the first he saw that she had divined his se- cret, that she encouraged what he scarcely dared to hope, and that she gave hima hundred opportunities to see Miranda, which otherwise he never could have compassed, and he was grateful. Indeed, he loved Lucille, truly—as a sister; and feeling that they quite understood each other, their confidence and intimacy was easily mistaken by Miranda, and was the cause of her own kindly manner toward Compton. But though her radiant smiles and low, sweettones when they were alone together often made him dizzy with hope and happiness, he had never yet sum- moned up courage to risk his present bliss by asking for more. ‘You will lose her,” Lucille said to him once; she had beckoned him to her as he was going out on a shooting expe- dition with the rest of the men. ‘‘ You have more than one rival, but I happen to know that no one has yet spoken, and I know Miranda well enough to be quite sure that not one of them possesses any special attraction for her. She is not the. least bit in the world in love with any one—never has been—but she //kes you, and if you choose to take a friend’s advice you will make use of your opportunities before some one gets ahead of you.” ‘¢T cannot—I dare not!’ said Comp ton, with a sigh of despair. ‘It is pre- sumption for me even to think of her. I feel myself so unworthy of her least look that every time I have tried to put my feelings into words my voice dies away, and the beating of my heart nearly suf- focates me—’’ ‘*Nonsense! Must I tell you forever and ever that such a faint heart will never win any woman, at least, if she d

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a a nk S B inare Ri 134 ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. know it. Now there is, to a girl like Miranda, acertain charm in such exces- sive modesty—at least there would be if she knew it. But if you can’t even sum- mon up courage to tell her how much afraid you are even to lose her, I’m afraid she’ll never find it out for herself. Some other man will get ahead of you, and you will have lost your best chance, that of be- ing first in the field, and I have told you again and again that with girls like Mi- randa that is a very important considera- tion.” = os el SOLIS DME LIED TE TS =P 2 4/ ft ‘If he didn’t look such a simpleton; if he could only pluck up a little courage! He’s really almost handsome when he’s very much in earnest; he has fine eyes, too! and such a rent roll. I hope Mi- randa hasn’t any sentiment; but I never understood her in the least. But she does like Compton, she always listens with a smile when I praise him, and her manner toward him is quite encouraging. She never seems so pleased tosee any other man that comes here; oh dear! I wish it was over. I wish she was married and settled.” a adn we “HE WAS GOING CUT ON A SHOOTING EXPEDITION.” ‘Lucille, you are my best friend, my sister—oh ! how I wish you were my sis- ter! By jove! I'll try—I really wi#/— I'll speak to Miranda to-morrow ! ’’ “That’s right!’’ exclaimed Lucille, encouragingly. ‘‘ Remember, ‘faint heart never won’ anything, fair or otherwise, and my best wishes go with you.’ And as Compton hastened away to join the rest of the party who were waiting for him, and making feeble jokes at his ex- pense, to the effect that he was lingering for a few tender words with his sweet- heart, Lucille looked doubtfully after It was impossible for his most kindly disposed friend to compliment Moorhouse on his shooting that day; in fact, he aimed so widly, and missed so constantly, that his companions ceased joking him, and rather seriously advised him to return to the house before he should blow his own head off or some better man’s. Compton took the advice in good part, glad enough to be by himself; and having brought himself to a kind of Bob Acres’ courage regarding Miss Dalton he longed to get into her presence, and fire off his proposal without an instant’s delay, since “ valor will come and go,”’ and, like Bob,

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on ; ge! he’s yes, Mi- ver ha ner She was d.” dly use ly, m, im his rt, ing ac! ed his ice yb, he feared that his was far more likely to ‘«go”’ than to come again. Fate favored him so far as to give him an immediate opportunity. He found Miss Dalton alone in a little sitting-room where only privileged people were allowed to seek her; but he felt himself to be one of these from the fact that he had often been received there, and because she now bestowed on him her customary smile of welcome as he entered. Compton spoke at once, and although Miranda’s look of amazement, slowly changing to an expression of repressed merriment, might have warned him to desist, he would not accept the warning, but poured out the torrent of emotion that had been seething within him since the morning, and ended by making her a formal and somewhat old-fashioned pro- posal of marriage. The effect, coming after his impetuous and almost incoherent declaration of love was irresistible, and the young girl could no longer repress her merriment. She laughed immoder- ately, shocked at herself for doing so, and the expression of anguish on her suitor’s face only served to increase her sense of the ridiculous. ‘¢ Sit down, Compton ; pray, sit down,”’ she said at last, ‘‘and forgive my rude- ness; but you see you have made such a funny blunder—of course you came in here expecting to find Lucille, and in your excitement you did not find out your mistake. I tried in vain, again and again, to stop you, but nothing could stem the torrent of your eloquence, and I simply could not resist the fun of it. Don’t be hurt. I know it will be all right. I’m sure Lucille is fond of you. In fact, she quite raves about you to me, and I thought you were engaged long ago, and have quite wondered that she had not taken me into her confidence and told me all about it—,”’ She paused suddenly, struck by the ex- pression of keen suffering on the face of her listener. He was as pale as if he lay in his coffin, and a look of despair that gave strength and a certain tragic dignity to his commonplace features, almost startled Miranda. Every trace of merri- ment left her face, and she felt an unde- fined thrill of pain and terror. ‘*T have never thought of Miss Mere- ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. 135 dith in the way you mean,’’ said Moor- house, ‘‘she has never for a moment made the mistake of supposing that I did. I don’t think she has thought any more than I have that any one else had made that mistake. I have never loved any girl but you, Miss Dalton. I never shall— of course, I don’t know how to tell you of it, for I am only a poor, plain, stupid fellow. I never meant to have told you, or any one about this, for though I know how absurd it is for a fellow like me to think of winning a girl like you, my love for you is too sacred a thing for me to bear to have it turned into ridicule. Miss Meredith guessed my secret. I don’t know how she did, for I tried to conceal it as well as I could, but women are quick about such things, and when she told me that you rather liked me, I suppose I must have lost my head, for somehow with her continually telling me that you were not altogether indifferent, and then the valen- tine; besides, I was just mad enough to keep thinking and hoping till I came to think it was not entirely impossible—.”’ ‘¢ What valentine ?’’ exclaimed Miranda, as soon as the meaning of his words had reached her brain. ‘‘I never sent any one a valentine in all my life—a valen- tine! How perfectly ridiculous.”’ Poor Compton ! it was not possible for him to grow paler, but an expression of almost grotesque horror came over his face, and Miranda was again nearly over- whelmed with an hysterical desire to laugh, but she repressed it. ‘“You never sent me a valentine ?’’ he stammered. ‘*Then I am without any excuse, for that, along with Lucille’s encouragement, was my only ground for hope—see ! ’’ and he drew from his breast- pocket a large-sized envelope which had evidently seen wear, for he had carried it about with him, always as near to his heart as he could get it, since the Feb- ruary before. Miranda mechanically put out her hand and took the envelope, for Moor- house held it toward her, and casting her glance on it she saw that it was, indeed, addressed in her own handwriting. A warm blush crimsoned her face, and she said: ‘‘This is, indeed, my writing, Compton, but I never sent it to you—oh, this is too bad! I never thought Lucille i | if i) i

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136 could have done such a thing! I remem- ber all about itnow. This is how it was— she was addressing envelopes for the maids, and she jestingly asked me to address one to you ; thinking that you and she under- stood each other, and that she was going to play some silly jest, I did as she asked me, and never even remembered it again till this moment. Even had I thought of it, believing you to be engaged to each other, I never could have dreamed of any misunderstanding. While she spoke she had drawn out the enclosure, which she saw to be of the ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. words it contained, I—I was—afraid, ] feared you had guessed my secret, and were laughing at me.” ‘Oh, Mr. Moorhouse! Could yon think me capable of such bad taste—such cruelty —’’ ‘Oh! no, no, Miss Dalton. I here de. sire it! It would have been no more than just, for it was too presumptuous of me ever to hope to win such a girl as you. I was not tothink of it, but when I talked it over with Miss Meredith she encour- aged me. She said you didn’t care for handsome men, or clever fellows; that lA Wve te 7, L_? Me ' “HE FOUND MISS DALTON ALONE.” usual heart and dove and love character peculiar to the fourteenth of February; but in the centre of the paper were pasted four lines of poetry, cut from some mag- azine, and so marked as to have a specially personal and encouraging effect. As she read these lines, Miranda’scheeks burned, and her very ears tingled. ‘‘And you thought I had sent this to you ?” she asked, indignantly. ‘‘I wonder how you could have waited so long, since you honor me by asking me to marry you.”’ ‘*Ah, that’s just it, Miss Dalton, though I never doubted you had sent me the valentine, I dared not believe the you could appreciate a man who would adore you—to whom you would still be young and glorious and beautiful forty years from now; and somehow I lost my head at last with thinking of it and hop- ing for it,—it is so easy to think a thing possible when one wishes it so much.” ‘¢ lam sosorry—pray forgive me!’’ ex- claimed his listener. ‘¢T have nothing to forgive—it is still the one happiness of my life to have loved you, Miss Dalton, even if I should die of it. ButI will distress you no further— it is for me to ask forgiveness—and to say good-bye!”’

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id, I and you such de. than r me you. lked Our- - for that ild rty ny »p- ng ‘X= ill ed lie ay ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. Miranda held out the luckless paper, but he did not take it. ‘‘No, no,”’ he said, with a deep sigh, “since it did not come from you—oh! let me never see it more. ‘The sight of it is too hateful to me. Once more, for- give me, if you can—God bless you! Good-bye.”” He turned quickly from her and almost ran from the room. She did not see him again, for he felt that he could no longer endure the gaze of those who might see and interpret a mis- ery beyond his power to conceal, and he hastened to say adieu to Major Dalton and Miss Meredith, and to leave the house. If no one else missed him the servants did, and were loud in his praise, for they had found him gentle, kind and gener- ous. Miranda found herself at a loss to un- derstand the self-reproach of her own mind. Undoubtedly she was in no way to blame; the fault, such as it was, lay wholly at the door of Lucille Meredith, and she determined to make her feel it so ; so that when the two met that night up- stairs, after dinner, there was a sharp and ‘angry scene between them, such as had never happened before. ‘‘You are making a great ado about nothing, Mirra, dear,’’ Miss Meredith said at last, having listened to the out- pouring of Miranda’s angry indignation, till the latter paused, for lack of words and breath to say them with, ‘‘ what if I did send the silly boy a valentine ad- dressed in your writing? St. Valentine belongs to all the world, to do with as they please, and no one in their senses ever dreamed of taking it seriously.’’ ‘¢ But this one has taken it seriously—”’ * Pooh! He’s a simpleton.” ‘*Mr. Moorhouse is not a simpleton, Lucille, he is an honest, simple, gentle- man. Few men in the world are capable of genuine love—a passion so pure, so in- tense, so noble as he is suffering is un- known to the majority of men.’’ Lucille looked sharply at her young sister, and bit her lips to repress the answer that rose to them and also the smile she could hardly conceal, while she thought, ‘‘By St. Valentine himself, but Compton’s star is rising—she surely cares for him, or she never would defend him 137 so warmly. This bit of injustice and cruelty as she calls it may turn out to be the spark that fires the mine.” Aloud she said with flippant careless- ness, ‘*Oh, he’ll get over it.” ‘*T’m sure I hope so,”’ returned Miran- da, sincerely, ‘‘I never could be happy again if he should die of it—as he said he might. Poor Compton! I had no thought that he could feel anything so deeply.”’ ‘“*Oh, don’t you be uneasy, Mirra. You'll have no need for any pangs of re- morse. Every young fellow goes through these first love deliriums. They serve very well as kind of pastime for the second and more lasting attachments.’’ ‘*You don’t know what you are talking about, Lucille,’ the younger woman ex- claimed. ‘‘ What is the matter? I never knew you like this before! You speak like a cynical old maid.’’ ‘‘Well, I am a cynical old maid,” Miss Meredith said, with much amiabil- ity, ‘‘and likely to remain so—and now, good-night. Forgive me, dear, about that stupid valentine—-I meant no ham— give it to me, and let me throw it in the fire.”’ ‘No, I want to look at it,’? Miranda said, quickly, as she drew back the luck- less paper which she had been holding aloft as a sort of tangible accusation, more terrible than any words she could find. ‘‘Good-night—I shall try to for- get all this, but please don’t do it again.’’ Miss Meredith received her dismissal meekly, but with an undefined sense of triumph, and a feeling that Compton Moorhouse’s cause was by no means a lost one. As for Miranda, she could not have analyzed her own state of mind had the fate of empires depended on it, but as she placed the mischief-making valen- tine within her escritoire she murmured to herself, ‘‘To think that any man in the world should imagine that I should send him such a thing as ¢hat /”’ All thought on the subject of Comp- ton Moorhouse or any other young man was rudely thrust from Miss Dalton’s mind on the next morning when she met her father at the breakfast table; and Miranda could hardly wait for the serv- ants to leave the room before asking him

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— 138 the cause of the despair too legibly im- printed on his face. ‘« What has happened, dear, dear papa?”’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms about him. ‘I have never seen you look so— what can it be? Weare all here—none of us are dead—yet you look as if our last day had come!”’ ‘‘Tt has!’? exclaimed Major Dalton, taking the words quite literally—‘ our last day when we have the right to call the Grange our own—that villain, Burke, has foreclosed the mortgages—for he has bought them all up, and now holds every- thing. Alas! I suspected the scoundrel as soon as I saw that he was getting every- thing into his own hands, but I was power- less to prevent it. The interest has gone over for the past year or more, and that has given him his opportunity. The Grange is for sale—it is in the market for the face value of the mortgages, and as he has coveted the dear old place this many a day, some equally villainous friend of his will buy it in, and we shall be turned into the roadway.”’ ‘*Oh, papa!’’ exclaimed Miranda, turning pale, for though she knew nothing of business there was a clearness and definiteness about Major Dalton’s state- ment which the merest child could under- stand. ‘You have often told me that the Grange was worth three times the amount of the mortgages, all told, inter- est and all other debts included—surely of all the people who call themselves our friends, some one will come to the rescue.”’ ‘* Who? for instance!’’ exclaimed her father; ‘‘ most of our friends are as poor as ourselves.” ‘*There might have been one,” said Lucille, in a low, meaning tone that called the crimson color to Miranda’s face. It was partly anger, partly pride ; but how could she ask any favor of the man whom she had but a day ago refused — it would be like offering herself at a pre- mium! and as that thought passed through her mind, she felt that she could say nothing—do nothing, and with a single indignant glance at the last speaker she left the room. - But Lucille Meredith was far from overcome by that glance. She calmly ate her breakfast, and when she at last rose from the table she turned to Major Dal- ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. ton, and placing her hand on his shoulder, said in very loving tones, ‘‘ Papa, dear, don’t be discouraged, I see a way out of this tangle, and 1 know a man who will be only too glad to throw himself into the breach. Please trust this affair to me.” Major Dalton looked at her in amaze. ment, but before he could express the feeling, she had hastened from the room, waving her hand encouragingly as she disappeared. Miss Meredith flew to her room, and scrawled a hasty message to Compton Moorhouse. ‘‘ Don’t despair—fate itself is on your side. The misfortune of one man is the good luck of another. I dine at the Thoraton’s to-morrow night—meet me there.”’ A mounted groom earned half a sov- ereign by galloping twenty miles to place this in the hands of Compton Moorhouse, and to his amazement that very liberal gentleman gave him a guinea to carry back the single word ‘‘ yes’’ as an answer, * * * * * The Grange—the home of the Dalton’s for centuries, was about to pass from the last of the name under the hammer of the auctioneer. Attorney Burke made the first and apparently the only bid by naming the sum. in which it stood mortgaged, and as silence succeeded he drew a long breath of satisfaction, and watched the hammer slowly descend, when from the little knot of spectators gathered on the lawn came a clear, ringing voice doubling the sum he had offered. With rage upon his face the attorney raised the second bid a hundred pounds; his opponent instantly added a thousand, whereon the attorney’s face became crim- son, and he raised the third bid by five hundred pounds; his opponent promptly increased the sum by five thousand pounds. Attorney Burke turned pale, he saw the Grange slipping from his grasp, but the highest bid, so far, was well within its real value. He desperately added another thousand upon which his opponent coolly doubled the entire sum, and Attorney Burke, gasping with rage, disappointment and astonishment, fell back speechless, while the Grange was knocked down to Compton Moorhouse for : thar The his wert sum othe con: com ton he han

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ulder, dear, ut of 0 will tO the le,” f the eath mer cnot ne a . he ney ds; nd, im- five otly and ale, vell ely his for asum larger by fifty thousand pounds than its best value in its palmiest days. The necessary formalities of paying for his purchase, out of which the mortgages were paid, and the balance—a very large sum—handed over to Major Dalton, and other business matters, naturally occupied considerable time ; and before they were completed February had come, and Comp- ton had received another valentine. How he choked with emotion, and how his ALL AT SIXES AND SEVENS. 139 Young Moorhouse was not at all ashamed of the joyful tears that dimmed his sight as he read these words; and the same kind of tears sprinkled on Miss Dalton’s long, silken lashes when he was shown into the drawing-room at the Grange a few hours later. ‘¢ My boy,” said Major Dalton, w..o was seated by his lovely daughter, ‘‘ she has told me everything. You have already been more than a son to me, and I love “¢MyY BOY,’ SAID MR. DALTON,” hand shook as he recognized Miranda’s handwriting once more, and hardly dared tohope—but it was the same old valentine, only across the face of it was written: ‘‘This ‘time I really send it, dear Compton! Come and dine with us to- Ever yours, MIRANDA.” night. valentines. ful, don’t you know ?—sometimes.” you dearly, but I, too, can bestow wealth and treasure. tine.’’ willing hand in that of the young man. Take from me your valen- ‘And he placed his daughter’s ‘¢Miranda—is it true? you-—my val- entine?”’ ‘Yes, dear Compton I begin to like I find them really very use-

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: _ ~e

Che Filjeano Mystery. BY ADA MARIE PECK. Author of « A Modern Winter’s Tale,” “ Destiny,” etc., etc. Ill. HE Fielding’s lawn was the scene of much merriment the next after- noon, for Be- renice had been over to the Kent’s who lived around the “~w. corner, toplay tennis; callers interrupted the game so, with Dallas Kerr in her train she came back to have a round of old-fashioned croquet, and persuaded Marcia and Esther to make out a set. Mrs. Fielding sat watching the game; but it must be confessed with little pleas- ure. Dallas Kerr was a continual thorn in her side—and as he stood there tall and straight-limbed as a young god, with his jaunty tennis cap pushed back on his closely cropped curls, his handsome laugh- ing eyes following every move Berenice made; Mrs. Fielding found herself wish- ing one of them in the occident and the other in the orient. How could she do her duty by Berenice and wish otherwise ; her daughters would be almost portionless and Dallas Kerr was only a briefless barrister. She lectured Berenice soundly upon her folly—she reasoned with her, but fruitlessly. There had been a wordy combat between them only that morning. ‘‘He is so handsome, mamma dear, it is an absolute pleasure just to look at him ;’’ Berenice had coolly assured her. ‘* How indelicate!’’ her mother ex- claimed. ‘*We never discussed young men in that fashion in my day. If you could frame him and wax him up, and had nothing to do but to look at him, here would be some sense to your remark. What I want to know, is how you expect to live?”

140 ‘“‘Upon love; declared Berenice, air. ily. ‘« Fiddlesticks !’’ said her mother, for. getting for once to be elegant. ‘* You disgust me.’’ ‘¢Then, mamma, think what an ex. cellent old family the Kerrs are.”’ ‘*Of what account is that! You can't eat an old family ;’’ said Mrs. Fielding, with a contemptuous sniff. ‘Well, no; not exactly—or at least when it comes to that, a young family would be preferable; wouldn’t be s) tough, you know.”’ ‘* Berenice, you are vulgar and flip. pant;’’ replied her mother sternly, ‘¢And I fear that I shall have to call you barbarous—just think of eating all those Kerrs !”’ Then Berenice laughed heartily. ‘* Don’t worry, mamma,”’ she added, a she saw her mother’s distressed look. ‘<It will come out all right—Dallas will be an M. P. yet, see if he isn’t—and we shall all revel in riches.” Nevertheless Mrs. Fielding meant to keep an eye on the young people and thwart them if possible. She would rather have had ‘‘ forty winks’’ after their one o’clock dinner, but instead (for do her duty she must), she made a martyr of herself and settled in one of the rustic seats on the lawn to watch the players. She had on a light garden hat to pro- tect her face from the light autumn sun- shine, and a soft shawl about her should. ers; firmly placing her eye-glasses she prepared for detective service—the least sign of love making and that young man should be politely asked to attend to his law business. The playing, however, went on ina well regulated fashion; a good deal of laughing and talking, but nothing to alarm. The hammock pillow behind Mrs. Fielding’s shoulders was very soft; the crickets, and multitudinous other in- sects hummed in asleepy monotone; 4 placid look stole over her comely features;

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air- » for. a ex. can't ling, least mily ae *) flip- rnly, g all tily. d, as ook. will Wwe t to ther one her r of istic yers. pro- sun- uld- she least his in a 1 of y to 1ind oft; - in- res; her plump hands were folded comfortably; he began to feel drowsy. ‘¢ It is like playing alone ;’’ complained Esther. For Kerr had become a ‘‘ rover,’’ whose whole aim seemed to be to send Berenice’s ball outside the limits and then help her find it. They stood fora long time in a clump of shrubs just a lit- tle back of where Mrs. Fielding was so placidly dozing. She thought she heard —and decided that she only dreamed it— something like this: ‘‘It is a little hard on a fellow to love a girl to destraction, and never get within arm’s length of her.” ‘¢ Distance lends enchantment.’’ ‘‘Not in this case. Shall I now have you to myself a half moment! Just see here, Berry, isn’t this a peculiarly colored leaf—so bright.” ‘¢ Don’t—don’t be so—’”’ ‘‘What, dearest !’’ ‘¢ So—pre—suming.”’ A little stir in the rustic seat sent the blithe young fellow with long graceful strides across the lawn. Berenice went in the opposite direction with very rosy cheeks; while Mrs. Fielding moved un- easily, and opened her eyes and wiped her glasses. ‘‘Why, how queer that I should dream such nonsense!’’ she said to herself. Then there was a little commotion. Some- body was coming; and Marcia was so busy looking at the approaching stranger that she had not seen the couple by the shrubbery, which, was well for Berenice. ‘“‘It is Mr. Filjeano,’’ exclaimed Esther, breathlessly, then she disappeared in the rear of the house, but not before she whispered to Berenice: ‘* Do you mind if I try on your blue tea gown ?”’ Berenice shook her head in refusal. ‘‘I think you might let me—here I have played this stupid old game just to be tame cat for you two! Shall I tell mamma about—”’ here the pretty suppli- ant wore a threatening look. ‘¢QOh, I don’t care about the dress, if you only won’t muss it, and go dragging it out-doors playing with the dog;’’ an- swered Berenice, hurriedly, for the stranger was now coming up the avenue. He did not approach the group on the lawn, but went directly to the house, and a servant soon came bringing his card. THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. 14t Mrs. Fielding greeted him with the utmost cordiality and presented her daughters and Dallas Kerr, for Berenice insisted that he should come in and meet the new-comer. ‘¢ He is rich and influential, and may ” be of use to you; ’”’ she said, astutely. Marcia received the presentation with an air of sweet stateliness which quite suited her lovely Grecian features, her languid blue eyes and crown of golden hair. ‘‘It is indeed pleasant to renew our old acquaintance,’ she acquiesced to some courteous speech of his about the past. ‘‘I well remember the ride you gave me on you pony.”’ ‘«Oh, yes,and I, too,’’ laughed Filjeano. ‘¢You were such a dainty, flaxen-haired mite, and I was such a great rough boy; I hardly dared touch you lest you should break. Your sister, here, would have none of me, but invariably cried and ran the other way.”’ ‘‘ Berenice was always shy when a child; interposed Mrs. Fielding, with that reminiscent tone in which fond mothers delight. ‘¢ Always,’’ repeated Kerr, sotto voce for Berenice’s edification. ‘¢ But your other daughter, Mrs. Field- ing, I hope you did not scold her for lunching with me the other day—I quite insisted upon her staying.’’ Marcia’s eyes opened very wide and changed their languid expression for one of steel like sharpness. ‘¢ Esther is such a child,’’ she mur- mured, ‘* we never expect much of Esther by way of conventionality.”’ ‘¢ That was the amusing part of it,’’ re- turned Filjeano. ‘I found her absorbed in a story, and, by the way,” hesaid, tak- ing a volume from his pocket, ‘‘I brought the book. I know she must be anxious to finish it.’ Marcia reached to take it. ‘She will think you very kind,” she said, sweetly. ‘¢T will give it to her.”’ ‘¢ Perhaps,’’ he said, turning to Mrs. Fielding, ‘‘if she is not busy with her lessons, you will call her in and present me to her formally. I am fond of children.’’ Marcia visibly brightened at that. ‘¢ Of course he merely thinks her a pretty child,” she thought.

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142 THE FILJEANO MYSTERY. When Esther did come in response to the summons sent, there was consternation in the faces of Mrs. Fielding and Marcia. Berenice was ready to explode with laugh- ter, and Dallas softly ejaculated, ‘‘ By Jove!” Mr. Filjeano took in the situation at a glance, but concealed his amusement. She had unbraided her beautiful bronzy hair and had massed it on the top of her head in-a shining coil. Berenice’s dress was a trifle long for her, and a trifle loose in the shoulders, but otherwise it fitted very well. And if she had been a belle of a half dozen seasons she could hardly have been more free from embarrassment as she trailed the blue folds on the carpet and sank peacefully in a low chair. She was so like and yet so surprisingly unlike the little every-day Esther, that every- body was astonished and for a moment said nothing. Mrs. Fielding fidgetted, for she had been expanding upon Esther’s being barely out of the nursery, and hav- ing to be a long time in the school-room before she could make her dedut / What would Mr. Filjeano think! He came to the rescue with: ‘‘ Well, Miss Esther, have you lost your interest in Lorna Doone? If not, perhaps you would like to finish it; ’’ and he handed her the book. ‘*Qh, thank you very much. I have thought about it ever since,’’ she an- swered, eagerly. Thenshe expected, from what she had read in society novels, that he would say ever so many nice things to her, but to her great disappointment he seemed to forget her, and to be absorbed with Marcia. Somehow her borrowed plumage began to weigh upon her spirits, and the unwonted weight of hair on the top of her head made it ache. Being ‘¢ out’’ was not so very nice after all—she could hardly keep the tears back, and was more than grateful when Filjeano rose, and with his easy grace of manner made his adieux. He had been offering his carriage to Mrs. Fielding. ‘‘Now remember,’’ he said, ‘‘if you refuse to help me use it I shall be very sorry. It will give me a great deal of pleasure to drive you occasionally, al- though I usually ride. Perhaps you will sometimes join me,’’ he said, turning to Marcia. ‘‘I think I can bring youa good mount.’’ ‘Thank you; I shall be glad to go;” but her looks expressed more pleasure than her words, for Marcia knew how to make her blue eyes and golden lashes speak effectively. ‘* My little friend,” said Filjeano, look. ing at Esther, ‘‘ when we drive, I hope, Mrs. Fielding, that you will permit her to make one of the party.”’ Esther rose in her impulsive, eager fashion to express her gratitude for the invitation, but Marcia gave a pull to the back of her gown, which caused her to take her seat again, and just then Mr, Filjeano left. Mrs. Fielding and Marcia immediately hurried Esther from the room, and in the excitement of the occasion, Berenice and the obnoxious Dallas were quite forgotten. ‘« Fancy the lecture that poor child will get,’’ remarked Berenice, sympatheti- cally; then she fell to laughing over her little escapade. ‘‘ And don’t you think she is going to be dangerously pretty, Dallas ?”’ ‘¢Qh, she looks fairly well,” Kerr an- swered, carelessly. ‘‘ But dangerously pretty—hardly. I know of but one who answers to that description,’’ and the infatuated young man drew a little nearer. ‘«She has hazel eyes, a dimple in her chin, and soft dark hair, and lips to tempt an anchorite—”’ Just then the imperative tap of Marcia’s little heels came down ,the hall; the dis- tance between the young people widened, and Berenice talked volubly about a pho- tograph she had hastily snatched from the table. ‘‘This photograph of Niagara Falls, for instance, is so—so—impressive ; noth- ing conveys the idea of the great forces of nature to me like the mighty rush of waters.”’ ‘It is truly one of nature’s grandest phases,’’ gravely answered Dallas. Marcia swooped down upon them, smiling coldly. ‘‘As the photograph you are holding upside down is one of an Alpine glacier, I am inclined to doubt its ‘mighty rush.’ ”’ Dallas murmured something about the pre-historic ages; but she only contin- ued : "

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ager the the r to Mr. tely the and ten, will eti- her ‘ink tty, an- isly vho the her npt 'a’s lis- ad, 10- he ls, ‘h- of ast HER VALENTINE. 143 ‘‘ Berenice, if you are through rhapso- dizing about it, perhaps Mr. Kerr will excuse you and chat with me in your place fora moment. Mamma wishes to see ou.” . Whereupon Dallas excused himself, and with an air of nonchalence, which would have done credit to an older man, bowed himself out. ‘¢ Marcia,” said Berenice, turning upon . her with flashing eyes, “ you are a hate- ful, spiteful thing; I will be even with you yet, see if I am not.” ‘‘As for that,’’ answered Marcia, sweet- ly, ‘I am sure Mr. Kerr needn’t have gone—I offered to entertain him. And I only did as mother requested.” ‘‘But who suggested it to her? I wouldn’t profess to be a book of etiquette, and send—yes, absolutely send a guest out of the house.” Marcia only smiled—and that was al- ways the worst of Marcia, Berenice thought—you never could get anything out of her. If she would only argue; but she would get behind that exasper- ating smile of hers, which might mean anything or nothing, and keep up an irritating silence, which always worked one up into a perfect rage. So Berenice, failing to get a retort, flounced out of the room; while Marcia, still smiling, seated herself at the piano with a very serene air, and softly played bits from Chopin, while her thoughts ran in the direction of their new neighbor. [TO BE CONTINUED. } Ger Dalentine. BY L. R. B. ff NLY a pale blush rose,” you say, 8) “« Wrought by an artist’s hand,” Yet what is its magic that tears of joy Fill the sweetest eyes in the land ? Oh, a thousand roses are swaying Over a nest of a home, And a thousand bird notes calling, « Fair lady, will you come ?” «Only a pale blush rose,” you say, “« Wrought by an artist’s hand.” “Only a simple couplet, That a poet sang,” you say. Yet the brown eyes, softly smiling, Find a bliss in all the day ; For some one fondly whispers His love in her little ear, And some one claims her kisses, With never a sigh or fear. “Only a simple couplet, That a poet sang,” you say. Vou. CXXII—No. 11.

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“an Se — ee ee a Fa pty aorta atari digine wattle fArs. Bellamy’s Dinner, T’S a most frightful and unheard of predicament,”’ announced the See eldest Miss Bellamy with excitement, as she rubbed Bangle’s head with one hand and ruffled her own, fair hair with the other, ‘‘T don’t wonder you are in despair, mamma. If Bertie would condescend to take her head out of that wardrobe and evince a little interest, we might come to a decision.’’ This last addressed, with withering sarcasm, to a green-plaid, kilted skirt and a pair of number two Louis Quinze slippers. . ‘*I appreciate the value you set on my opinion,” replied a muffled voice from the depths. ‘‘To tell the truth, I fear the great importance of the matter hasn’t quite permeated my brain,” and here the owner of the voice brought a dazzling- hued, dark-haired young head to view, from among a hopeless jumble of silks and ribbons. ‘¢Perhaps it will permeate when three strangers arrive for dinner to-night, and we ask them out to a fare-board,’’ re- sponded Miss Helen, indignantly. ‘* Well, at least it’s mahogany, and not pine,’’ said her sister, in a flippant, aside. “*T really think, Bertie, you are very inconsiderate, when you see how annoyed mamma is.”’ ‘Girls, girls, don’t quarrel, it is enough to endure that your father has been so thoughtless as to invite them— the Careys live in perfect style ; the grand- father left millions, and it would be simply an insult to talk of taking them out any- where; besides, Delmonico’s is a journey from Seventy-third street; Iam sure I don’t know what to do,”’ groaned the lady in question. ‘*It would be a delicate compliment to take them back to their own hotel—The BY MAY GOLD. Fifth Avenue, isn’t it ?’’ remarked Helen, gloomily. ‘What is the other man, Mr. Chalop. ers, like?’’ inquired little Miss Bellamy, suddenly. ‘‘T have never seen any of them, but he is a scientist, too, I suppose,’’ replied her mother. ‘«Then he is old enough to be particv. lar about what he has to eat.’’ This last, harsh fact is received by silence. ‘““Oh, for a cook, a waitress, even, forlorn, skinny slavey, such as came this morning—what fiendish impulse prompted us to let her go!” lamented Helen, ‘It’s a fact, past contradicting, that we mug give them something, and here it is past three o’clock with not a thing ordered.” ‘¢But who is to cook and serve them when they come? No, it is out of th question ; your father will be furious, but we shall have to take them down-town," decided Mrs. Bellamy, ruefully. ‘‘T can doit, of course; why didn’t we think of it before; in a cap, nobody would ever suspect that I wasn’t a regula maid,”’ cried Bertie, triumphantly, care fully balancing herself on the foot board of the bed, toher mother’s evident anxiety. ‘* How perfectly absurd.”’ ‘¢They would be sure to know you,” remonstrated the chorus. ‘«Now, my dears, be reasonable. Wil three people who have only been in tow as many days, and are sailing for Europe next week, be likely to meet me, or have the fact of my existence thrust upo them?’’ asked Bertie, with rising im patience. ‘*But you can’t cook. You will find serving a dinner, to say nothing of cook: ing it, quite different from making sponge cake,’’ remarked Helen, with very ap- parent doubt of her sister’s capabilities. ‘¢Can you think of any better plan? If so, we submit to it,’’ replied the young person addressed, now highly indignant. So, after much controversy and argu- ment, no other inspiration coming to them, it was at length decided that Bertie should have her own way. 144 wit lik mu on tle eac cuc for rib chi the ch cre sin Wil gol fat cal

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felen, alon- amy, 1, but plied rticv- 3 last, ven 4 > this npted “¢ It's must ; past red,” them f the 3, but wn,” "t we body gular care: oard ciety. ” ou, Will town rope have upon - im find :00k- onge r ap ities. lan? oung nant. argu g to ertie ‘¢ Time is flying, my friends,”’ said she, with a rapid assumption of a business- like manner, seeing the day was won. ‘I must go and order ; but we must decide on the menu first. Ciams, those can be on the table when you goin. Mock tur- tle soup, Ican buy a can,”’ ticketing off each item on a white finger. ‘‘ Then I can manage some lobster cutlets, with cucumbers, dressed a dz Francais, and for the roast, one of those cuts where the ribs are lapped over each other, like chops—it’s so pretty with the petit poss in the center. Tomato salad, crackers and cheese. For dessert, I will order a fancy cream and cakes at Morici’s. That is simple, but we must mak: it do. Helen, will you arrange the table while I am gone? Use Jack Talbot’s flowers.” ‘¢T only hope it won’t be a terrible faux pas, but I know it will,’’ prognosti- cated Miss Bellamy. ‘¢And I only hope your father won’t blame me,’’ added her mother, appre- hensively. ‘*It is too late for any delivery,’’ mur- mured Helen, unable to resist a parting shot. ‘¢ T shall bring the things home myself,” replied Bertie, with the air of a martyr. Half an hour later, the stylish, the irreproachable, the much-envied Miss Bertie Bzilamy, startled the bell-boy out of his perennial smile by appearing with several, unwieldy, bulging, brown paper bundles, clasped lovingly in her arms; out of one a long, red claw was seeking closer knowledge of her light, top coat ; out of another, a green cucumber hing perilously, and from a basket in her hand appeared a variety of things, such as the mirrored elevator of D—— flat had never reflected before. ‘¢ They said they would send a boy, but I wouldn’t trust him,’’ she gasped, depositing her burden unceremoniously on the hall chair. At a quarter of seven Mr. Bellamy ap- peared, and on hearing the state of affairs, gave way to the force of his feelings with more vehemence than elegance of lan- guage; he raged, he champed, he pro- tested, ‘* Get the bell-boy; get the jani- tor; get the policeman to wait; anything is better than Bertie; they will suspect she isn’t aservant. What did that cook MRS. BELLAMY’S DINNER. 45 mean by leaving ?’’ etc., ad infinitum. But it was too late to change ; the prepara- tions were all finished, and the table a marvel of dantiness, with its pink roses, candles, heavy silver and cut-glass. Mrs. Bellamy and Helen, perfectly gowned, sat in the parlor, eyeing each other uneasily, and only indulging in spasmodic remarks, as the gentleman of the flat wrestled audibly with his dress suit. While in the kitchen, Bertie, care- fully dressed in a black frock of last sea- son, a cap, and neat, white apron, nerv- ously awaited the hour of her triumph or downfall. Punctually, on the stroke, the little bell trilled and was answered, with alacrity, by acurious miid. In walked Mr. and Mrs. Carey, with the portly, middle-aged smile of anticipation upon their counte- nances, and behind them—oh, unkind fate!~-instead of the superannuated, scien- tific fossil of fancy, a tall, finely-built, imperative-looking young man, who pro- ceeded to take off a fur-lined coat with an ease suggestive of familiarity with the vanities of the wicked world. Four minutes later the belle of two seasons announced, in a very shaky, tremulous voice and with burning cheeks: ‘Dinner is served;’’ thereupon, in a most unorthodox and unwaitress - like fashion, she effaced herself in the shadow of a corner. The clams finished and soup served, she began to recover a little of her usual equanimity and listen to the conversation. ‘*Yes,’’? Mr. Carey was saying, ‘‘ that is the one advantage the English girls have over ours; they are brought up to look more after our comfort. Now, confess, Fred,’’ addressing his nephew across the table, ‘‘you would hesitate to marry a girl who couldn’t sew a seam, and to whom cooking was a sealed book.’’ ‘* Since you force me to it, I shall have to acknowledge a hesitancy about going into it under any circumstances,’’ replied young Chaloners, languidly, with his eyes fixed on Bertie, who, suddenly, becoming aware of the fact, roused herself to duty with a guilty start. But she felt that the most critical couldn’t complain, as the delicious, scented chops came on; then, suddenly, as the first delicate morsel disappeared down

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146 Mrs. Carey’s throat, tardy memory came to her undoing. Somebody had said that parts of a lobster were poisonous, and —with difficulty, she suppressed a shriek —she had put it all in. Oh, terrible thought! Who of these now unconscious victims would begin to suffer first? With a firmness born of despair, she adroitly commenced to remove the offensive com- pound, followed by mild)y surprised and reproachful glances ‘‘Tam disgraced forever, now,’’ she meditated, catching sight of Helen’s face. Then ensued a long, wearisome pause. Where could Bertie be? Mr. Bellamy talked steadily, but with slight incohe- rence. Mrs. Bellamy grew red, and com- plained of the heat, ‘‘Although,”’ she ruminated, consolingly, ‘‘the roast can’t help being good, it is so plain.”’ But alas for the heighth of human hopes! What architectural skeleton was this, slipping fromside to side, in Bertie’s unsteady hands ? There, all joined together and in a circle, stood the chops, bolt upright like a little picket-fence around an Indian’s grave. Heroism has its limits, Mr. Bel- lamy felt that the boundary of his had been reached, when his beautiful, silver- clawed carving-knife failed to make an impression on the appalling structure before him. In vain he peered ‘or a yielding joint; in vain he hacked, and pried, and sawed, with a ruddy glow of wrath and impatience on his forehead; the little chops clung manfully together, with the precision of soldiers on duty, and the obdurate bone gave forth an exasper- atingly harsh and grating sound whenever it came in contact with the blade. At last, human nature could stand no more, throwing manners to the winds, Mr. Bel- lamy grasped the innocent offender be- tween his thumb and finger, then came one mighty twist--green peas flew in all directions, and one small chop lay prone upon the platter—vanquished. So far asit is possible in well- bred peo- ple, everybody looked relieved. Every- body, that is, with the exception of Mr. Carey, who, with a happy faculty for saying the wrong thing and blissfully un- conscious of anything unpleasant, was waxing eloquent on the anatomy of ani- mals.

MRS. BELLAMY’S DINNER. The rest of the dinner went smoothly, at least as smoothly as a thing can be said tobe when the host is casting surrep. titious, but expressive—very expressive— glances at the hostess, who in her turn is absorbed in composing explanatory and conciliatory remarks with which to answer them later. Some of these little amenities of look be. ing intercepted bythe unfortunate fro fem, waitress, affect her so strongly that, after bringing in coffee, she retired to_ the kitchen, and, sitting down on a cake box, the chairs being laden indiscriminately with Royal Worcester plates, frying pans, silver dishes, and a tea-kettle, dissolves into tears. ‘<Tt is all the fault of that nasty, abomi- nable man, if he hadn’t stared so, every- thing would have gone right,”’ she sobbed, apostrophizing the harmless Mr. Chaloners, and illogically forgetting that he had neither tampered with the chops nor created the lobster. ‘¢T hate, I loathe, I despise him,’’ she continued, addressing a picture of Nellie Bly, which the last enterprising occupant had pinned over the clock, then, finding Miss Bly stolidly unsympathetic, she re- turned to the safe consolation of a con- tinued cry. Meanwhile, peals of laughter from the parlor added fuel to her indignation. If they had been bored, she might have for- given them; but to laugh after all she had endured was cruel, and no doubt Helen was flirting atrociously with that wretch, probably by this time they were sitting on the divan under the long win- dow. Such a mental picture was too much for Bertie’s sense of justice, and she forthwith formed a resolution. ‘They are awfully unkind and unap- preciative. I did my best, but I won't wash a single, dirty, old dish,” and so saying she betook herself to a little white room ‘across the hall, leaving « kitchen which, to an experienced housekeeper, would be as appalling as the tower of Babel to an English-speaking gentleman. A few days later Mrs. Traske Siddons sent out invitations for a Lenten dinner. ‘<I don’t feel as if I ever wanted to hear the word again,”’ said Bertie, firgering the invitation uncertainly, but in due time it was cordially accepted, and they went.

wh pul col do! jus nel chi yol ne! sof fro “c ] fee ve

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thly, n be TTep- ive— ITN is and Is wer k be. tem, after | the OX, ately Dans, olves omi- very- bed, ners, had nor she ellie pant ding 2 Te con- ) the If for- she oubt that were win- too she nap- on’t 1 so hite -hen per, r of aan. lons ner. hear the 1e it 5 ‘‘T am afraid we are shockingly tardy,”’ whispered Helen, giving her glove a last pull as they entered the reception room. «Oa, Miss Bellamy, so charmed you could come to me,’’ murmured Mrs. Sid- dons, graciously. ‘‘And Miss Bertie, just in time for me to present Mr. Chalo- ners. Mr. Chaloners l’ve been keeping a charming fate in store for you. I amsure you won’t be ennuied now.” “I’m sure so, too,’’ said Mr. Chalo- ners, with a mischievous glance in his soft brown eyes, addressing Miss Bertie, who was going through a variety of shades from sol erino magenta to rose madder. ‘Isn't it odd,’’ he continued, ‘‘I don’t feel at all like a stranger, your face is so very familiar, 1 am sure I must have met you before.”’ ‘‘Oh, I am sure not,’’ returned Bertie, with emphasis. Just then a general move was made toward the dining-room, and she was spared further remark until they were seated. ‘You will pardon me, I am so stupid ; but I didn’t hear your name,” said Mr. Chaloners, immediately claiming Bertie’s attention. ‘*For this small mercy I am, indeed, thankful, perhaps he does’nt know me, I may save myself yet,’’ she thought pray- erfully, and refusing to answer him satis- factorily. ‘*Oh, well; of course, if you prefer to remain a mysterious idol,’’ he returned, not urging the question, and suppressing asmile on seeing she had fallen into his trap. ‘*Only I like to know and feel in sympathy with the people next me at dinner. I am always in my most amiable frame of mind then. It is altogether the most desirable part of the day; don’t you think so?”’ ‘* Not always,” replied she, brusquely, with more truth than civility, feeling that this was proving itself altogether the mst undesirable hour of her life. ‘* Why was he not in Europe? Why had circum- stance thrown them together so unkindly ? If he did know her and was enjoying her discomfiture, should she ever be able to endure the mortification ?”’ ‘“‘Do you know,” he said mercilessly, interrupting her self-torturing reverie, ‘*T went to a dinner a few nights ago, MRS. BELLAMY’S DINNER. 147 and I wonder why, but in some vague way you suggest it to me.”’ ‘¢T can’t imagine, I am sure,” re- plied she, untruthfully, longing to anni- hilate him, but not daring to raise her eyes from the sweetbreads on her plate. ‘¢ You also suggest a picture which Miss Russell has, of a Miss Bellamy; although you cruelly keep me in suspense about your identity, 1 believe you are Miss Bellamy, Miss Bertie Bellamy,’’ repeated he, leaning back and watching the effect of his remark. ‘« Then you knew me all the time,’’ she cried, irefully, forgetting for a second the role she was playing, and then furious at having betrayed herself. ‘*MayI not be forgiven?” he asked gently, leaning toward her. ‘¢] think you are detestably rude,’’ replied she, irrelevantly, in a vigorous undertone, and, turning, devoted her atten- tion for the rest of the time to an iaane little mijor on her other side, who made puns and looked like an animated ‘‘ Puss in Boots.” Ia spite of the elaborate snubbing which Mr. Chaloners found himself subjected to then, and during the evening on which he made his dinner call, somehow the Bellamy flat proved itself very attractive, especially on Thursday, when the ladies were always home, dispensing weak tea, which he drank with such good grace as ‘to almost convince one he never took any- thing stronger. On these afternoons Bertie swept around, clothed in a gray and silver tea- gown, a haughty expression and her most imperturbable society manner. The family considerately refrained from asking tactless questions, indeed, they knew no answers would be forthcoming if they did, and it soon became a tacitly understood fact that Mr. Chaloner’s entertainment should de- volve upon Helen, since he and Bertie were not ‘‘sympatica.”’ One day, however, Mr. Chaloners hap- pened to drop in, and found Miss Bertie in solitary possession, seated before an open fire with a pretty edition of ‘‘ The Odd Namber”’ in her lap, unopened, and her beautiful eyes fixed absorbedly on a Chinese figure of the screen. ‘¢Oh, Mr. Chaloners, good afternoon, I am so sorry both mamma and Helen

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Serene ech 148 have gone to the Water Color Exhibition,”’ she said, coolly, disclaiming any share in the visit. ‘* Yes, I knew they were going, and heard your sister say so, that is the reason I am here,”’ replied he, calmly selecting a comfortable chair. Utterly put out of reckoning by this bare- faced confession, Miss Bellamy sits and wonders what on earth she shall say next. To make herself agreeable would be going over to the enemy, consequently out of the question; to sit in absolute silence was, to say the least of it, embarrassing. But Mr. Chaloners didn’t intend the pause to become oppressive, for, after surveying his companion with open ad- miration, he continued his surprising re- marks. ‘*Yes, I wanted to see you alone,” bending forward to see her half averted face ; ‘‘I wanted to ask you something, and thought perhaps you might know about it. Do you think, in the case of two people, if one has an antipathy for the cther from the beginning, it is ever possible to overcome it ?’”’ ‘* Really, I don't know anything about it, Mr. Chaloners,”’ replied Bertie, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at the familiarity of his tone. ‘* But can’t you imagine such a case, Miss Bertie ?”’ ‘*T don’t see the necessity of my try- ing,’’ answered she, rising nervously, and going to pull down a distant curtain. ‘¢ But if Ican make the necessity plain,” he cried, rising impetuously and confront- ing her. ‘‘ Take two people, as I said before, the first person you, the second person I—this with truly courageous dis- regard for grammatical rules—if the second person loved the first person, it — be rather hard ‘on him, wouldn’t it: ‘*T don’t know what you mean,”’ cried poor Bertie, making a desperate effort to escape, and finding herself cornered be- tween a tea-table and a piano, ‘‘ I—oh, MRS. BELLAMY’S DINNER. please don’t,’’ as he impulsively caught her two, soft, little hands. *‘Do you hate me, Bertie, positively hate me ?”’ he asked, keeping his retain- ing grasp, in spite of her struggles. ‘*Oh, I don’t know. Why did you stare at me so the night of that horrible dinner ?”’ she replied, with feminine irrel. ‘ evance. ‘¢ My dear,”’ growing bolder, and try- ing to draw her to him, ‘‘ I had seen your picture at Miss Russell’s, and thought it, even then, the loveliest face in the uni- verse, how could I help looking at the original; and what a sweet, little maid you were, any way. Now, don’t you think you have been rather unkind and unjust? I think something should be coming to me for atonement.” ‘«But you were so—so horrid at Mrs, Siddons,’”’ argued she, visibly wavering. ‘“«Oh, my darling, don’t let such an absurd thing stand between us any longer,’’ he cried, and seeing his advant- age, drew her down on a very artistic, unstable /é¢fe-ad-/éte of a past century. With his arms around her, injured dignity became a thing of the past for Miss Bel- lamy. ‘‘Bertie, be my wife? Make me supremely happy?’’ he whispered, pas- sionately, becoming very serious. ‘¢ But—Fred,”’ she quoted, wickedly, ‘¢don’t you hesitate about marrying a wo- man who can’t sew a seam, and to whom cooking is a sealed book ?” ‘¢ Not for an instant,’? he answered, staunchly, ‘“ besides I know the latter isn’t true of you, those lobster cutlets still linger in my mind.” ‘¢Oh, Fred,” she exclaimed, repulsing a mustached mouth brought dangerously close to her red lips, ‘‘ then you weren’t ill that night? I have always longed to ask you, for I left the poisonous part in, and you were the only one who finished it all. Well, yes, you may have just a tiny one to pay you for the danger you were in.”’ en, iz wth fy, tit fa

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aught ively tain- you Tible irrel- | IGHT express, No. 18, was pulling out of a western city for its usual long y, night run. - The stalwart S young engineer stood at his post, of hand, steady of nerve, but sick and sad at heart. It was St. Valen- tine’s eve. An engineer, perhaps, had no business to be thinking of that. In fact, he was trying to put it out of mind; and, as his engine settled down to its work and he felt its mighty throbbing and quiv- ering under him, and heard its clanging roar, he hoped the sound would overpower and stifle a voice whose remembered tones had been all day ringing in his ears, say- ing over and over the disheartening words: “Oh, John! how you weary me with your pleadings! If you can’t wait till I am ready to be married, we will give it all up. I won't be so harrassed, or tied down to your pleasure. I want freedom. One year of absolute freedom would seem like heaven !”’ It was just a year ago that these passion- ate, impulsive words had been spoken, and, in answer, John Kennith had replied with hot resentment: ‘‘All right, Louise! you shall have your freedom—a year of it untrammeled, and longer if you desire it. Heaven forbid that I should be a draw- back to your happiness. Good-bye!” What a long year it had been. They met s*metimes—at church, on thestreet. He often heard of her as being the life and belle of gay assemblies, to which he had no heart or time to go. She had admirers by thescore; suitors, possibly, some of them. She was exult- ing in her freedom, so it seemed; and month af’er month passed while John, his anger Over, waited in patient, dumb silence for some sign or token of relenting or recall; but none had yet been vouch- safed. 149 On One St. Walentine’s Boe. BY LILLIAN GREY. And now again it was St. Valentine’s eve. The year had dragged itself away. The young engineer’s strong hand was on the throttle, his alert gaze was alter- nately on the steam-gauge and the illu- mined track ahead, and he gave occa- sional directions to his fireman; but all the time he was busily and feverishly de- bating the question—should he, or should he not mail the letter which he had in his pocket? It had been written and re-written, thought over, studied over, aye, and prayed over; and finally sealed and di- rected; and yet he had paused in sudden indecision at the very door of the post office, and then turned away with the let- ter still in his possession and boarded his engine for the night run. And now he was half sorry for it, and was wondering if he had not better mail it at the next station. Which should he do, take coun- sel of his pride, or his love? He thought with a grim smile of the thousands upon thousands of missives, which all over the land were being committed to the mails with more or less of uncertainty as to their reception—a childish custom, surely —and yet giving a certain mystic, unde- finable charm and importance to the day, Yet his letter contained no allusions to the time, no compliments, no flattery, no meaningless froth of words. It was a manly, straightforward statement of his unabated love, his unswerving faith and allegiance, and an earnest plea for restored relations with the one woman who had the power to sway his heart. How would she receive it? he ques- tioned. Was she expecting it?—or pos- sibly, as the year was up, was she dreading a renewal of his ‘‘persecutions,’’ as she had once called his earnest pleadings that she would name an early day for their marriage? He did so crave a home of his own. It would be a very unpretentious one, to be sure, but it should be comfortable; and it could not help but be pleasant with Louise as its presiding genius; so fancied the fond lover.

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ROE NY ates They had talked it over many times, and made all minute plans, but to Louise the fulfillment of them was to be in the far distant future. She enjoyed her girl- hood too much to relinquish it yet; its freedom from daily cares, its charms and pleasures were as yet all-entrancing. And so time went on, and John endured with what grace he could his comfortless boarding-houses, and waited her pleasure ; and then, in one little fateful hour, came the break between them, and now it was a year old. He could not endure it much longer, John said to himself; the strain of uncer- tainty was wearing his heart sore, and it must be ended. He would ask the fire- man to slip off and drop the missive in the post box at the very next station. But no sooner was this resolve taken, than his mind misgave him. It wouli be wiser to see her, to demand an interview. Then he could judge better of her recep- tion of his renewed suit; he could read her very thoughts on her expressive face and in the flash of her hazel eyes, and so he would not be kept in suspense as to her answer to his eager wooing. And with this latter purpose in his mind, the depot was reached, the halt made, and then the train sped on for another thirty-mile run, and the opportunity was no sooner lost than it was regretted. It would be many hours at the best before he could see her, and the letter might have reached her hands in the early morning. She might be expecting it in a softened, responsive mood. She would look in vain for it, and would be sorely dis ippointed, perhaps. How foolish he had been. It was not like him to be so vacillating and faint- hearted. He would defer the matter no longer; and to prevent himself from again changing his purpose, he said to the fire- man: ‘* Jim, will you drop off and mail a let- ter for me at the next station? It ought to have been mailed before I sta ‘ted.’ **Certain, I will!’’ answered Jim. And the long train went on like a living thing through the night, speeding over level spaces, ascending grades, ‘crossing bridges and dizzy trussels, plunging into awesome Cavernous tunnels, and swinging around sudden curves, the mighty engine increasing or diminishing its speed in . 150 ON ONE ST. VALENTINE’S EVE. obedience to the slightest touch of its master. The passengers slept, or read, or chat- ted, or thought of the end of their journey, of nearing homes, of warm welcomes, of business gains, of everything, perhaps, bat danger. They sat or reclined at ease, with implicit faith and trust in the man standing firm and self-reliant at his post, driving and controlling the powerful steed; and if the track ahead be only clear and safe, there is no reason to fear delay or disaster. But when only a mile or two from the next station, on coming around a curve, the watchful engineer is startled to seea light approaching and being wildly waved. It can but mean danger; and on the in- stant the air-brakes are put down and the speed of the train so suddenly checked as to send a shudder through its entire length. The engine moves slower and slower, and yet with seemingly awful hurry it approach- es its fate. The engineer, straining his eyes, sees a depression in the track—a_land-slide, caused doubtless by the preceding heavy freight. The man with the warning lan- tern stands screaming beside the track as the tra‘n glides past him, and still slower the wheels revolve. The momentum is so slackened that the coaches will not be thrown from the track, that is almost cer- tain; but nothing can save the poor en- gine or its brave driver from certain disaster. The fireman jumps, shouting: ‘‘ Let her go, Kennith! Save yourselt!’’ But the engineer stands firm, one hand, rigid with despairing strength and resolve, on the lever, while the other grasps a letter drawn from his pocket in that last awful, hurrying moment. Like lightning his thoughts move now. If he is killed, some one will s2e the letter—will see that it is delivered. She will know that he was true and faithful to her and tp) his duty; but oh! how sweet and beautiful life is! how dreadful to leave it—to be torn away from it! to have its full un- drained cup dashed down! God, be piti- ful! A little later the frightened, horror- stricken trainmen and passengers lifted the young engineer out of the wreck of his locomotive—the only victim of the

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TO JEANNETTE. 151 disaster. They see the letter cramped and soiled in his hand. ‘«‘] was to mail it at the Junction for him;’’ says the unharmed fireman. ‘I will tuke charge of it now.” But the unconscious hand is not willing to relinquish it. ‘‘Leave it for now;’’ says some one. The passengers walk on to the adjacent station, danger signals are set, and a wrecking-train sent for, and a physician —although it seems impossible that any life can still linger in the poor bruised body of brave John Kennith. Strong men wept as they looked upon him. The next day, and the next, the newspapers tell his tragic story from sea to sea; and the end of the story is—death ! The letter is at last taken from the clinging hand of its writer, and still more crumpled and slightly torn and stained, is delivered by fireman Jim to the girl whose address is written thereon. It is St. Valentine’s day; a day when happy missives should meet with smiling receptions; but Louise reads and weeps, and thinks that she shall never smile again. She has her freedom—freedom to grieve and long for the true heart which gave its last thoughts to her—and God. Co Jeannette. A VALENTINE. BY EDGAR WARDLAW KENDALL. €) UPID, the pucksy god of love, SC Came to me with sad compla nt ; ro) Threw his little arrow down, And broke his bow, as sighing: « Ah, alas! this sad restraint, It doth all my patience move; This coldness, this forbidding frown ; Love, in the world, is dying! Ei. Sooth, I heard him, in surprise ; I will lead you, sad Sir Cupid, To a damsel sweet and fair, All your complaints defying— Sure, ’tis true, love hath no eyes, If ye find her not beyond compare, Then we'll dub thee, young Sir Stupid, And bid thee cease a sighing! III. So, to thee, should Sir Cupid come, I prythee, give him kindly greeting, And lead him to a merrier tune Than this regret and sighing. Prythee, to him be “at home,” And warm and welcome be the greeting; Make early winter, 42s sweet June, And set his sorrow flying.

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we Da Be calaatkep Ly Hemera pres wen =——— am St. George and the Dragon. C \ G7 Zou i H, but you - must not tell Zp any one, not even Dr. St. George!’’ Rose Scobie said, anx- y) iously, to her ( friend. ‘‘ Promise me, Laura, I beg of you, that you will keep what I have told you e”- tirely to yourself, or | shall regret that I have con- fided in you !”’ ‘¢Very well, dear, { promise,” Laura answered, smiling into the earnest, ex- cited face turned to her. ‘‘ However, I assure you it would have been perfectly safe in Victor’s keeping. But tell me is there zo hope of winning your grand- mother ?”’ Rose shook her pretty head sorrowfully. ‘‘You little know her when you can ask the question!” she said, desparingly. ‘« Why, it was only yesterday that she re- iterated her intention, if Dick and I did not marry each other, of cutting us both off with a pittance and leaving her fortune to a charitable institution, and she would, too, if she suspected that I was fond of— of any one else! Sometimes we are tempted to let her do so, only that we both have such a peculiar claim upon it.’ ‘*T am so sorry for you both,” said Laura, sympathetically, and I cannot but think Mrs. Scobie very wrong in making such stipulations, Anyway, seeing Cousin Robert every day, as I do, I dare say I will often be able to be of use to you. At present you want me to tell him that he will find you at Cedar lane, by the cluster of trees, not far from your own gate, to- morrow evening, early—is that right ?’’ ‘¢ Yes; grandma never wants me at that hour. Later, after dinner, she likes me to read to her. You won’t forget?” «Surely not! Could I be such a faith- less messenger?’’ she said, kissing her friend good-by. (9 ig ‘ = ANS ) BY HEATHER BELL. 152 As she walked slowly homeward, Laura was disturbed and unhappy. More and more she became impressed with the idea that she had made a mistake in agreeing to keep a secret from which her lover was excluded, feeling sure that any appear- ance of a stolen interview or a secret un- derstanding with her Cousin Robert would be misinterpreted, and lead to trouble, She had been engaged to Victor St. George fur some months, and had soon become aware of the chief fault in his character—the only one,-she was quite certain. The young man was madly, un- reasonably jealous of the beautiful girl whom he passionately loved, and already, on morethan one occasion, only the great- est tact, and the most sweet-tempered forbearance on her part had prevented an outbreak. ‘* However, it can’t be helped now,’’ she murmured, as she drew near home, ‘‘and Victor must learn to trust me. Ah, how can he misconstrue the most innocent actions! How can he doubt me when I have shown him so un- reservedly that I love him entirely and alone!”’ Next morning, as she came out of the breakfast room, she met her cousin Robert just leaving the house. ‘©Oh, Robert, wait a moment!”’ she cried, ‘‘ I couldn’t speak to you at break- fast, and I wasn’t able to get a glimpse of you yesterday, and I wanted so much to tell you something.” ‘No; I’m awfully busy, and expect to be at the hospital until late in the after- noon to-day.”’ ‘‘Well, you must find time for this,” she laughed, and said a few words to him in low tones. ‘¢ Thanks, dear girl! You are a per- fect treasure! ’’ said Robert, gratefully. Laura laughed again and turned on the stairs to say, ‘‘ Don’t makea mistake—in the Cedar lane near the grove.”’ Robert smiled and nodded, and the next moment the hall door closed behind him. Unfortunately he had not been so care- ful to shut the surgery door when he came poe BO Baa ws =s- (TM 7 a a a ae. a oe ae re |

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aura and idea eing r was Dear- un- ould ible, St. soon his uite un- girl dy, eat- Ted 1 an ped lear rust the out, and both his remark and Laura’s that were not whispered were distinctly heard, without his making any effort, by Victor St. George, who was making up a prescription in the dispensary. He went on steadily with his work. The young physician’s nerves were too well trained to fail him even under the shock which the words had given him—but his face became deadly white, and his eyes were full of an ominous light. «« What can it mean?’’ he muttered. ‘«Is it possible that she can be so false, so utterly base! and yet—but I will see and judge for myself!’’ and so, com- pletely controlled by the dragon of jeal- ousy aroused within him, Victor St. George determined to become a spy, and to act with an ignoble and underhand duplicity that would have filled him with self-loathing under any other circum- stances. ‘‘Laura, my dear, if you should be going to see your friend Rose to-day, tell Mrs. Scobie, with my compliments, that I warn her against driving out this damp weather. At her age an attack of pneu- monia isa possibility not to be trifled with.’”’ And old Dr. Sinclair hurried away to his patient. ‘Very well, papa, I will walk over and give your message,’ Laura called after him, as he went out. And so in the simplest manner Laura Sinclair took the step that led to the bit- terest trial of her life. ‘¢Oh, Laura what zs to be done?”’ Rose cried, greeting her with a face of consternation. ‘‘ Grandma is not well, and insists upon my close attendance, and Janet, her maid, seems more alert than ever and watches me like a jailor. I shall not be able to see Robert—poor fellow, he will be so disappointed, and besides he will not understand! Laura, could you see him and explain ?”’ ‘‘Why, yes, dear, quite easily. Don’t be uneasy on that account.’’ And after chatting fora short time, and giving her father’s message, Laura started for home. It was growing dusk and had begun to rain slightly, so that she drew the hood of her plaid circular over her head and quickened her pace, as she neared the grove of trees. Victor St. George rec- ognized her at once, for he was always ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. 153 observant and remembered the garment at sight, but Robert Delmar, who had never noticed it, and thinking of another, came forward with outstretched hands, ‘*Ah, darling, you have come, and we are free at last from prying eyes !’? And he threw one arm around the cloaked figure. Laura gave a merry, ringing laugh and threw back her hood, showing her face, amused and lovely to both young men at the same time. Victor St. George, almost smothered with suppressed rage, agony, and in spite of his suspicious, intense amazement, stayed to here no more, but turned and walked rapidly away. Of course, if he had waited to hear Laura’s explanation of her being there, much sorrow would have been prevented, but the dark cloud which encompassed the lovers let in no ray of light. She did not see Dr. St. George for sev- eral days, and when she questioned her father, was but half satisfied when he told her that an important and serious case needed all the young physician’s attention. Having at last concluded to ask an in- terview, however short, she entered the parlor in search of her writing desk, and found Victor there waiting for her. She was at once struck with his altered appear- ance, for he showed plainly his distress and pain of mind. His nights had been sleepless, and his days full of trying work. It was no wonder that he was pale, hag- gard, and hollow-eyed ; and Laura, startled and horrified, came quickly to him. ‘¢ Why, Victor, you look positively ill! What is it, dearest, has anything hap- pened?’’ And she gazed at him with anxious, questioning eyes. St. George did not answer, but looked steadily at her. ‘« Laura, I cannot be silent any longer, even if anything were to be gained by silence,’’ he said, atlast. ‘‘I have come to tell you that I am aware of your decep- tion, your treachery to me, and that noth- ing you can say can this time remove my mistrust, which, alas, is only too well founded !’’ He spoke in low, muffled tones, which’ told how great a restraint he put upon himself. Laura regarded him with more perplexity than anger, so sudden and un- expected had been the attack.

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eed oO ee IETS Bh a MEE ST RS ttn o: Pe PRET. EEL TILE INS 154 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. ‘What do you mean? I cannot at all understand why you should speak so, or what leads you to accuse me of having deceived you in any way,’’ she said, speaking calmly and wonderingly. ‘¢] mean that I happened to see your meeting with Robert Delmar in Cedar lane, heard him greet you with words of endearment, and saw—’’ Laura drew back as if struck, every vestige of color vanished from her face. She raised her hand imperatively to stop his words. «Dr. St. George, do not, I pray, speak that which you will be sure to regret ; and which I, trained as I have been, will find it hard to forgive! The meeting which you happened to see—” ‘¢T have no wish to make you think it was accidental,”’ he interrupted, ‘‘ I over- heard you make the appointment—that was an accident—but I was deliberately present when you kept it. I considered that only the evidence of my own eyes would be fair to you, and felt myself justified in obtaining it.” ‘Your eyes strangely deceived you ! ” Laura replied, scornfully. ‘‘ However, very few words can explain the matter even to your satisfaction.” ‘¢Then explain it, please!’ said Dr. St. George, sternly. Laura hesitated a moment. She al- ways admired her lover most when he showed the masterful side of his character, and her sense of justice told her that ap- pearances were against her. She had almost concluded that she might fairly break her promise of secrecy to Rose, when Victor’s hasty, passionate temper caused her own slow, but strong, suddenly to take fire. .He gave a short, ironical laugh as she paused. ** Do not tax your inventive powers !’’ he said, bitterly. ‘-It would, indeed, be difficult to explain away a fact, so evident as your heartlessness and falseness to me!”’ Laura stood before him, erect, and with eyes flashing anger. ‘¢Then I will offer no explanation!’’ she said. You do not deserve it, for your words are both cruel and insulting. Our engagement, of course, is at an end ; and wisely so, perhaps, for your unrea- soning jealousy is intolerable, and could only lead to misery.”’ And turning from him, she left the room without another word. The breach grew wider between the lovers as time went on. Victor continued to harbor hard thoughts of Laura, who was too proud and resentful to defend herself. So matters stood when an event occurred which opened St. George’s eyes and made him aware of his blunder. Old Mrs. Scobie died suddenly of a cold brought on by her own foolhardiness in braving the inclement weather, and having made no will, her only relations, Rose and her Cousin Dick inherited her wealth. There being no further obstacle to Rose’s marriage with Robert Delmar, their engagement was soon made public, and like a flash Victor saw how Liura had been involved in her friend’s secret. With his heart filled with self reproach and mortification, he rushed with impets uous haste to confess his fault. ‘‘Ah, Laura, you are good and patient, like the angels! Forgive me once more, sorely as I have tried that patience ! ” The girl listened gently, received his apologies sweetly, but refused firmly and absolutely to renew their engagement. ‘¢T do forgive you, Victor; but I can- not marry you. Ihave thought it all over, and althougia I might overlook such an in- justice now, I couldn’t do so if we were— if I was your wife. Listen, Victor. If you ever expressed the least doubt or sus- picion of my conduct after we were mar- ried, I could never forgive it. I might die, or go mad, but I could never pardon it—never—never ! “‘Ah, but it would be zfosstble to do so! Dear love, I can never fail again! Can you never trust me more ?’’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘*No,’’ she said. ‘*No. The risk is too great, both for you and me. It is much better as it is. We shall be friends always, but only friends.” And Victor, though he was broken-hearted and well- nigh desperate, could not but own that she was not acting without reason. It was a few weeks from this time that Dr. Sinclair was called out at night to attend an urgent case, and returning late, his little buggy was run into by a carriage, which, turning a corner sharply, had not time to save the doctor’s vehicle. Dr. Sinclair was thrown out, an1 striking his

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t the n the inued who efend event eyes of a |iness and ions, | her tacle mar, blic, had oach ipets ient, ore, ) his can- ver, ) in- If sus- nar- ight don in! : is : is ids or, e]l- hat nat te, xe,

head on a stone lay insensible on the country road. He was recognized by the driver and taken home, where Laura was aroused to learn the dread news. She sent at once for Dr. St. George, who was her father’s favorite student, and after a careful examination he declared that the injury was such that only the operation of trepanning could save his old friend’s life. They sent for a celebrated city doctor, well-known and esteemed by her father, and when he arrived, Laura sat upon the top step of the stair-case as still asa statue, while the leaden-footed minutes passed. At last the bed room door opened, and Dr. Carlyle came out. ‘Laura, my child, it is all right!’’ he said. “I have seldom seen an oper- ation performed more perfectly, or with greater skill! Such a splendid piece of work makes one regret more than ever the loss of one’s youth! That young man certainly has a career before him! ”’ “But my father ? ” cried Laura, almost indignant at the old surgeon’s enthusiasm. ‘He will do well,” he said. ‘‘ I must catch the next train, but in such hagds I have no fear for my dear old friend’s safety. In a few days Victor came to Laura with glad tidings. ‘‘You may see your father when he wakes,’’ he said. ‘‘He asked for you, and was quite bright, and very much in-

HER FIRST NIGHT AT SEA. 165 terested in his own case.’’ And hesmiled at her with kindly eyes. Laura came quietly from the window. ‘¢ Victor, what can I say to let you know how I appreciate your goodness? I feel that we owe my dear father’s life to your watchful care and ability! How can I show my gratitude?’’ And her lips were tremulous, while her sweet violet eyes were wet with tears. The young man flushed, and his eyes sparkled. He took one quick step towards her, then checked himself and drew back. ‘¢ Why, Laura, you know Iam only too glad, too thankful and happy to have been able to help my kind old friend— more than happy to have served you,” he said gravely, and said no more. She took a long, tremblirg breath, then came a step nearer. ‘‘Victor, if you think—if you still wish '’—she faltered, but before she could find words, which certainly seemed to come with difficulty, her happy lover caught her in his arms and rained joyful kisses on her lovely, blushing face. ‘« My love, my sweet darling! you, indeed, trust me again ?”’ ‘« Tam daring enough toventure now! ”’ she said, with a saucy smile. ‘<It shall not be in vain! The dragon has had his death blow at last !”’ And it was so, for a happier wife than Laura St. George could not be found the world over. Will Her First Night at Sea. MY VALENTINE. BY EDWARD KIRKLAND COWING. CARCE as yet your native air S From the steamer’s shrouds has fled, Breathe again its charm so rare, Ere to Neptune’s breeze ’tis wed. Now you're fairly under way, Now you view on every hand Moon tinged waves that leap and sway ; Naught but heavens, ocean-spanned. If on deck your chair you place, Think the moon beholds us both; Picture there the sombre face Which at parting seemed most loath. Dwell upon our own dear land, Thrill with pleasures yet to be; Don’t forget the lonely hand, Which has penned these lines to thee.

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— prin, et a burdens of the sight- seer’s treas- ure were constantly brought to us as the days length- ened. The brilliant spring sun put torpor in our blood, and notwithstanding the presentiment we had for future regret for time wasted, we lay all our waking hours staring at the sky. About this simple act which might have seemed impertinent as well as lazy at home, there appertained in Seville a cer- tain sort of power. For, though we were always vanquished in the end by the im- placable intensity of the light, yet so long as we could look the sky seemed to re- treat and its azure grew deeper like the hue on the cheek of aself-conscious beau- ty. This unequal and humiliating con- test was carried on of mornings in the patio of the Carasa, over which had not yet been drawn the velarium or awning roof, and we varied it by withdrawing to our oratory-rooms, ostensibly for a siesta, but really to stare out of the narrow win- dow at the narrow street, which baked and burned and seemed to try to escape from the fiery sun-shower by crowding as closely as possible up to the stuccoed houses. The donkeys followed this ex- ample and edged leisurely along the walls, leaving only a narrow path in the full glare for the unhappy pedestrian. And as he mopped his dripping brow we drained an unglazed jug of cold water and laughed, so hard our hearts had been baked in this oven of Seville. We were thrown upon our own re- sources in these eventless days. The ca- dets remiined in doors, pretending to prepare for the algebra examination, and the priests slept all night and most of the day in order to lay up a store of strength for the arduous labors of Holy Week, which was near at hand. Clearly there Adios, Sevilla! BY WILLIS STEELL. was nothing left for us but to dream away the hours in the Carasa’s portico, but we foresaw the day of repentance and some. times forcibly broke the drowsy spell. It was in one of those spasms of reform that at noon of the hottest day we had experienced, we stumbled upon a square to the south of the Nueva, a tiny square white as lime could make it, bounded by two-story white houses and looking as if it had been scooped out of a sugar-loaf to serve as a frame for the lapis-lazute sky. There were no trees in the square, and there were no green blinds to the houses, and yet its color was so splendid as to remind us of Sevillis African de. scent. It was a market day, and foreign fruits and vegetables, many varieties from Africa, as wellas commodities of all sorts, were exposed for sale there, which were of colors gorgeous enough to complete the intoxication of an already drunken im- pressionist. Olives—large, lovely olives that had by good luck escaped the oil- mill, and deep-green melons formed an enchanting bed, on which had been thrown in confusion and carelessly, but I think with half an eye to effect, clusters of clear, yellow grapes, like amber beads; tangerine oranges with coats of red orange- gold reminding one of the flavor within, as the shape and insignia of a bottle of liquor causes one to sip in imagination it rich heavy sweetness, and pomegranates that had burst their rinds in falling and spilled some rubies for the first marauding hand. Near the centre of the square the vegetables were heaped, and mats piled high with chick-peas, like a pale-gold ram art, by accident or design, separated the vulgar from the aristocratic classes of this gorgeous kingdom. Yet there were interlopers, as there always are, even in the creme de la creme, and there were the fiery-red peppers which swung down in garlands and touched with the least movement the foot of Monsieur Melon or grazed the face of Mademoiselle Pome- granate. Moreover the grapes—for there are always aristocrats who lean toward the people, scaled the rampirt and hung io 156 b Qa eo _. ent . 8 owt 2 ef gee ee.

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a away ut we some. sll. ‘eform € had ;quare square ed by r as if r-loaf lazute juare, to the endid n de. reign from sorts, were e the 1 im- lives - oil- 1 an been but I sters ads ; inge- thin, le of ition 1ates and ding : the iled zold ated sses here ven vere own east slon me- lere the rin ADIOS, SEVILLA! 157 heavy clusters of a bluish color, or in bunches which were of an amethystine hue, almost within reach of the flaunting cabbage and the ill-mannered onion! At the first glance it all looked like the contents of an enormous basket emptied in the square. Buta second look showed that the pile was divided into many heaps, beside which proudly sat the fruit-sellers, some of them as gayly arranged as their vegetables, protected from the sun only by their paper fans held against the cheek. They had been sitting there the whole morning and not a woman had been sun struck yet. As the sunclimbed they ad- vanced the little fan against him, and continued chattering with that Andalusian volubility which is graceful even in the market-women. The same gayety and animation was visible everywhere through the city at the approach of summer. . A great many of the ordinary occupations of housekeepers were carried on in the balconies, in full view of the passers-by, and our eyes found nothing to hinder them from looking through the large grated windows and glass doors into the interior of the houses. As we paused to look into a patio with marble columns, which was crowded with flowers, the skins of tomatoes which some one in a balcony was peeling for dinner would fall at our feet or, by bad luck, on our heads, but as this was equally apt to befall the oldest and gravest citizens we concluded it was not meant as a gentle hint for the strangers to move onward. Everybody looked in the windows at girls sewing or playing the piano or the guitar ; in truth, the notes of the sweet national instrument sounded everywhere, but no- body seemed to regard this as intrusive, on the contrary all continued their work without self-consciousness and without annoyance. Pinks in the balconies, and myrtle, pomegranates and oleanders grouped about a marble basin in the centre of the patios, where a slender thread of water rose and fell, worked a wonderful transfor- mation in these old streets of Seville. It was difficult to believe they were the same streets which had looked so tortuous and dark in the winter. But the ancient buildings had a character too marked for us to ever mistake, having once seen them. Our confusion arose from perceiving what a gay interior the rough walls, with coarse carvings near the roof and over doors and windows, frequently enclosed. The night time, however, was the real festival of the patios. Then walking about the streets was like walking through a succes- sion of drawing-rooms. At this season the family bring down sofas and chairs, upholstered in horse-hair, and set them, along with the piano, in the arcades, while cane-seated chairs and the beloved rockers are scattered about among the palms and oleanders. Bird cages hang from the shrubbery, and quinques on the piano; candles everywhere, and the great lantern suspended near the centre light up a true Andalusian scene. With the linen awn- ing striped with gay colors, called in Spanish a velarium, the floor tiled with bright contrasting marbles, the number- less flowers and the thick leaves of hor- tensia and orange, and with—ah, with the beautiful Sevillian ladies in summer gowns of high colors, flitting about like human flowers, these patios are enchanting as Irem! Guitars suspended on the walls cast brilliant reflections out of the shadow as the light glinted on their varnished surfaces, and beside them hung the brown disks of tambourines. Everything be- tokened the love of life; everything in- vited to the song or to the dance, and we were often uninvited, but none the less welcomed spectators of the gay measure and listeners to the sentimental carol. I say ‘‘ we,” but really, these guests at the gate included all chance pedestrians, who were at liberty to stop to listen to the music without giving offence, and when it ceased go on their way. As April grew older the fierce Andalu- sian sun waxed more terrible. With every turn he seemed to crack a whip- lash of fire that drove us with scorched faces into the refuge of the shadowy Carasa. The Cura laughed at me when I complained of the heat, and bade me remain until the true summer came if I wished to comprehend the might of the sky monarch. ‘‘ Wait,’’ he said, ‘‘ until it is so hot they are obliged to cover the Sierpes with an awning.” At night it grew decidedly cooler, and when all were not making a tour of the patios we used to go down to the river

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158 bank where crowds flocked to breathe the refreshing breeze. This was a most romantic promenade of moonlight nights, when the provident alcalde puts out the lamps. On the stone benches along the wall that separates the walk from the quay many women were sitting, that scene in the dim light under the trees and in a moment of silence, resembled pretty re- clining statues by a modern sculptor. There mere not many moments of silence, as any one acquainted with women may very well know—and the pretty uncovered or fleecy veiled heads were commonly nodding in rapid movements like a hum- ming-bird’s, and black eyes flashed and white teeth glistened in the checkered moonlight, while silvery voices and re- pressed outbursts of laughter echoed along the line. One night we walked here with Don Ceferino, the cadet, and we knew not whether to be ashamed or diverted by his behavior. At his caprice he would stop before any woman and give her an expres- sive glance, when she did not look up he would attract her attention by rapping his cane on the pavement. No one seemed to feel insulted, but all either smiled pleasantly in return for the implied flattery or laughed outright, while a few more forward answered his grotesque gesture of admiration with absurd grim- aces, which mightly pleased their neigh- bors and sent our military friend off into a roar of laughter. So frank and mis- chievous seemed to be both parties to this childish game, that it would require a stern pessimist to discover any harm in it. But in my opinion there are no pessimists in Seville, especially in spring ; the air is fatal to them. Early in the evening we followed every- body to the promenade of Las Delicias. Those gardens which we had always loved were a thousand times more attractive now in their spring garb that had come no man knew when. Roses and carnations were blooming everywhere, in the plants and in the cheeks of the Sevillians, who had washed off the protective coats of cristilla they had worn in the winter: Many ladies whom we had often seen driving in their carriages in the afternoon now came on foot with theirchildren. The younger beauties also became pedestrians, coming ADIOS, SEVILLA! to the Paseo in parties of two or more under the escort of an old aunt or mother, Behind these parties hovered the youths waiting for a sign of encouragement to come forward and join the group. Other ladies who had arrived at the age of dis. interested gossip take their seats in chairs arranged in circles, and hold their terlu- lias under the trees. For a time the scene is a very animated and changing one, There is much walk- ing about and shifting of places, but at length the tertulias are filled ; Casilda has summoned the right young man ; her old parent has secured a seat to her taste, and the multitude have settled themselves for tvo or three hours’ placid enjoyment. Nobody moves anything but his tongue for that space of time, except the boys who carry about lighted matches for the smokers’ accommodation; or the old women running up and down, praising their fruits and dulces; or the waiters of a neighboring ca’é bringing ices and she: bets to their patrons. It is entertain- ing to follow these waitt rs on their rounds and hear the orders they take for different drinks, all harmless as water, but none of them water--poh! The Spaniard is sober, but he has a mortal aversion to drinking water clear—he always puts something in it, the favorite thing being sugar-curls, which each individual seems to call by a different name—azucarillos, espenjados, doledos, are some of them— but there are many other designations, and all of them mean nearly the same thing. But what have we to do with the com- monplaceness of drink? The Spanish moon is up and throwing her spell on the people. In every group a guitar softly tinkles; in the mysterious walks promen- aders show their gliding shadows ; tender couples, in tune to the music, are cooing on chairs and benches, and the scene has all the luxuriance of romance which poets have taught us to look for in Spain, and which we would weep not to see. *x * * * * * So we staid on—lingering irresolute, with trunks half-packed, meaning to go each day, to escape the heat and the crowd, and charmed into remaining yet another day, by the moon as it came to

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’ more 10ther, youths ent to Other f dis- chairs terlu- mated walk- Dut at la has or old », and es for ment. mgue boys r the old ising rs of and ‘tain- unds erent ne of i i n to puts eing ems llos, m— ons, ame om- nish the rftly 1en- ider ring has pets and ite, the yet to rise. The days were full of regret for wasted time; the nights were full of moonlight. Meantime, portents of summer thick- ened. ‘Tourists were upon us—tourists with bulky note books, a glance askance at which reminded us that we could not add a foot to the stature of La Giralda nor a color to the Alcazar without being found out. A party of German travelers were at the Madrid, and at the Marianas— so our old friend, the cadet, stopped onthe street to tell us—two young Englishmen, in Knickerbockers, had engaged board. WINTER.—A VALENTINE. 159 Lastly, a sacristan’s assistant, a paltry fellow who had seen us scores of times hand-in- glove with the archbishop, came forward one day when we chanced to stray into the cathedral and inquired if the /nglesas cared to step into the sacristy to see the Pacheco? That decided us, and doubt disap- peared. The choice was ours no longer. Adios, Sevilla, we said, and added, with full hearts, hasta Ja otra vista/ But, ah! we said this, as people say what they mean, in our native tongue: ‘‘ Good-by, Seville, and may we see you soon again ! ”” Winter. BY T. H. FARNHAM,. ROBE of white enfolds the mount, And clothes the leafless vale; Ice sparkles o’er the silent font, And loudly blows the gale. Beneath the drear and sombre skies The summer joys lie dead ; And misty shapes, like wreaths, arise In ghostly wreaths o’erhead. The sparkling frost with diamonds bright, In the sun’s noonday glow, Decks the earth’s garb of spotless white, And gems the mountain’s brow. The pale moon from her starry throne, With melancholy gaze, On the still earth looks coldly down, While the clear, twinkling rays Ox each far orb, a jewel placed On the dusk brow of night, By quickly gathering glooms effaced, Withdrew their waning light. For now the sky’s with clouds o’ercast, The air is thick with snow; The storm has risen far and fast, The blasts their fiercest blow. Thus at life’s close, a winter’s day Of stormy conflict may assail ; But ever let us hope and pray That summer’s gentler breeze prevail. A Dalentine. BY LOUISE R. BAKER. NLY a rough straw basket, g) Half hidded down in the snow, The white flakes fluttering ever And the whiter street below, Left on somebody’s doorstep In the rush and whirl of the snow. VoL. CXXII—No, 12. Only a soft, round baby, With never the mite of a home, Twirling its fists in the basket And crowing for some one to come; Not dreaming that under the heavens It has never the mite of a home. | | |

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: (4 HARLES DICKENS wrote ‘‘A rare old plant is the Ivy Green,”’ and the song as well as the plant has found a home in many a heart, both on this, as on the other side of the Atlantic. It is a native of Great Britain, and may be found in its natural soil and atmosphere still climbing when beyond the height of forty and even fifty feet. It seems a great beautifier when clinging to the stony wall of modern church, or old cathedral, and in our homes it may beautify also, if we put it where it is not too hot, and are careful to keep the leaves well dampened. This creeper suffers far more from heat than cold; so in arranging house plants, remember to train your ivy in the cold- est quarter, this may prove a great con- venience to you as well, for so often we must consider heat, and not cold for our window gardening. The ivy under proper management lives to a good old age. De Candolle mentions one that was four hundred and thirty-three years old, and measured six feet in circumference at the base, while it covered seventy square yards with foli- age. The language of the ivy is lasting friendship, therefore be careful to whom you give its glossy leaves. The old Greeks . used it todecorate their heroes; withthem, to wear a crown of ivy, was to wear the symbol of honor. The German ivy is a more rapid grower, and is also more pliable, and, therefore, generally gives greater satisfaction as a house plant than does its more famed English relative. A short slip of either creeper will grow all winter in a vase kept two-thirds filled with water. Remember always to pinch off the dying and dead leaves; your plants will thrive so much better when they are not burdened with decay. Perhaps the best of all parlor climbers Calks About flowers. WINDOW GARDENING. BY EMMA J. GRAY. 160 is what is known as Passiflora Fordii, Ford’s Passion Flower. The flower was also named Flos Passionis by the early missionaries, who imagined that in the blossoms were the emblems of the cruci- fixion, the crown of thorns, etc. The flowers are short lived, but large and beautiful; the petals are blue on the out- side, while within they are purple and white, though occasionally the flower is crimson, orshades of red and white. The particular variety above mentioned is the most conspicuously beautiful of any, sur- passing all others. The Clematis Sieboldii bears large blos- soms, similar to the Passion flower, being of azure blue color. This also is pre- eminently a parlor plant, and flowers con- stantly indoors. It cannot live on lawns, excepting in the most tropical climate, as it requires great heat. It is a graceful climber for a window, or it may be stood on a mantle, organ, or piano, and trained around a picture, indeed, it is a perfect thing of beauty anywhere. Smilax is also susceptible for window gardening, if you are only careful to buy strong healthy plants, just about to start in leaf; if already leafed out, they need the skilful knowledge of the florist to have them give satisfaction. Smilax needs a fertile, sandy soil, and a great quantity of water; also, at times, liquid manure. The leaves require daily syringing. When smilax is raised from seeds, it will take two years to form adesirable plant. This vine needs shade rather than a sunny ex- osure. The Physianthus, nature’s flower, is also much cultivated as a house ornament. It bears an abundance of white flowers, which are about an inch in diameter, and emit a delicate and delightful perfume. The Physianthus is a rapid grower, in a very short time winding itself completely around a window frame, and will readily assume any shape which may be desired. They require very rich soil and frequent syringing. eo —~ rn orf oo @® mon

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ordii, r was early n the cTuci- The and > out: ' and yer is The is the , sur- blos- eing pre- con- wns, e€, as ceful tood ined rfect dow buy start need ; to eeds tity ure. hen take This , is ent. ers, and me. ina tely lily ed. ent The Creeping Fig bearssmall, firm leaves, and thrives best in conservatories or par- lors. It is a delicate creeper, and there- fore pleasing among other plants. It needs moisture and shade. Nearly all the creepers and trailers are easily propagated from slips ; but. to in- sure success to an amateur, it 1s wisest to secure well started plants from the gardener. And remember, it is essential to their thrifty, satisfactory growth, that they have an abundance of water, as also an occasional watering of liquid manure. Creepers of all kinds are apt to receive destruction from caterpillers and red spi- ders, therefore the necessity for daily syringing. The Chinese Lily, or the Sacred Lily of China, is now the fashion, and that point settles the necessity for its present culti- vation. It is really a Narcissus. The flower appears more commonly on the end of the stalk ; but there is a variety which is small and white, with a yellow center, which appears at intervals along the stalk. Those oftenest seen are bright yellow in color, with a prominent center, and the foliage of a dark green, and rather short and scanty. They make a perfect mass of blossoms in a sunny window, and are very easily cultivated. Be sure to buy large bulbs, small ones are very disappointing. Place these ina large, deep glass dish, which must be kept filled with water. After the bulbs start, it takes from twenty to fifty or sixty days to secure bloom; but when it comes, what rapture ! you will feel amply repaid, and justly proud of your water-growing, and I may add, gravel-growing plants. It adds to their beauty to put gravel and small stones around and between the bulbs, and keeps them in place as well. You will find the most satisfying roses for your windows to be those known as the Tea or China varieties. Their greatest enemy is the heat from dry rooms, which causes them to be infested. with insects ; but again, if they are kept too wet, they are sure to die. To remedy these evils, be careful about potting, after putting small bits of charcoal in the bottom of the pot, fill around the roots with rich soil; then put your rose bush pot in an- other, two sizes larger, and fill in the Space between with moss; be sure to TALKS ABOUT FLOWERS. 161 keep the intermediate padding damp, this will probably keep them from dis- aster. All old wood must positively be cut off, for if house roses are not kept well pruned they will not flower, also be careful of sudden colds. If your plants freeze, take them to a room a little above freezing point and shower them freely with cold water. Keep them in this room for two or three days; the frost must be gotten out gradually, and without the application of heat. Sometimes you can save the roots of the plant when you can- not save the top part, for you must be sure to remove all that seems wilted, as this is frosted and will decay. The best way is to use a preventive, and so not have to try a cure. Be sure that your windows are air-tight, an extra sash isan excellent thing to aid suc- cess in house plants. Be also on the look- out regarding drafts through the cracks in the base-boards in your room. If you should happen to find any such, paste paper or cloth over them, and so shut out this unwelcome air. These drafts near the floor are very dangerous, and will seriously injure, if not positively kill, your tender plants or the still more tender flowers. The Calla Lily generally gives satisfac- tion as a winter bloomer, being easily cul- tivated, if put in good soil and kept plentifully supplied with water. The Hyacinth also rarely disappoints, and perhaps looks prettier for the window garden, when growing in glasses. Rain water will be found to be most productive to their growth. This can be kept pure by a weekly changing; also by inserting a small piece of charcoal in each glass. When the hyacinth bulb is’ first put in the glass, it should be kept in the dark for about a month, to become strongly rooted, before being gradually brought to the strong light. There are as many as two thousand varieties of this plant, and also very many colors of its bell-like blossoms. The Hollanders make a specialty of this bulb, and many visitors to the Nether- lands tell of the mass of color when, as is sometimes the case, a twenty-acre lot is full of hyacinths inbloom. This favorite of both house and garden received its name from Hyacinthus, a boy much loved by Apollo, with whom he was playing quoits,

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armas Fee gyn 162 A VERY NATURAL DESIRE.—KEEPING LENT. when Zephyrus, who also loved the boy, became jealous and enraged, and “ blew the quoit which Apollo had cast at the head of Hyacinthus, thereby causing his death;’’ thereupon Apollo changed his blood into the hyacinth. The Oxalis is a showy window plant. The variety known as the Oxalis Obata is bright yellow in color, with flowers the size of a ten-cent piece. The bloom ex- tends freely over two months. The Ox- alis Boroci is probably the best known of the genus. The flowers being rose color, and the foliage very luxuriant. The " flowers of this family always close at night, but re-open with the light and heat of sunshine. The root is bulbous, and when the leaves die down, they should be kept dry, until an interval of several months, when they may be potted again. They require rich soil. The Geranium, in all of its varieties, excels as a house plant. It is generally free from insects, with the exception of the Rose Geranium, which is rapidly and seriously injured by the green fly. The Apple, Nutmeg, and Pine Apple varieties are cultivated for their fragrant leaves, and are frequently used for hanging baskets. If geraniums have not been allowed to blossom during the summer, they should be full of bloom by December, They require a rich soil, and plenty of water during blossom time. Try also for your windows Carnation Pinks. Their variety is said to be over four hundred, surely some of this number will delight your eye with the beauty of its flowers, besides they yield an exquisite odor. And the Primrose is another winter gem. They bloom abundantly, requiring no care. The gardener will pot youa plant that cannot fail to give recompense, if you only keep the soil damp. They are among the first flowers to blossom in the open ground, hence the name, from the Latin, primus, first. A Dery Natural Desire. BY J. D. MULLER. WANT to die—I want to live in stone if As sculpture, or on canvas framed as paint ; How else or otherwise can it be known I am a perfect paragon and saint, Read all the epitaphs, the rare inscriptions, The verses chiselled in the block—peruse The radiant, post-funeral descriptions, And the obituaries in the news; Read all of these straightway, and then decide How lucky you’d have been if you had died. The living world is envious—there is Brown, Who says my verses aren’t worth a rush; And yet a mortem summary written down In Brown’s familiar, elegiac gush, Would load me with encomiums, at his price— The rate so much per column; dear, oh, dear! It’s only when a poet’s laid on ice, Or when a greatand good man goes from here, And bears to all things living no relation, He rises in posthumus estimation. Keeping Lent. BY PRUDENCE, With sorrow she thinks how much she spent S. wonders how she had best “ keep Lent.” On follies of dress and such like things The Christian in Lent behind him flings! “ For Easter one must an off’ring bring, That deniéd themselves some pleasing thing ; Ma’s birth-day I meant to buy her a hat, ’Tis folly, I’ll deny myself ¢hat / How jolly! Then with the cash saved At Easter, /’// have the gown I’ve craved!”

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ly and The rieties leaves, inging 0 nmer, mber, ity of lation > Over umber ity of uisite vinter liring you a ense, They m in from e— lear! here, HE CHILDREN'S * CORNER + fAliss Priscilla’s Walentine. BY Cc. D. ior RIGHTLY the . “4 sun came pour- ing in the little shop window, with a great golden beam of gladness, and made the valen- tines shine anew, illuminating fiery hearts and golden arrows, until they glowed with their fervent messages, and put to shame the worsted caps, and slender little store of needles, pins and thread Miss Priscilla Dowse had for sale. In one corner of the window, ‘‘ Mr. Winks,’’ Miss Priscilla’s canary, nearly split his little throat with joyous song, and within the shop, bending eager heads over the counter, Dolly and Kitty, with their brother Jim and Cousin Tom Stokes, were feasting their eyes on the beauty of the fervid hearts and tender mottoes. Their cousin, Miss Helen Weed, was talking to Miss Priscilla as she made a purchase, and Tom, the wag of the family, casting a sly glance toward Miss Pris- cilla, held up a comic valentine, saying softly to Dolly: ‘‘T say, Dolly, isn’t this like the old lady herself? What fun tosend it to her.” Dolly giggled. Sure enough, the pic- ture was not unlike Miss Priscilla. There was the long, lean figure; the sharp, rosy- tinted nose ; the little bobbing, side curls, and under this was written a verse refer- ring to the acidulated temper of the female thus caricatured. ‘¢ That islike her, too,’’ said Tom, ‘‘ for she was that hateful about my kite the other day. Iam going to take this one, and it will be such fu to send it right back to her.”’ ‘¢ Let’s each send one,” said Jim, look- ing over the comic, or supposedly comic pile of valentines, hurriedly. Dolly acquiesced, but Kitty was pouring over a lovely cupid embedded in roses that went far beyond her slender limit of pen- nies. When she was made to understand the mischievous design, she said with a little frown, ‘‘Oh! I could not bear to do it. It would make her fee/ so.”’ ‘¢ Bother ! she is always cross as sticks,”’ said Jim. ‘‘l know,’ said Kitty, reluctantly, ‘¢and she was real stingy the last time I bought taffy, but on Valentine’s day, you know—oh ! would you like it?”’ Now this was putting the question in a light in which neither Tom nor Jim cared to regard it, and at that moment Miss Priscilla Dowse came to put up their pur- chases. Cousin Helen’s face altered when she saw the choice of the boys, but she said nothing. Miss Priscilla made change, talking in a querulous tone. ‘Let me see, ten from thirty leaves twenty; there, little boy, is that right ? 163

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164 MISS PRISCILLA’S VALENTINE. My eyes are worser every day, and my throat’s that bad. Seems as if there wasn’t any pleasure for me in this life. Well, if you children don’t deat¢all. Why, if they ain’t gone bought a lot of them one centers, Miss Helen.’’ ‘«T see they have,’’ said Cousin Helen, gravely; ‘‘but, you know, they have to indulge in a few jokes, Miss Prissy.”’ ‘« Children are imps of satan, as I know ’em,’’ returned Miss Dowse, viciously snapping the string of the bundle. ‘‘ Only yesterday a hull lot of little limbs nearly broke in the show case, and I hain’t got a winder left in the house, for the boys throwin’ stones. And as fur Thomas Jefferson and Lionel they darsn’t put their noses outen the door, the boys is so tor- mentin’. There is Tommy Jeff now, and ain’t he a beauty?” Thomas Jefferson was a huge black cat. He uncoiled himself from a shelf, as Miss Priscilla spoke, and looked with dignified blinking glances at the group of children. ‘‘And as fur respect, that is all died out with children. Fur my part, I don’t see why the bears and wolves don’t eat all the children now days, fur it don’t take bald- © headed prophets to make ’em sassy. There, little gal, is your change.”’ ‘*Good-day, Miss Dowse. I hope you will have a pleasant St. Valentine,’’ said Cousin Helen, with her genial smile, and then marshaled her little company out to the street. ‘* Oh, Cousin Helen! what do you think Tom and Jim mean to do, cried Kitty, as soon as they were on the street. ‘*No, Miss Tattle tale’’-—began Jim, angrily, while even Tom, who particularly doted upon Cousin Kitty, looked discon- certed. ‘« They are going to send Miss Prissy a valentine. That was all I was going to say,”’ said Kitty, tears stealing into her pretty dark eyes. She had seen Tom’s look of disgust, and with tact beyond her years hastened to conceal what she knew he was ashamed his Cousin Helen should know. ‘‘That will be nice,’’ said Cousin Helen, not looking at the boys, but in a cheerful tone of approval, ‘‘ she will be so pleased.’’ ; ‘*Will she, though?”’ muttered Jim, sotto voce, nudging Tom. ‘Tom looked uncomfortable. ‘IT hope you have chosen something very pleasing, for poor Miss Dowse has a very hard time of it, and it will be lovely to remember her on St. Valentine’s day.” ‘« She—she wouldn’t want a very fine valentine, would she, Cousin Helen? asked Kitty, stealing a glance toward Tom, who failed to meet those sweet, dark eyes, ‘« Why, I think she ough# to have some- thing very cheerful and bright. Just think what it would be in her lonely, old life, to have real hearts, sent to love her, and arrows made of loving messages.’’ ‘¢Oh! Cousin Helen, nobody could love Miss Dowse,” cried Dolly, impul- sively, and Tom nodded in assent. ‘¢ My dear,” said Helen, reproachfully, ‘¢she had a mother who loved her once, and she had—some one else. Why, have you never heard her sad story ?” ‘‘ No—do tell us, Cousin Helen,”’ said Kitty, while Jim said ‘‘No, I do not want to hear it. Old cat! that is whatshe is, and as sure as Cousin Helen tells us, we can’t send her the valentines, and then there will be no fun!” The moment Jim concluded he saw his blunder. Kitty was looking shocked, Tom frowning like a thunder cloud, while Dolly, never able to withstand a joke even when it went against her, chuckled appreciatively. ‘¢Qh!” said Cousin Helen, ‘then you meant to send her a valentine?’”’ ‘¢ Yes,’’ assented Tom, with an evident attempt at indifference. ‘‘Very well, I will help you,” said Cousin Helen, quietly, ‘‘and meantime you had better hear her story.”’ ‘¢Please, tell us, Cousin Helen,” said Kitty, tucking her hand cosily under her cousin’s arm. ‘‘Well, Priscilla was one of three children, but when she was ten years old her mother, who loved her dearly, as dearly as your mother loves you, Dolly, died of a dreadful fever, and then her brother took it and died also. So Prissy was left with the one little baby sister. Her father married again, and Prissy and the little sister had a hard time of it. Prissy worshippec the little sister however, and all her struggles were for her. They were very poor, and Prissy worked hard every day in a shoe-shop, and would go home so weary, to sit all evening nursing a an at et ete Oo ott lhl lO Ulu COUP Oe ee i ee

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thin has : lovely day,” y fine elen? Tom, eyes, some- think l life, ,» and ould npul- fully, nce, have said not tshe 3 US, then y his Tom hile joke kled MISS PRISCILLA’S VALENTINE. 165 heavy baby, for her step-mother had children ; or sometimes Prissy would iron all the evening after working all day. ”’ ‘¢How dreadful,” murmured Dolly, who did not like work at all. «« By-and-by Prissy had a lover. He was a Sailor lad, and Prissy loved him with all her heart. They were to have been married on his return from sea, and Prissy had laid aside enough for her wedding gown. Prissy was quite pretty then. ’’ “Oh!” faintly gasped Jim. ‘¢ Yes, Jim, she was, indeed. Her eyes were blue, and her hair very black, and she had rosy cheeks and a blithe merry voice. Why, I helped her with her wed- ding gown, children, and gave her a string of pearls to wear around her neck. I had always known Prissy among the village folk and I liked her.” Cousin Helen’s voice fell a little sadly, asshe mused, looking straight ahead of her. ‘Go on, cousin,’’ whispered Kitty. ‘‘One evening Mr. Dowse came up to me and said, ‘Won’t you come down Miss, and see Prissy, because the Black Swan went down wi’ all on board last night, and Priss has took on awful ever since.’ I went down, and ah! children, could you have seen poor Prissy. I can- not tell you how she looked, or how her pitiful moans sounded for days in my ears. She had laid out the simple pretty gown I had helped to make, and the neck. lace, and beside it a few gifts he had given her, and she was wringing her hands and trying to call him back. I can mever for- get it—never.”’ Dolly bit her lip, while Tom grew very red and swallowed hard over a lump in his throat. They all saw the tears in Cousin Helen’s eyes, and her tone made the pathetic picture very vivid. ‘‘ After that Prissy was never young Her father died, and Prissy again. worked to help support .the children: Her step mother married again, and drove Priscilla from the house, with her little sister. This made Priscilla very bitter, and changed her sunny temper more than the awful cross of her lover’s death. Then the final blow came to poor Prissy, through the little sister. After slaving for her, loving her with her whole soul, the sister ran away with a very bad man, and came home two years ago to diea lingering death, in Prissy’s arms. You would not understand could I tell you all poor Nannie had suffered at this man’s hands, and to Prissy it was like dying herself to have Nannie taken. There! children, we are home, and I have told you more than Iintended to. But please remember, when you think of poor Pris- cilla Dowse, what I’ve told you. And you Dolly, stop and think a/ways, that no person is so ugly, so old, so querulous, but that God sees the hardness of their lives and loves them for the good He finds in them.’’ ‘¢Yes, Cousin Helen,’’ said Dolly, meekly. The others did not say anything, but Tom was strangely silent, while Jim fin- gered his recent purchases uneasily. Once in the house, Cousin Helen said: ‘¢ Let me see the valentines you are going to send Miss Dowse.’’ ‘« There is only one, faltered Jim, while Tom looked ready for flight. Jim handed the ugly painted one-cent picture to his cousin. She made no comment, but handed it back, saying : ‘Would you like me to address the envelope ?”’ ‘« T_don’t—know—yet,’’ said Jim. ‘‘Very well, if you need my help I am willing to give it to you,’’ said Cousin Helen, kindly and quietly. [TO BE CONCLUDED. ]

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ne ee ~The Fashions. AA Monthly Resume of Practieal fatters Relating to Dress and Social Events. *HOUGH it seems scarcely credible that a year ago the tournure was still 4 worn, yet this is the ay fact. Our eyes have become so com- pletely accustomed now to the dress which follows the lines of the figure thatit is hard to believe so great a change could have taken place in a brief twelve months. When the gigot sleeves first came in—that is to say, in their revival for the present generation—they were worn with the tour- nure. A walking costume of the early autumn in 1889 was a mass of excrescences, and so quickly is the eye educated that, while in looking at a design of that time one can accept the shoulder puffs, one is distinctly annoyed by the bustle. The immense change in dress, as worn at Christmas, 1889, and Christmas, 1890, really lies in this question of tournure. It was still a part of every gown then, in greater or lesser degree, while now it has absolutely van- ished. Not even “a little pad,” so long clung to by conservatives, can be introduced by the most complaisant dressmaker. In the spring of this year the public had become accustomed to the change, so that it was possible to walk in the streets in the straight skirts which had been introduced during the winter. These were fulb all round the waist, and trimmed round the edge with straight lines of velvet, or broad lines of passementerie or embroidery, a fashion which is just returning. The next change was to the coat- dress, the style in which Mrs. Stanley had most of her trousseau dresses made. Nothing could be more useful than this shape, nor more elegant on a pretty figure. Usually, these had a little draping in front, all down both bodice and skirt, and this exact draping is still worn. But the whole dress looks different, even though still cut in one, @ la Princesse, because the back of the skirt is mounted in fan shape instead of hanging straight. Just the same amount of material is used ; and, indeed, a well-cut coat-dress can easily be re-arranged and altered by a clever dress- maker to the present fashion. The subtle dis- tinction lies in the way in which the plaits are placed upon the basque at the back. A broad band of lace or passementerie—better still, plush or fur—placed round the bottom of the skirt assists it in spreading wide at the feet, so as to stimulate the appearance of the fan. It will, however, only be a stimulation, as the fourreau skirt, as now worn, should be very much gored. It is perfectly plain in front, but behind fans right out at the edge, and spreads some inches on the ground. The added length to the day dress, which necessitates holding it up in the street, has now become an accepted fact, and dressmakers say that old-fashioned ‘‘dress suspenders” will once more be universally used, as it is impossible, in bad weather, always to lift one’s skirt elegantly and to exactly the right level. Everything is becoming in youth; it is in middle-age that the difficulties occur; and, to diminish the apparent size of the figure, when it is over-large, nothing answers so well as to break the skirt up into several divisions, which is done now by lacing the panels with broad ribbons and 166

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to ich is > Coat. most could legant - little skirt, it the ll cut of the nging ial is 2asily lress- » dis. S are road olush skirt us to will, reau red, ‘ight : the ress, has kers will ble, ntly ; in , to n it eak one ind tasselled ends. Crossing the front breadth an- gwers the same purpose. We have revelled so long in high collars that a change has come in, and an attempt is now being made to wear only a thin plaiting at the throat, which is cut some- what low. Seamless bodices are not becoming to those with full figures. When there is a tendency to stoutness, all the seams of darts and size forms should be retained, as they break the apparent size; and an extra side form is sometimes put in to keep these seams at equal distances. Modistes use two under arm forms for bodices which measure more than twenty-six inches at the belt line, making these forms of the same width as the rounded side forms of the back, while the middle back forms are still narrower. This gives nine lengthwise seams, and, with two darts each side of the front, there are thirteen seams in the bodice. Nor should stout women wear coats that are deep on the sides, as they outline the hips too plainly. Their best choice is a plain bodice rather short on the hips, meeting a skirt draped in long folds in front, more nearly pointed than curved, to give the effect of length and to take away the apparent breadth. Double- breasted bodices, with slight postillion back, are liked for large women, A good plan to break the broad effect in skirts is to put far back on each side, next -the back-breadths, a narrow, straight panel or revers of velvet or cloth of the fabric used as trimming on the bodice. Trimming around the skirt of gown should be avoided. The home dressmaker is advised that new bodices are made with low darts that are taken in very deeply, the seamed dart being so deep and so nearly bias that the under arm seam is left almost straight. Shoulder seams are shorter than they have ever been, on account of the high sleeves. The seams of the back forms are Jess curved than they were last season, those joining the middle and side forms of the back almost meeting the shoulder seams in the arm- holes. Two side forms are in all the new linings, and three are in those for stout figures. For those who do not hold themselves erectly a cross dart at the top of the bust is made in the lining to take away the fullness in the middle of the front, while leaving ample length on the sides. The waist lining is cut an inch longer than the out- side, to allow for stretching of the outside ma- terial; the extra length is taken up gradually in the seams. THE FASHIONS. 167 The amateur should press open the seams of the bodice, and notch their edges deeply, as near the stitching as may be, then overcast them, or bind with ribbon. Each dart should be notched three times above the waist line; other seams are notched at the waist line—once above it, and once below. Sew on the bone casings quite full, making them look )uckered or gathered. Before using whalebones, soak them in tepid water an hour or two to soften them, that they may be easily sewn through in the casing. Push each bone tightly to the bottom of the casing, and sew it through and through at the top,in the middle, and at the bottom. When the bones harden they will fit well and keep the seams straight. Place the inside belt ribbon with its lower edge three-quarters of an inch above the waist line, in order to pull the bodice down and keep it smooth. Tack the belt securely in the middle seam of the back, and on one seam each side of it, but do not sew it to the under-arm seams. Choose bent hooks to use with the eyes, as these do not unfasten easily. Set the hooks and eyes alternately from the neck to the top of the darts , then below put them on regularly and very near together. Collar bands are straight and high, but are cut bias of the material, to give width at the lower edge and smallness at the top. To make them stiff, they are interlined with three thicknesses of canvas, stitched closely on the machine. Tailors moisten the canvas and press it with a large hot iron. The flaring collars require a well-fitted pattern, and are usually wired. Sleeves are moderately full and very long, and are made over a fitted lining. Most of the shapes now used are in one piece, some of them having a second seam below the elbow, while others have their fullness held in two small plaits on the under-side, meeting at the bend of the arm. A sleeve of moderate fullness is cut five inches longer than its lining, to give height on the shoulders. Another sleeve, with a single seam, is bias and much wider than the lining; a cluster of plaits is taken on the outside of the arm below the elbow to make it narrower, and the lower end is lapped and has buttons set ina tow down its length, giving the effect of a cuff. Very long sleeves are rounded on the end to curve along the back of the hand or to flare slightly, with the inside cut straight and reaching only to the hand. A narrow passementerie trims such sleeves. Other sleeves, cut straight around the wrist, have merely a band of velvet or silk

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168 around them; the edge finished with a ruffle of lace, or of chiffon muslin, or may be of ribbon, falling low on the hand. Dress for children varies according to the age and circumstances of the wearer, but at this sea- son no better material for the little ones can be found than those of all wool, the better the qual- ity the softer and lighter they are. Cheap clothes are seldom a success with children, for, of neces- sity, their wear of them is rougher than of their elders, and it takes as long to make up a common frock as a good one that will last twice the time. Quite young children are still wearing the comfortable straight yoked frocks which have been with us through all the summer clothing, but a different style is apparent in the frocks for girls of and above seven years of age. For them the girdle frocks are the most popular, made with plain skirts and full fronted bodices, and circled with a band or girdle pointed in front, and sometimes both front and back. This band is usually of buckram, covered with the material with which the trimming of the rest of costume is repeated. Sleeves for most of the small frocks are either miniature editions of the gigo?, or else full ones set in plaits with deep fitting cuffs,a second seam in them being almost a thing of the past. Like those of older persons, the bodice seldom fastens straight down either front or back; the buttons to close them are put diagonally or at the side. Bretelles of velvet or of some material in con- trast to that of the costume are fashionable and becoming to youthful figures. These braces often enclose a full gathered or plaited front, and when they are not continued over the shoulders, they are finished there with bows of ribbon. The skirts of small costumes are almost uni- versally plain, consisting of straight breadths ; but they are heavily braided, and have the velvet hems and bands. A style that is pretty for girls over twelve years is that of the velvet zouave or half jacket _ overa cloth frock with velvet sleeves to corre- spond, the skirt may have bands of velvet going perpendicularly down the sides or over the hem. Little girls’ wraps are made to cover the frock, and are double-breasted, and with several capes, often bound and faced with velvet. Jackets for older girls arecut with the round, somewhat long, basque and high collar. Hats are nearly all large and are mostly of drawn velvet trimmed with feathers; very few children wear fancy caps now. THE FASHIONS. A pretty costume for girls, is of a soft gray cloth and olive-green velvet. On the skirt foundation is a tiny kilt of the velvet, and over this the round skirt falls with pinked edges, The full bodice is set into a yoke with three points both back and front of the velvet, and drawn into the waist, or rather just below it, with a band of folded velvet. The sleeves are puffed with two straps of velvet, and velvet cuffs, For a girl of fifteen or thereabouts, a smart- looking costume is made of plaid woolen stuff and plush of the predominating color. The plain skirt has three bands of plush of graduated width above the hem. The bodice is a pointed corset one of the plush, open in front and laced across over the full front. The full sleeves have epau- lettes and narrow cuffs of plush. The kilt suit is the favorite for boys of three to six years for every day wear. Their best suitsare of dark brown or blue diagonals, made with a long coat, and a short kilt reaching only to the knees. The coat has a velvet front piece, form- ing a long vest, which is crossed by a belt, and sloped away below; it is fastened by steel but- tons, and there is a steel buckle on the belt. The back is wide, and the sides have pocket flaps of velvet. The little kilt is laid in twenty-six plaits, all turned one way, and is widely lapped in front; each plait is stitched lengthwise about four inches at the top below the binding, and there are two rows of stitching around the plaits. The kilt is buttoned to a shirt waist, and is worn over small trousers of the material that are too short to show below it. The coat is very high about the neck, and is simply bound, and with it is worn a round turned-over collar of linen, which is now made only about two and a half inches deep. To complete the suit is a large cravat bow of white surah or of crépe de Chine, or else some very light becoming color is used. Sailor suits of dark blue diagonals are still worm by these little fellows. They are made with a sailor blouse with deep square collar, and a kilt skirt, or else with long sailor trousers. A reefing jacket of blue cloth with brass buttons is the over- coat with such suits, and a sailor cap is worn, Louis Quinze suits of velvet or velveteen, made with a short round jacket, a white embroidered blouse, and velvet kilt, also remain in favor. ‘Many mothers use blouses of colored surah—red, yellow, or black, as well as white—for very small boys. A long overcoat with a cape is made of tan, dark blue, or green cloth, and trimmed with beaver or Astrakhan for best wear, and a pretty cap lace the

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ft gray > skirt id Over edges, 1 three +t, and low it, ves are t cuffs, smart- uff and - plain width corset across . epau- iree to its are vith a to the _ form- t, and 1 but. The ips of plaits, front; nches e two cilt is smal} show neck, ‘ound made To w of some worn ith a | kilt efing »ver- yorn, nade ered ivor. red, mall e of with retty

THE FASHIONS. cap is made to correspond. High buttoned or lace shoes, and long black ribbed wool stockings complete the suit. At six years of age boys put on short trousers, and wear a plaited Norfolk jacket, a patrol jacket, or a double-breasted reefer as the coat of their school suits, Rough-surfaced Scotch goods in small plaids are used for these suits because they are durable and are always in good style. To- bacco-brown, grayish-blue, and dark-gray are the colors most used. The belted Norfolk jacket is single-breasted, with a notched collar, and is made this season with a double box plait down each side of the front, while the back has a box plait down the middle, with three small side plaits on either side. The belt is strapped on at the sides, and the buttons are of dark vegetable ivory, with eyes in the centre. The double- breasted pea-jacket of fancy light Scotch goods or of dark blue diagonal is in great favor with boys, and is worn with short trousers by those from six to thirteen years of age. At twelve years boys put on regular shirts and wear sus- penders. Standing linen collars and scarfs, like those worn by men, are put on quite small boys, but are seldom becoming to those under twelve years, The Eton suit with long trousers, and the Chesterfield suit with cut-away coat, vest, and short trousers. are the dressy suits for boys of seven or eight years, up to thirteen or fourteen. Overcoats for boys who wear short trousers are of three kinds—the short covert coat of tan-color like those worn by men; the pea-jacket, or reefer, of heavy blue pilot-cloth for general wear; and the long ulster with cape made of rough plaid goods. Leggings of tan-colored leather, long enough to reach above the knees, will be worn for warmth, especially with the short pea-jackets. Felt hats in Derby shape are most worn, and there are soft felt hats for school wear. FASHION. ~<er

DESCRIPTION OF FASHIONS. Fic. 1. House gown of plain cloth and striped silk and velvet. The skirt is straight in the back, front of the striped, with a double box plait of cloth, edged with fringe. The bodice is coat. shape, fastened under the arm; it is braided, as are also the sleeves. Fic. 2, Cloak for lady, made with tight back, loose fronts, shirred at the neck, high collar, half Sleeves braided; it is trimmed down each front with pinked-out ruche of cloth, Large hat trimmed with clusters of small ostrich tips. 169 Fic. 3. Cloak for lady, made of sealskin plush and brown cloth. The skirt is made of the cloth, with large sleeves made of the plush trimmed with passementerie and deep fringe ; the sleeves extend around in the front the same as the back. Fic. 4, House gown for lady, made of dark- green Henrietta; it is cut in princess form in front; the bodice cut upon the sides, gathered and divided by rows of gilt galloon; collar braided ; galloon bands trim the sleeves, The skirt is open at the left side over white cloth braided upon the edge, and trimmed with two bands of gilt galloon fastened with buckles, Fic. 5. Cloak for girl of five years, made of brown cloth, trimmed with collar, cuffs and band of beaver. Felt hat of the same shade, turned up at one side, Fic. 6. Cloak for girl of seven years, made of gray cloth, with loose fronts; plaited back, and double cape. Fur cuffs and collar, with long end. Velvet hat, trimmed with silk. Fic. 7. Cloak for girl of ten years, made of navy-blue cloth ; it is straight, gathered in at the waist, over which is worn a belt made of astra. khan. Full sleeves with band of astrakhan around the hand, collarand band down the front. Astra- khan cap. Fie. 8. Cloak for girl of seven years, made of beigé-color camel’s-hair; the bodice is full, with revers of plaid, velvet brown and the shade of the cloak ; the skirt is box plaited. Collar and cuffs are of the same velvet, also band around waist, which is carelessly knotted in front. Hat of felt, trimmed with velvet of the two shades. Fic. 9. Cloak for girl of thirteen years, made ot garnet cloth; it is fastened around the waist witha cordand tassel, Deepcape of Persian lamb. Hat of velvet, trimmed with birds and velvet. Fic. 10. Frock for little girl of six years, made of blue cashmere; full bodice and skirt, with square-cut neck filled in with embroidered surah; belt of surah, fastened with a rosette. Hat of same shade, trimmed with pompons, Fic. 11. House gown for lady, made of plaid camel’s-hair, cut upon the bias. The skirt is plain, with the front and side front lapped over, with a double row of stitching down each lap; the back is plaited. Jacket bodice, with revers and vest of white cloth. Fic. 12. Hat for lady, made of gray velvet ; the crown and front of brim is embroidered with steel; it is trimmed with ostrich feathers and ribbon loops.

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Fic. 13. Collar of sealskin, with long, flat ends finished with ball tassels. 5 Fic. 14. Collar, with long end crossed at one side, made of black bear, Fic. 15. Lynx-fur collar, with long ends, Fic. 16. Muff made of embroidered velvet, trimmed with ostrich feathers, bird and velvet bow. Fic. 17. High collar made of black net, em- broidered with beads, and finished with bead fringe in front. Fic. 18. Silk apron made out of a fancy hand- kerchief, edged with fringe; it is gathered intoa band and fastened with a ribbon bow. Fics. 19-20. Back and front of overcoat for little boy made of plaid cloth, it is straight in front, plaited in the back, and has a triple cape. Fic. 21. Fancy, loose front to wear under an open jacket. It is made of china silk shirred at the top, falling loose below, trimmed with lace. Fic. 22. Visiting gown of plain and figured silk. The front is made of the plain silk with the edge cutin points, three box plaits of the fringed silk arranged over the plain, the back breadths are of the figured silk. The lower part of bodice and sleeves are of the figured, the upper part of the plain laid in plaits. Bonnet of velvet and silk to match dress. Fic. 23. Reception gown of black silk, the skirt is plain with an embroidered side panel and handsome velvet sash. Plain bodice with vest of embroidery, and embroidered back to sleeves. Fic. 24. Hat of black velvet with front made of plaited black lace, trimmed with ostrich feathers. Fic. 25. Hat of brown velvet with turned up brim embroidered in gold; it is trimmed with feathers, aigrette in front. Fic. 26, Bonnet, made of garnet velvet em- broidered with jet, trimmed with flowers in front and down the crown, lace butterfly and velvet bow. Fic. 27. Morning wrapper, made of crimson cashmere, the front is trimmed with pink silk with black velvet band down each side, edged with a narrow jet passementerie ; a second band trims the side gores, The sleeves are trimmed to correspond. Fic, 28. Cap for little girl, made of blue velvet, trimmed with feathers. ~ Fic. 29. Cap for boy, made of astrakhan. Fic. 30. Tam O’Shanter cap for boy made of black velvet. 170 THE FASHIONS.

Fic. 31. Hood for young girl, made of stripe woolen goods or silk, lined through with plaiy material. It is edged all around with two row; of narrow velvet, and is trimmed with loops anj ends of the same.

Fic. 32. Cap for little girls, made of cloth or velvet, lined with silk and trimmed with ribbo bows.

—~<eor-

FASHION FANCIES.

Cloth and velvet are the fabrics for bonnets, felt being confined almost entirely to round hats,

A hem turned up on the outside and piped with silk or velvet is still a popular finish for bias skirts of plain wool goods.

Gold beading with narrow ribbon drawn through its meshes is a pretty fringe for the edges of flounces.

Bias skirts are now as generally made of plain fabrics, such as cloth or cashmere, as they have long been of plaid or striped stuffs, and are liked because they hang gracefully without clinging too closely about the knees and feet.

The prevalence of comparatively light color this winter, even for the street, is noteworthy. In addition to light cloths, there are other woolens with a hairy surface, but very supple texture. Light hats as well as dress stuffs, are also worn on the street. The prevalence of draped cloth or velvet for the crowns of bonnets has necessitated a large in- crease in fancy metal brooches and pins to keep the folds in place. This is much more easily done with an ornamental pin than with stitches, The head of the pins take a variety of shapes, either a bunch of grapes,a Louis XV bow (in pebble), a swallow or other bird, a sword or dagger hilt, a tennis racket and ball, a gun or pistol, ete. The hackle feather boas are cmployed for evening wear, in white and pale colors, In gray, brown or black they are worn over plain cloth, velvet, or seal vétements. Jackets are made completely in astrakhan. They have taken the place of the models en- tirely in seal or seal plush of last year, which are a little @émodé, and need smartening up with 4 Medici collar and sleeves of astrakhan,

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[WO row; Ops and cloth or h ribbon bonnets, ind hats, Ded with for bias drawn for the of plain ey have re liked linging - colors thy. - other supple ffs, are vet for rge in- o keep easily itches, hapes, ow (in ord or un of »d. for . In plain khan, S en- h are ith a Fig. 1.—Knickerbocker Stocking for Boy from Eight to Ten Years of Age. Materials required: Six ounces knitting yarn, and four knitting needles No, 15. Cast on 85 stitches, that is 30 on each of 2 needles, and 25 on the 3d; the extra stitch is for the seam, which is purled in each round, Knit 2 and purl 2 al- ternately for 6 inches, then decrease in every 5th round by knitting 2 together before and after the seam-stitch, until you have worked 3 inches more, then work without decrease until you have I5 inches, measuring from the top. For the heel, divide the stitches in two, put one-half on one needle for the heel; the seam- stitch should be exactly in the centre of these; the other half should be divided on 2 needles, for the front of foot; con- § tinue to work backwards y. and forwards on the heel- stitches, and knit 2 and purl 2 alternately in the forward row; in the backward row knit the purl, and purl the knitted stitches of previous row; continue thus for 2% inches; for the bottom of heel, knit 5 stitches past the seam-stitch, knit 2 together, turn *, slip the 1st stitch, purl 11, purl 2 together, turn *, slip 1, knit 5, purl the seam-stitch, knit 5, slip 1, knit 2 together, turn; repeat from * until you have taken in all the side stitches; knit the heel- stitches; pick up with the same needle all the stitches lying down the left side of heel, knit each stitch as you pick it up; with another nee- dle, work all the stitches on the 2 needles of front of foot, still preserving the rib; with the 34 needle, pick up and knit the loops at the right side of heel, and work on to the same nee- dle half the stitches at bottom of heel; the ribs must now be continued across the instep, but for the under part of foot, knit 1 row, and purl the next throughout; work down the other side of WORK TABLE. heel, and across the instep; knit the 2 first stitches of next needle, knit two together, knit to end of needle; knit within 4 stitches of next needle, knit 2 together, knit 2, work 3 rounds without decrease; repeat the decrease in every fourth round 4 times more; work without de- crease until the foot measures 51% inches from. the back of heel. To decrease for the toe, knit 2 stitches to- gether each end of the back and each end of the front stitches, always making the decrease the second stitch from the side ; work the next round without decrease; the two last rounds are to be repeated until you have 20 stitches, when cast off, and sew up on the wrong side. FIG. 2. Fig. 2.—Palm-Leaf Fan Wall-Pocket. The leaf is first softened by steaming it, and then bent into shape, the points of contact being fastened provisionally until the fan has set in the new shape. It remains then to trim and paint it, as indicated in the illustration. This is a very pretty addition to a room, and can be used to hold many pretty trifles.

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172 Fig. 3.—Floral Shade. This dainty shade is extremely pretty, and can be made without a very large outlay, as‘ the flowers can be the simple paper ones, now so popular. Our illustration is composed of two rows of pink gauze, embellished round the opening with tiger lilies, or any large exotic plant, in tinted velvet or plush. C. W. Fig. 4.—Ornamental Cover for Fiower-Pot. Cut a piece of card-board to fit round the size pot you wish to cover; line it with sateen. Take a square of figured silk, and set the card-board foundation in it, sew the silk to two opposite sides of the card, draw up the two ends to the other two opposite sides, and keep them up un- der a loop of ribbon; the two points are finished with silk ball fringe. A pointed drape of velvet embroidered with a single flower and two leaves, falls over the plain side of silk; the edge of velvet is finished with ball fringe. The edge of cover is ornamented with a pointed trimming of tinsel and chenille. Different materials can be utilized to make these covers, and are a great ornament to hide an unsightly flower-pot when in a room. A. M. G. Fig. 5.—Teapot-Handle Holder. One pair steel knitting needles No. 18, one pair No. 15, and one pair No. 12, one-fourth ounce single Berlin wool, and a little fine purse silk. With needles No. 18 and the purse silk cast on 36 stitches, and knit backwards and forwards for 6 rows. 7th row: With wool, and needles No. 15 knit, knitting 2 together at each 6th stitch. row: Purl without decrease, repeat the 7th and 8th rows alternately twice more. 13th row: With wool, and needles No. 12, work one row, increasing by putting the wool forward before every 6th stitch. WORK TABLE. 14th row: Purl. - - 4 RES Ea P i AE ERD AUR I5th row: Like METAS TO 13th row. 7s 16th row: Purl. With the same nee- dles work in patent knitting for 5 inches. Patent knitting is, wool forward, slip I, knit 2 together throughout; every row is the same. Now work the sec- ond end as directed for the first, but de- creasing by taking 2 together in the rows corresponding with the 13th and 15th. Work the purl rows between as in the 14th and 16th rows. Now with wooland needles No. 15 work the rows correspond- cee a ° ing with those from SSS toes) 12 to 8, with this ex- ieee Sy ception; you increase in the same propor- tion as you decreased, so as to work the silk rows on 36 stitches with needles No. 18, and cast off. Sew up the two sides 2 inches from each end, and draw the ends together by running wool through, and fastening off tightly 11% inch from the ends (see illustration), bind this over with silk to make it neat. Work round the opening in double crochet with the silk. These holders are extremely convenient where the handle becomes heated, and can be made to be very ornamental. jk: Fig. 6—Hanging Pocket. Cut a strip of stout muslin 23% inches by 11% inches for the whole length of the back; line it outside with blue silk, and inside with quilted satin; prepare two pockets also in firm muslin, the largest one meas- uring 7 4 inches by 11 % inches; line it, too, with silk, and cover it outside with some bright cre- tonne, embroidery, or old bro- cade, framed on each side, first

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e silk id cast 1 each nning ‘ inch - over 1 the vhere de to P, cet, uslin s for ack ; silk, atin ; firm 1€as- hes; over cre- bro- first Fie. 6. with a fancy galloon, and then edged with a plush band about 2 inches wide; the lower part is bor- dered with a narrow fringe. The second pocket, rather smaller, 614 inches, is trimmed in the same manner, as well as the top panel, which is contracted into a box-plait. This pocket is useful to hang up in a room to hold work, sewing implements, or odds and ends of different kinds. Design for Braiding and Embroidery for Fashionable Bodice. (See colored folded sheet in front part of book.) The original design of this, as will be seen, is a simple braiding pattern; but it is intended for filling in with wheels formed of a network of silk. One can imagine how pretty it would look in gold braid upon black or dark-colored velvet, the filling in being done in gold-colored silk. The full size for braiding this sleeveless jacket is given in our illustration, and consists of front, collar, and sleeve trimming. This braiding can be done in any color suited to the gown with WORK TABLE. 173 which it is to be worn, and the jacket, when com- pleted, is a very pretty addition toa plain black silk gown, or to brighten up a defaced bodice. It makes of an ordinary toilet an attractive even- ing costume. MABEL WARE. illite Useful Gifts. Where lamps are burned, as they are in many houses in preference to gas, a new lamp-shade is always a welcome, One easy to make consists of a large circle of red Florence silk, cut in sharp scallops at the edge, and hemmed up with two rows of the finest black silk cord, or coarse purse "silk, The shade is ornamented with spaced rows of double drops of ruby beads suspended by fine black cord, looking like cherries hanging on black stalks, The drops at the edge of the shade are composed entirely of beads in two sizes. The top is mounted on a stiff paper foun- dation covered with the silk, and decorated with beads in graduated sizes. Many pretty and effective lamp-shades may be made at home; nearly every kind of thin materi- al is used for the purpose, but the thin, light, Florence silk is that generally preferred. Red, gold color, and pink are the favorite colors on account of the bright light they throw on all surrounding objects. Some of these shades are either plain or cut in pointed scallops at the edge, and are covered entirely with close, but light ruches of the silk, with pinked or frayed out edges. The ruches are formed of bands of silk an inch and a half wide, plaited up in close single box plaits; these ruches are sewn close together round and round the shade, but care must be taken not to make the lines conspicuous, as the effect should be that of a mass of soft, fleecy, frayed out silk, without beginning or end. A cream lace flounce completes the lower edge of the shade, and the top may be finished off with an upright lace flounce tied round with ribbon, or with a thick silk ruche. In some shades the ruches are carried straight round the shade at intervals, with lace flounces between and below them, but a newer style of shade than this is covered with gold-colored silk, like a parasol, with ruches to match down the ribs and round the top and edge. The panels are decorated with lace draperies; two pieces of lace, sewn together foot to foot, are carried from the top to the edge of the panel, and are tied in about the centre with bows and ends of yellow’satin ribbon ; a lace flounce to match is put on at the edge. White and cream laces are very much used in the ornamentation of lamp-shades, and many are trimmed with lace matching the silk,

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Foreign ECossip. PARIS, January Ist, 1891. A ACK FROST is mak- _. ing us suffer se- verely here; fish, vegetables, and morning milk are all frozen, a, and last, but not shows signs of being covered ; blocks of ice are already floating about. The steeple-chases at Auteuil and in the environs of Paris have been stopped for the last fortnight, and infact no one rejoices but the Cercle des Patineurs, or Skating Club, and they are in great glee ; the dressmakers and furriers also are not discontented. Furs are all to the fore, whether for real warmth or for the semblance in trim- ming. The skating costumes are necessarily made rather short, to give freedom of action and avoid accidents. Red is very much in favor, and cer- tainly looks both comfortable and warm. A pretty costume I saw recently at the Skating Club was made of dark red cloth trimmed with Astrakhan round the skirt and jacket, the toque and muff matched. I noticed that Astrakhan was the fur most in vogue, though there were some very elegant costumes bordered with beaver, blue fox, and skunk. A rich costume was made of black velvet, with a band of sable round the edge of the skirt, also round the jacket; the toque was entirely of the same fur, also the muff. Some warm dark blue serges were worn, orna- mented with gold galloons. A cream-white serge bordered with dark sable looked well, with toque and muff the same. A dark blue plush with sil- ver fox was another rich combination. Some of the toques were the Russian shape— that is to say, higher than the ordinary toque, which is usually round in form and not very high. The trimmings were varied, some placed in front, others at the back, birds’ heads, such as peacock’s and pheasant’s, being used; but the effect was hard and abrupt, and not pretty. The stockings should be the same color as the dress, and ratherhigh buttoned boots look best; a band of fur round the top improves the appearance. A good skating costume should be simple in least, the Seine’ make, though as rich as you please in fur, } should consist of a short skirt with fur border close fitting, warmly lined jacket of the same material and shade as the skirt, and bordered to match; the jacket can have brandebourgs across the front. Of course, the toque and muff mus correspond, either entirely of fur, or else of the cloth or velvet composing the dress, with a fy border the same. In fact,a skating costume should be neat and trim, and as simply severe ip its styles as a riding habit. The muff, of course, is suspended by a cord or chain passed around the neck. Dark bottle-green looks well with Astrakhan, and makes a serviceable winter cos. tume. I noticed some ladies wore deep fur col. lars, pointed at the back, and coming down with long ends in front. As it is prophesied that we shall have a very hard winter, I hope these ideas may be in time to aid those who intend going in for skating. Fur and feathers reign supreme this winter; has not everything been said about bear and o;- trich that can be said? “ On en a mis partout,” and how unwisely! The pistils of flowers have been picked out botanically and replaced by tiny tufts of marabout on pins. The worst applica. tion a cock’s tail can be turned to is an immense point of interrogation that is made to stand up straight at the back of a hat, and to come to the front high above the crown, with the hook for. ward, Poor Chanticleer! After having strutted about so much in the barn-yard when alive, he has to set us a poser after death, exactly as be. wildering as the Sphinx at the entrance of the desert! Casting a retrospective glance over the fashions of the closing year, there is nothing salient to notice in the way of novelty. The proverb says « There is nothing new under the sun,” and that may explain why all originality of idea seems to have deserted the purveyors of modes, and ac- count for the way they hark backto the past, and why we see copies from the costumes of dif ferent epochs and reigns mixed up and worn at the same time. Valois sleeves, Henri II ruffs, Empire waists, and Louis XV coats—a regular patchwork affair, and now “the trail of the serpent is over them all.” Cleopatra seems to have started a generations of vipers, and snakes are in vogue. Twisted round hats and bonnets, worn on the bare arm above the elbow, entwined round a coiffure 4 la Josephine, or as necklet or bracelet, the Egyptian serpent reigns supreme, represented in gold, jet and jewels. Even poor old Charlemagne is obliged to lend his name to an opera cloak! I saw a very hand- some one, so named, coming out of the opera the other evening, made of rich dark blue plush, covered at intervals with cloth of gold fleurs-de- lys, worked over with colored beads; the cloak was lined with sky-blue satin, and the long sleeves a la Juive were lined with ermine. But this cloak, however suitable to a King, or even 174 “=o 0oO S’'&® =" FP owe So Be ea *® =

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fur. It border, he same dered to BS Across uff must e of the th a fur costume evere in f course, around ell with iter cos. fur col. wn with that we Se ideas roing in winter ; and 03- 2rtout,” rs have by tiny applica. nmense and up > to the 0k for. strutted live, he as be of the ashions lient to rb says nd that >ems to and ac- ist, and of dif- yorn at [ ruffs, regular of the ems to snakes onnets, twined klet or preme, 0 lend - hand- ora the plush, urs-de- cloak > long But r even his descendants, at Court ceremony or State pro- cession, looks strangely out of place with the fleurs-de-lys on Republican shoulders, whether they owe their wealth to petroleum or the last financial crisis. The dwellers in the Faubourg St. Germain and old noblesse do not indulge in these vagaries. I do not think gorgeousness and intricate work have ever been in greater favor; our scented coffers are somewhat small for the incrustations we have to lay by therein; and, for the laces, we thought we should never wear, when they came down to us so venerated, and so yellow with age. Nevertheless, these same lovely pieces are being cut out for the sake of their value as designs, and when a palm, or a Louis XV festoon, with a bow, are severed from the ground work, these valuable portions are beaded round with seed pearls and appliqué on to some rich piece of plush or velvet, or gold net, for either a caul toa picturesque hat, or for /ésezse sleeves, or for mit- tens over the hand attached to the liseuse-wrist- lets, or for a gorgeret, or for parts of ornamental drapery over white shoulders. It is a chaos of refinement that we have come to, not because we can afford it any more than we could before, dear readers, for our “ poor are always with us ”’"— with the nobility of azurée France, I mean; but, as we are getting nearer to the end of this century, we are doing the reverse of things that were done at the commencement, so as our an- cestors treasured the heirlooms they have left us, we are cutting them up, making sad hovocinrich old silks as well, confusing utterly the fin du siécle with the fin du monde / nebulously believ- ing we are coming to it, and shall not require laces any more. As table decorations are always popular, I will notice some novelties seen, which are particular- ly adapted to the season. The chrysanthemum is the flower of the winter season, these look lovely arranged in glasses of varied heights if thades of yellow are chosen, the flowers should be arranged with deep red leaves and their own foliage. Dividing the table into three, the centre glass must be taller than the end ones; between these and down the sides, small glasses of a simi- lar pattern, and on the cloth long sprays of foli- age; these can be arranged in a design, but they look prettier when put on with apparent neglect. Another way of arranging the chrysanthemums is to form a bank of moss down the entire length of the table, into this putting the flowers, taking care that no two are exactly the same height. Intermixed with the flowers is their own foliage and the shadow Jeaves procured at the present season; the leaves must be arranged carelessly at the edge of the bank, entirely doing away with the hard line so objectionable to an artist’s eye. Another handsome tablearrangement is entirely of foliage, introducing every shade from deep — to reds and the pale yellow of the dead eaf. Very large full bows of yellow silk knot- ting these bouquets and sprays have a fine effect, and, with the pretty little silver lamps so much used—their yellow shades to match the ribbon— this table would be both handsome and uncom- VoL. CXXII—No. 13. FOREIGN GOSSIP. 175 mon. Glasses and bowls are more in use now than the elaborate designs so much liked at one time; but some of these latter, when carried out entirely with flowers, are most effective. Again, take chrysanthemums as the flowers, and employ the little yellow pompons, arrange the latter closely in moss on a wire frame of vase form, and place in the centre a loose posy of large yellow flowers and brown leaves. The pompons and chrysanthemums should graduate in height from the centre. Brown foliage, knotted with yellow ribbon, must be arranged on the table between the silver and glass. It is again much more the custom to put des- sert on the table, and in winter the lovely color- ing of the apples and oranges, intermixed with the various shades of nuts, adds very much to the general effect, and is very pretty. Small wheel- barrows, filled alternately with flowers and foliage, also look well on the cloth. Of course, it is pos- sible to get other flowers now, and, if expense is no object, a table arranged with croton and other hot-house foliage is very handsome, but this is a decoration specially adapted fora large table, most of the leaves being broad and long, and, there- fore, requiring space to display their beauty. Baskets and bowls of cyclamen and primulas, arranged with delicate fern, are very lovely. Tulips are now coming in, and make a pretty change, although it seems a pity to use these, when a little Jater there will be a so much larger choice of this flower. A white table is too cold looking for the time of year; still baskets of arums, with their lovely green leaf, mixed with ferns, and any other attainable foliage, are most lovely. Large posies of these, tied with a deep rose-colored ribbon, and arranged on the cloth, add very much to the beauty of the table. The mountain ash is a bright and pretty decoration, and, when obtainable in quantities, the result is most satisfactory. Owing to its stiff and prickly nature, holly is most difficult to arrange, but the result is good, when carried out properly. For example, a ball of holly, as a certre-piece, in the middle a bit of mistletoe, and on this a small Cupid with glitter- . ing wings; up one side of the holly ball runs a ladder of scarlet berries, and on the top of the ladder and half way up are two more Cupids. Sprays of holly are on the cloth—these to be judiciously sprinkled with frost. A green or crimson plush centre cloth, bordered with holly, gives a warm and cheerful appearance. Little bowls of holly dispersed over the table, with a small Cupid on a branch in each bowl, adds to the general bright effect. For a supper table at a Christmas party “ Father Christmas ” should be the centre-piece. He can stand on a snow bank, which would extend nearly the length of the table. Dishes of fruits, cakes, and crackers, decorated, and arranged with holly and flags, well frosted ; long sprays of holly from the bank, and at each end of the table sprays of green foliage, tied with large bows of bright ribbon, with a small bunch of holly in each bow. Wishing your readers a bright and happy “New Year.” Bien a vous, MARIGOLD.

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THE HOUSEHOLD. COOKING FOR INFANTS AND INVALIDS. Food for Infants. Take one pound of sifted white flour; put it in a cloth, tie it tightly, and let it boil for four or five hours; then take off the cloth; peel off the outer rind; the inside will be found quite dry, which grate, and mix with boiled milk, when required, Food for Infants, No. 2. Crumb some bread on a plate; dry it near the fire, then roll fine, and pass through a sieve; then put it in a slow oven, and bake until of a light fawn color; make into a gruel. Rice Cream. Soak for an hour some rice in cold water; strain, and add fresh water; then let it simmer until it will pulp through a sieve; put the pulp and the water into a saucepan, with a lump or two of sugar, and again let it simmer for a quarter of an hour; a portion of this to be mixed with one-third of fresh milk, so as to make it of the consistency of good cream. Flour Ball (for Teething Children). Take one cupful of flour and tie in a stout muslin bag, drop into cold water, then set over the fire; do0z/ three hours steadily; turn out the flour ball, and dry in the hot sun all day, or, if you need it at once, dry in a moderate oven without shutting the door. To cook it, grate one tablespoonful of flour for one cupful of boiling milk and water; wet the flour with a little cold water, stir in, and boil five minutes; add a pinch of salt. Milk Porridge. Take one tablespoonful of Indian meal, moistened with cold water; one tablespoonful of white flour, also mixed with cold water; two cupfuls of boiling water; two cupfuls of boiling milk; a pinch of salt. Boil the paste in the hot water twenty minutes, add the milk, and boil ten minutes more, stirring often, Hecker’s Farina and Milk. Take one cupful of boiling water; one cupful of fresh milk; one large tablespoonful of Heck- er’s farina, moistened with cold water; two tea- spoonfuls of white sugar, and a pinch of salt. Stir the farina into the boiling water (salted) in the dainmarie, or farina kettle; i.¢., one 176 boiler set in another full of hot water; boil fig. teen minutes, stirring constantly until it is wel] thickened; then add the milk, stirring it gradu. ally, and boil fifteen minutes longer; sweeten to taste. This is a digestible, palatable, and nour. ishing food for children. Wheaten Grits and Milk. Take four tablespoonfuls of grits (cracked wheat) soaked in cold water one hour; one quart of boiling water; one cupful of milk, one pinch of salt. Boil the soaked grits in the water an how, stirring constantly; add the milk and boil half an hour longer; sweeten to taste, and eat with cream. Good for constipation in children over one year old. Arrow-root and Milk. Take one cupful of boiling water; one cupful of fresh milk; two teaspoonfuls of best Bermuda arrow-root, wet with cold water; one pinch of salt; two teaspoonfuls of white sugar, dissolved in the milk. Stir the arrow-root paste into the boiling water, stir and boil until clear; add the sweetened milk, and boil ten minutes, slowly stirring. You may omit the milk, if necessary. Cold Beef Tea. Take half a pound of fine lean beef, cut into small pieces; half a pint of cold water; pour the water upon the beef and add one teaspoonful of diluted hydrochloric acid; let it stand four hours, strain through a sieve, and keep in a cold place; the whole process must be cold; never warm it; take a wineglassful three times a day; a little wine can be added. This is sustaining and digestible when all other beef teas fail. Whole-Beef Tea. For every pint of beef tea required take half a pound of fresh killed beef, and remeve all fat, sinew, veins, and bone; let it be cut up inte pieces under half an inch square, and soak for twelve hours in one-third of the water; let it them be taken out and simmered for two hours in the remaining two-thirds of the water, the quantity lost by evaporation being replaced from time to time ; the boiling liquor is then to be poured oa the cold liquor in which the meat was soaked; the solid meat is to be dried, pounded in a me-- tar, freed from all stringy parts, and mixed with

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boil fig. t is well t gradu. eeten to id nour. cracked ur; one ilk, one n hou, oil half at with en over - cupful >rmuda nch of ssolved nto the dd the slowly sary. ut inte ; pour oonful d four a cold never a day; aining a > half all fat, D inte ak for t ther in the antity me to ed om ked ; /mo-- with When the beef tea is made daily, it is convenient to use one day’s boiled meat for the next day’s tea, as thus it has time to dry and is If agreeable to the invalid, a the rest. easier pounded, piece of green celery stalk or a small onion, a piece of fresh tomato or a few cloves, may be boiled in the beef tea. Beef Broth. The choicest piece of meat for broth is the neck piece. Chop bone and meat quite small, and see to it that there is about one-third bone to two-thirds meat. Put into’a gallon crock or jar one pound of the meat, and add one quart of cold water; cover the jar with a plate, and place itin a deep saucepan of water; simmer for four hours, strain into a smaller saucepan, and boil until reduced nearly one-half; particle of fat or grease. Now comes the all important question of seasoning, wherein we are necessarily obliged to consult the fastidious tastes of the invalid. Celery, salt, or a stalk of celery allowed to simmer in the broth is acceptable, and the best mode of adding pepper (when it is al- lowed) is to let a red-pepper pod remain in the broth for a moment or two. Ground pepper is objectionable for many reasons. Dyspeptic pa- tients are very apt to crave seasonings that can- remove every not be taken with impunity. To serve beef broth, care must be exercised that it is not too hot; half a cupful at a time is all that should be served, Mutton Broth. Although mutton possesses a lower degree of nutritive value than beef, it is, nevertheless, one of the most important of animal foods, being easily digested. Like beef, the neck part of mutton is most appropriate for the making of broth. Trim off the surplus fat from the piece of meat, and toa pound of the lean (with bones added) add a quart of cold water; simmer gently for two hours, strain, and let it become cold. When wanted remove every particle of fat. Puta small quantity of it in a saucepan, and allow it to become quite hot; salt slightly, and allow a red-pepper pod to remain in it for a moment. Have ready a small quantity of boiled rice, add itto the broth, and let it stand a few moments before serving. A very small piece of onion is, sometimes, added to the meat when first cooked to destroy the peculiar mutton flavor which is so objectionable to many patients, Oatmeal Gruel. Sift two ounces of oatmeal. Boil one quart THE HOUSEHOLD. 177 and a pint of water, add to it a saltspoonful of salt; now add, gradually, the oatmeal, stirring constantly while adding the meal. Boil for one hour, remove to the range or stove until water enough has evaporated to make it of the proper consistency; part milk may be used instead of all water, if preferred. Housekeepers, when preparing oat meal for delicate stomachs, should beware of the many new preparations now on the market which are said to require only ten minutes or more to cook, the ten or even twenty minutes propositions should be ignored, and these preparations should be cooke:! at least one hour. Toast, This is very palatable and digestible when properly prepared. Many seem to think that they have made toast when they brown the out- side of a slice of bread. Have they? The object in making toast is to evaporate all moisture from the bread, and holding a slice over the fire to singe does not accomplish this, it only warms to moisture, making the inside of the bread doughy and decidedly indigestible. The true way of preparing it is to cut the bread into slices a quarter of an inch thick, trim off all crust, put the slices in a pan or plate, place them in the oven—which must not be too hot—take them out when a delicate brown, and butter at once. Dry toast should be served within the folds of a napkin if you wish to keep it hot. Clam Toast. Chop up two dozen small clams into fine pieces; simmer for thirty minutes in eneugh hot water to cover them. Beat up the yolks of two eggs; add a little cayenne pepper and a gill of warmed milk; dissolve half a teaspoonful of flour in a little cold milk; simmer all together; pour over buttered toast, and serve. Oyster toast can be made in the same way, substituting fifteen plump oysters for the two dozen clams, Frappe Champagne. This renders important service in irritable states of the stomach and nausea. To produce frappé champagne quickly, proceed, as follows: Put into a metal receptacle a bottle of dry cham- pagne, surround it with alternate layers of rock salt and cracked ice, place the metal upon the hot range, and the rapid melting of the ice will solidify the wine in five minutes; if allowed to remain a longer period the wine will become solid, and refuse to leave its glassy prison.

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s a CHOES of the py. chimes, greetings, and laughter at-

~) tending the festivi- ties of St. Nicho- las, have scarcely ss Set. > ar 7+ <

=» fe we died away ere St. Valentine claims our attention, It matters not that — many __ skeptical people scout the idea of such a saint; the fact remains that for centuries the wth of February has been dedicated to his memory, and, mythological or not, he has many devotees. The young folks of the present day are the ones who especially enjoy this anniver- sary, and look forward with much delight to the mystery surrounding the advent of the loving missives. Not but what the custom of exchang- ing gifts is carried on between those of-more advanced years, and many a maiden fair receives from a favored swain a dainty bonbonniere, or a collection of exquisite flowers, with a loving message from Cupid hidden in their depths, As we could not send to each of our subscribers a “Valentine,” we did the next best thing, and made our February number as complete a “ Val- entine”’ as possible. One of our illustrations represents the god of love worsted in the fight— stories, a play, and poems are all adapted to the season. We glance over the magazine with sat- isfaction when we think our “ Valentine” will be carried to every city and town in our own be- loved land, while from many distant climes it receives as warm a welcome. Our January number has been highly com- plimented by press and people; but we feel assured that the present one is nowhere behind in attractions. We keep on with the good, better, best; we are not satisfied to have a show number, but we try to steadily improve with each one issued; with a large corps of assistants and a generous array of subscribers, we are able to accomplish what we attempt. We extend a cordial welcome to all, feeling assured that we can give them, for two dollars per year, more pleasure, profit and real good than for any other Our Arm=Chair. wise FEBRUARY, 178 1891. way they can spend their money. Let our list of new names go on increasing as it has done, and we will show our new friends what our old ones already know, that we will give them, for 1891, a magazine which, each succeeding month, will prove more and more attractive. Miss North. In our March number we will commence g short serial story, entitled “As Long as the Sap. phire Shines,” by this young and popular author, The name of Lillian A. North is too well-known among the press of our city to need any com. mendation from our pen; the readers of Gopgy have been favored with productions from her pen before, but we feel satisfied that this later effort will not only commend itself for its interest, but for the manner in which it has been treated. We wish Miss North all success in the pathway she has chosen, and that her laurels will multiply as the years go by, A Popular Publishing House, The publishing house of Lee and Shepard, to Milk street, Boston, Mass , issued a most attrac- tive list of books for the holidays, which are appropriate for gift books at any season. Old and young, grave and gay, all tastes can be suited here. Books can be ordered direct from the publishers, or of leading houses. The house is noted for its courtesy, handsome work, and gen- erous treatment of customers. We wish them all success in their work of issuing dainty vol- umes, which cannot but elevate the general taste; and feel satisfied that in the year 1891 they will produce as many novelties as in the year just passed, A Handsome Catalogue. The catalogues issued in the different branches of trade for 1891 show, in many instances, a de- cided improvement over those of 1890, high as the standard of excellence reached by some of them in that year was. It is a recognized fact, that the seed trade leads all others in the beauty and cost of these publications, One now before us, sent out by Wm. Henry Maule, Philadelphia, Pa., well illustrates the truth of the above state- ment. And it may be added that his catalogue leads in a trade whose catalogues lead all other trades. Typographically, and that is what first

~~. at ale atete Be ae ce ol sek om oe a oe

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Ir list of ne, and id ones or 1891, th, will lence a he Sap. author, -known y com. GODEY her pen r effort *st, but od. We ray she iply as ard, 10 attrac- sh are Old suited m the use is i gen- them ty vol- taste; y will r just nches a de- gh as ne of fact, eauty efore phia, state- logue other first strikes a publisher’s eye, it would be hard to equal. Its 120 pages are marvels of type com- osition, engraving, and press-work. It would be difficult to find a space on any page that has not been utilized, both artistically and practically. In addition to the colored outside pages, twelve colored plates are scattered through the body of the catalogue, which will compare favorably with the lithographer’s art as displayed in his most expensive productions. We doubt if the most critical disciple of the “art preservative ” could find a peg on any page upon which to hang a fair adverse criticism. So much for its typo- graphy. As a catalogue to convey information of the business it advertises, it is equally perfect. The letter press condenses all the needful in- formation which will enable the farmer, gar- dener, and fruit grower to select such seeds, plants, or trees as he desires, in a wonderfully compact, yet intelligent, manner. Space is not used to display verbosity, neither is it economized at the expense of a clear and definite description of the seeds and plants offered for sale. The illustrations are used in such connection with the printed descriptions as to give to its readers a clear, accurate conception of the ripened pro- ducts of Maule’s seeds. We notice, in glancing through its pages, that last year Mr. Maule offered and paid $1,500 in cash prizes for field and garden products raised from his seeds, and $1,000 for the largest club orders for seeds sent him in 1890. He repeats these offers for the current year. It is no disparagement to many other artistic catalogues, and but simple justice, tosay that Maule’s Seed Catalogue for 1891 is as near perfection as it seems possible to bring such things. Errata. We desire to call our readers’ attention to an error in our January number. Upon the pink slip, in the front part of the book, there is offered a scholarship in the Hempstead Institute asa club premium, this should be the “ Bryant, School at Roslyn,” which is a six-hundred- dollar scholarship. We therefore repeat, that for a club of 250 names, at $2 each, we will give a free scholarship with board, for the school year of ten months, at Bryant School, Roslyn, L. I., N. Y., a superior boarding-school for boys and girls. Ory, for 150 names, at $2 each,and $200 in cash, the same scholarship and board. Or, for 100 names, at $2 each, and $300 in cash, the same scholarship and board. Per- sons failing to get the full number of names, will receive a handsome premium upon those sent. Here is an opportunity rarely offered to secure one year of first-class schooling and board ata popular institute. If further particulars are desired, write to us and we will give any informa- tion, Lord Coleridge. The Youth’s Companion announces as an important accession to its list of contributors the Lord Chief Justice of England, Lord Coleridge, who has promised to write an article on “ Success at the Bar.” Sir Morell Mackenzie, physician to OUR ARM- CHAIR. 179 the late Emperor of Germany, contributes a sim- ilar paper on “ Success in the Medical Profes- sion,” The January number of GoDEy stands ahead of all the fashion journals, The illustrations are numerous and first class. Three serials are com- menced, which promise well: “O. K.,” by Olivia Lovell Wilson, is humorous and witty; “ The Pride of the Whittingtons,” by Adna Light- ner, will, we think, be full of strong situations ; “The Filjeano Mystery” charms the reader already. Numerous holiday stories and poems add to the attractions of the number, while all the departments are well filled.— Mews, Mitchell, Ind. A Novel and Popular Plan for Selling Pianos and Organs has been introduced by the Marchal & Smith Piano Company of New York. They make it easy for any one to buy of them, and by giving a trial in your own home you are sure of being suited if you buy of them. Their instruments must be beautiful, as well as perfect, to be sold in this way, and the expres- sions of delight that come from their patrons show that they possess many grand and noble qualities. The liberal dealings of the Marchal & Smith Piano Company deserve approval, and should be tested by all who want a piano or an organ. Those who wish for particulars address them at 235 East Twenty-first street, New York. William Allen Butler has contributed to Har- per’s Weekly, published December 3Ist, a long poem descriptive of the Passion Play at Oberam- mergau, accompanied by a series of illustrations from photographs taken at the last presentation of the play. It is worthy of note that just one- third of a century ago the same writer contributed to the same periodical that popular poetical satire, “ Nothing to Wear,” the most perfect liter- ary production of its class written in this country. The poem on “Oberammergau,” although rela- ting to a theme so different, and written in quite another style, will probably please as large a number of readers as did Mr. Butler’s famous earlier effort. Missing. 4210 subscribers to “ GoDEY’s LADy’s Book ” who have not yet received a trial quantity of ELECTRG-SILICON, the famous silver polish. It is the wish of the proprietors of this celebrated household requisite that every reader who is a housekeeper, and not now using ELECTRO- SILICON, should have a quantity for trial, which will be sent without charge and post-paid. We strongly recommend that you, if among the missing, send your address at once to THE ELECTRO-SILICON Co., 72 John Street, New York City, and thereby learn of the only proper method for the care of your silverware. Harper & Brothers have nearly ready for pub- lication an Elementary Latin Dictionary, by Charlton T. Lewis, Ph.D. The work is sub- stantially an abridgment of Dr. Lewis’ larger

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18¢e work published about a year ago. Space, how- ever, has been gained by the omission of many detailed references and illustrative citations, and the vocabulary has been extended so as to in- clude not only all words used by the Latin authors most commonly studied in schools, but also those used by Catullus, Tibullus, Propertius, and Tacitus in his larger works. “GopEy’s Lapy’s Book” for January is ahead as usual. How the publishers succeed in improving what is so good before is a secret they only possess. The first number for 1891 is a gem; now is the time to rejoice the heart of a lady friend by subscribing for the magazine.— Daily Beacon, Ashtabula, Ohio. “Gopry’s LADy’s Book” opens the new year with an attractive number, we do not con- sider the January book could be much better. —Democrat, Pinckneyville, Ill. —_———o-4oP-o-— BOOK TABLE. “English Poems.” Illustrated with etchings, by M. M. Taylor. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $2.50. These poems are all well selected from popu- lar authors, and the etchings are very beautiful. The book is good to read and pretty to look at. “ Tisayac of The Yosemite.” By M. B. M. Toland, with illustrations, J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $2.50. This is a chastely beautiful volume. The il- lustrations represent Yosemite scenery, and passages of the poem. There are also many delicate and exquisite floral decorations, and some designs taken from clay models that are curious and novel as book illustrations. «“Sheridan’s Ride.” By T. Buchanan Read. Illustrated with engravings on wood, from designs especially prepared for the edition. J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa. This stirring poem of Buchanan Read is pub- lished in a plain but beautiful volume. The de- signs illustrate every important passage in the poem, and are beautifully executed and full of spirit. The famous horse which Sheridan rode, dividing honors with his great rider. “ The Elixir and Other Tales.” By George Ebers. Translated by Mrs. Edward Hamilton Bell. W. T. Gottsberger & Co., 11 Murray street, New York. For sale by Porter & Coates, Philadelp:.ia, Pa. The short stories of George Ebers are not so well known in this country as they deserve to be. The present volume we like exceedingly. The first one named in the title is a story of Leipsic. This is followed by The Graylock, a “ Fairy Tale,” and The Nuts, a “Christmas Story,” All are excellent. . « The Elements of Psychology.” By Gabriel Com- yre. Translated by William H. Payne, Ph. .» LL, D., Chancellor of the University of Nashville, and President of the Peabody Nor- mal College. Lee and Shepard, 10 Milk street, Boston, Mass. Price, $1.c0, OUR ARM-CHAIR. A clear idea of the object, character anq scope of this unrivaled work will best be given by extracts from the preface of the learned trans. lator, who says : “A book to serve the needs of the genera) teaching class, should have, it would seem, the following qua ities: “It should contain only the essentials of psychology. *‘ A book for the dissemination of scientific truth among persons who need it first of all for the ap. plications they can make of it. “It should be written in terms readily intelligi. ble by ordinary readers, “As most teachers of youth are believers in the spirituality of the soul, and in the absolute dis. similarity of mind and matter, they prefer abook whose tone and treatment are in accord with the Christian spirit.” All this can be found in the above work, “The Bridge of The God’s.” By F. H. Balch, A. C, McClurg and Company, 117-121 Wabash avenue, Chicago, Ill. Price, $1.25. This is a strange story of a New England missionary who, two centuries ago, went to the far Northwest among the tribes of Indians and dwelt with them, The author believes that there was once a powerful confederacy of the savages, and he describes their life, wars, habits and superstitions. The author, out of such ma terials, has constructed a weird romance which is wholly novel, and has written it with the skill of a scholar, ‘The Best Letters of Lord Chesterfield.” By Philip Dormer Stanhope (Earl of Chester- field). A.C. McClurg & Co., 117-121 Wa. bash avenue, Chicago, Ill. For sale by John Wanamaker, Philadelphia, Pa. Price, $1.00. Whatever may be thought of the writer's morals and intellect, these letters may almost be called classic. The letters to his son contain advice as to what is comme tl faut in a man of fashion. Those to the godson are better adapted to one who has not had the advantage of very high birth and the parentage of an accomplished courtier and gentleman. All of them that are given in this volume are nice reading, in spite of certain affectations and other faults. There isa most agreeable preface by Edward Gilpin John- son. « Dr. Le Baron and His Daughters.” By Jane G. Austin. Hcughton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. The scenes lie chiefly in and about Plymouth, Mass., in the Pilgrim days and down into the days of the Revolution. Some historical charac- ters appear, including Frenchmen. The tale is in a certain sense historical, but Dr. Le Baron is a distinct and admirable creation, and the story is marked by talent in every page. «American Sonnets.” Selected and edited by T. W. Higginson and E. H. Bigelow. Hough- ton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. Price, $1.25.

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cter and be given ned trans. © genera eem, the Ntials of tific truth wr the ap. intelligi. Ts in the lute dis. r a book with the k. + Balch, Wabash England it to the ans and res that y of the , habits uch ma- vhich is 1e skill 1.” By ~hester- 21 Wa. oy John $1.00. writer’s nost be advice ashion. to one y high lished lat are pite of re is a _ John- y Jane oston, nouth, to the narac- tale is ron is story sd by ough- b1.25. OUR ARM-CHAIR.,. 181 A selection of poems by the best American authors, beautifully arrayed in a neat and attrac- tive volume. “The Shadow of Roger Larogue.” Cassell Publishing Company, 104-106 Fourth avenue, New York, N. Y This is a good translation of Jules Mary’s French romance, ‘“*Roger Le Houte,” which was dramatized by Mr. William Terriss, and successfully played in this country a year or two ago. «Flower de Hundred.” By Mrs. Burton Harri- son. Cassell Publishing Company, 104-1c6 Fourth avenue, New York, N. Y. This is a charming story, interesting, with some highly dramatic incidents, It possesses the great merit of holding the reader’s attention throughout. The pictures of Virginia life and manners are admirable, and the descriptions of country house-life are most attractive. The characters are striking, and several of them have an element of originality; the incidents are abundant and effective. “Gypsy.” By Helen Ekin Starrett. Gorton, Chicago, III. This story of a dog is by Mrs. Helen E. Star- rett, author of “Letters to a Daughter,” and other popular books, and of lage articles in the Forum, which have attracted very marked atten- tion. The story, immediately upon its appear- ance in a religious journal, won the commenda- tion of many, among others of Frances Power Cobbe, of England. She at once wrote Mrs. Starrett, expressing her delight in what she called “ the charming story,” and asking whether it could not be put in permanent form. This has been done by a firm of young women publishers, the Misses Searle & Gorton, of Chicago. Miss Cobbe has written an introduction to the story in her most delightful vein, and with this rare distinction it has been given to the public. The book is illustrated with a portrait of Gypsy and other pictures. It is one of the prettiest and most delightful booklets of the season, and will especially appeal to all lovers of dogs. Searle & “ How to preserve Health.’”? By Louis Barkan, M.D. American News Company, New York, N.Y. Price, $1.00. A sound, sensible and useful book on: the topics which it discusses, A valuable addition to every home. “The Voice in Speech and Song.” By Theo- dore E. Schmauk. John B, Alden, New York, N.Y. This book gives many valuable hints about the care of the voice, etc.,and is written ina pleasing as well as instructive manner. ae day Etiquette.” By Louise Fiske Bryson W. D. Kerr, 52-54 Lafayette place, New York, N. Y. Price, 75 cents. A well arranged book, giving useful hints upon etiquette in different forms. It is a book that cannot help to prove useful for general reference. “« Widow Guthrie.” ston. Illustrated by E. W. Kemble. ton and Company, New York, N. Y. ‘Widow Guthrie” is a Southern novel, and one of the very best. For it is a literary and not a political story, and it represents human nature in Georgia as it is in other lands, and not as glori- fied and exalted by dwelling in a Southern State of the Union before the civil war. The Widow Guthrie is a high-bred, dignified lady; but the chief action of the story is conducted by other characters, including some typical negroes, who are representative of their race and condition. The scenes of the story, of which we shall not attempt to give an outline, lie in a little village of Georgia and the plantations surrounding it. There is enough of serious plot to engage the attention, and admirable portrayal of life in such communities. “ Jack’s Secret.” By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. Jack the hero is rather a weak character, but his secret is well kept, and written up intoa charming book in the author’s own inimitable style. By Richard Malcolm John- D. Apple- « A Homburg Beauty.” By Mrs. Edward Ken- nard, J. B. Lippincott Company, Phila., Pa. Price, 50 cents. A very pleasant novel to read, and one that once begun will be sure to be finished by the reader. The heroine cannot fail to win the highest sympathy, and following her footsteps will well repay the perusal. “The Other Man’s Wife.” By John Strange Winter. J. B. Lippincott Company, Phila., Pa, Price, 50 cents. The name of the author is a sufficient guaran- tee of the merits of the book. The heroine is forced into a mercenary marriage by her mother ; how a childhood’s playmate is thrown with her after her marriage and how it all terminates, makes a beautiful and forcible story, well con- ceived and splendidly told. By Henry Greville. T. ‘‘ Saveli’s Expiation.” Price, B. Peterson & Brothers, Phila., Pa. 25 cents. “The Matchmaker.” By Beatrice Reynolds. TY. B. Peterson & Brothers, Phila., Pa. Price, 25 cents. * Love’s Labor Won.” By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. T. B, Peterson & Brothers, Phila., Pa. Price, 25 cents. “My Lady’s Master.” By Lady Mande Rute- ledge. T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Phila., Pa. Price, 25 cents. All the above are printed in the popular 25- cent series issued by this house, “The Dragon Yoke.” By Elizabeth Dupuy. John B. Alden, New York, N. Y. A collection of sonnets and songs, some of which are very attractive. “One of Cleopatra’s Nights,” and other Stories- By Théophile Gautier. Translated by Laf- cadio Hearn. Worthington Company, 747

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reset: sae an rey ae ete pa = -. a 182 Broadway, New York. For sale at Wilson’s Circulating Library, Eleventh and Sansom streets, Phila., Pa, Price, in cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. Exquisite short tales, as perfect as the world has ever seen, intensely dramatic; pictured with an idealistic brilliancy, they afford many ex- amples of that peculiar beauty of fancy and power of words which made Gautier the foremost author of his time. The stories fairly enchain the reader. The subtle charm of the French style, light, brilliant and sparkling, is admirably re- tained by the translator, Lafcadio Hearn, who is a true artist. The photogravure illustrations add very much to the interest of the author’s imagi- native creations. «“W. Heimburg’s Christmas Stories.” Translated by Mrs. {. W. Davis. Worthington Company, 747 Broadway New York, N. Y. For sale at Wilson’s Circulating Library, Southeast cor. Eleventh and Sansom streets, Phila., Pa. Price, cloth, $1.25; or in illuminated paper cover, 75 cents. Worthington’s International Library. Who- ever loves the higher forms of modern fiction will be charmed with these quaint novelettes, which show an originality entirely uncommon and exhibit an extraordinary vividness of de- scriptive and imaginative power. A notable feature of the book are the fifty photogravure illustrations, made after designs of great foreign artists, They happily illustrate the text and add very much tothe appearance of the work. It forms a gift book of transcendent merit and should find a place upon the Christmas table of every lady in the Jand. By far the most valuable business calendar for 1891 is the Columbia Cycle Calendar and Stand, issued by the Pope M’f'g Co. of Boston, Mass: I. 1s in the form of a pad containing 366 leaves, each leaf having on it date, day of week, day of year, and number of days to come, a paragraph pertaining to cycling or some kindred subject. The leaves are fastened only on the end, so that each entire leaf can be exposed. The stand is made of stained wood, biass moynted, with pencil holder and pen rack. Although this is the sixth year of the calendar, jhe matter is fresh and new, the larger number of paragraphs having been specially written for this purpose. « Christmas in Song, Sketchand Story.” Selected by J. P. McCaskey. Harper & Brothers, Franklin square, New York. An exquisite book with handsome illustrations by Raphael, Darley, Meade, Murillo, and others. It contains nearly three hundred Christmas songs, hymns, and carols set to music. The stories as well as songs are charming, making altogether one of the most attractive books of the season, Funk & Wagnalls, 18 and 20 Astor place, New York, have now in press “The Standard Dictionary of the English Language.” I. K. Funk, D.D., is general editor, assisted by many specialists upon each department. OUR ARM- CHAIR. In some important points it differs widely from the plans of other dictionaries; (1) the “‘locating”’ of the verifying quotations, that ji the giving in each instance not only the name of the author, but also the name of the book and the number of the page where the quo tation can be found; to thus “locate” 50,009 quotations is of itself a Herculean task, (2) The use, in the pronunciation of words, of the scien. tific alphabet, adopted by The American Philo. logical Association. (3) The placing of the etymology after the definition. (4) The plac. ing of the most important current definition first, and the obsolescent and obsolete meaning last, that is, the substitution of the order of usage for the Aistoric order usually followed in diction. aries. (5) In the case of disputed pronunciation the giving of pronunciations preferred by other dictionaries, as well as the pronunciation which we prefer. (6) The giving of 50,000 vocabulary words more than are to be found in any other single volume dictionary in England or America, (You will please note in this connection the care that is betng taken in the admission of new words ; no new word is admitted to a vocabulary place unless it has been passed upon by the able men in charge of this department, namely, Julius H. Seelye, of Amherst College; Edward §, Sheldon, of Harvard University ; Edward Ever- ett Hale, Charles A. Dana, and Howard Crosby.) (7) The indicafion by the use of upper and lower case initial letters, as to whether words in the vocabulary are to be written as proper names or common names, etc. We have endeavored to give some of the strong points of this dictionary which we are sure will commend itself to the general public, and promises to be one of the most valuable aids to general information. “Through Magic Glasses.” By Arabella B, Buckley (Mrs. Fisher), with numerous illus- trations. DD. Appleton and Company, New York, N. Y. The young man or woman curious as to the dis- coveries of modern science will learn much from this admirable book. The first lectures relate to astronomy and the revelations made by the tele- scope, the microscope and the spectroscope. Others are about * fairy rings,” lichens, mosses and various vegetable developments; others, again, on volcanic craters, lava streams, the ocean, geology, pre-historic man and his relics. The style is fascinating enough to hold the atten- tion and to instruct the casual reader in search of information in regard to the wonders of the stel- lar system and the growth of the human race on our little globe. «The Story of My Ilouse.” By George H. Ellwanger. D. Appleton and Company, New York, N. Y. The house here spoken of is but a vision. The author who has esthetic and scholarly tastes, dreams of the structure and of his ship which brings to his ideal home the furniture, books and treasures that he fondly imagines. The author seems to be English, and is a very charming thinker and writer. His book, although vision- ary, radiates a healthful atmosphere.

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widely I) the that is name » book e quo 50,009 2) The Scien. Philo. of the 2 plac. ‘inition eaning f usage liction- ciation y other which bulary y other nerica, 1e care f new bulary 1e able , Julius ard §, Ever- rosby,) lower in the mes or red to ionary to the of the lla B, ; illus- New he dis- h from late to e tele- scope. mosses others, s, the relics. atten- arch of 1e stel- ice on ge H. » New . The tastes, which ks and author rming yision-

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AFTER THE BALL. (See Poem, Page 224.)

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188 GODEY’S LADY’S BOOK. New Hardy Balbous-Rooted Moonfower if all the Moon tribe this is the grandest and best, tor it is at wight. It produces great bulbous roots which are perfectly hardy out of doors, and when once planted are good for a life-time, without further care or trouble. It will climb every Summer to the top of a house, producing a lovely mass of luxuriant vine and foliage, and showing at all times hundreds and e ven thousands of great snow-white flowers six inches across—much larger and finer than the common Moonflower, and which at night stand out like full moons against the green leaves, and during day the mass of vine and flowers is an object of the grandest beauty. As a vine for covering Screens, Porches, Summer Houses, old Tiees, Fences, Sides of Houses, etc., nothing is so valuable or showy. While other Moonflowers are tender and hard to grow, this is as hardy and robust as can be, and will stand without injnry any Winter from Maine to California. If you can not succeed with other Moonflowers you surely can with this. Large bulbs, 25 cents each; 5 for $1.00, by mail, post-paid. j THE GREAT SPIDER LILY An elegant large bulb of the Amaryllis family which commences to bloom soon after itis * potted, sending up great spikes of lovely, large pure white blossoms of exquisite fragrance and unsurpassed beauty. It is oue of the oddest, sweetest, and loveliest fiowers grown. Large bulbs which will soon bloom, 25 cents each, three for 50 cents, post-paid. 2 ; a ne al ] Y The most magnificent flowering vine in cultivation, and is loaded with bloom every day in THE TRUE MANETTIA VIN * the year. Its charming beauty is unsurpassed. We have the true perpetual blooming variety. Price of fine plants, already budded and blooming, 30 cents each, 2 for 50 cents, post-paid. SEEDS, BULBS: PLANTS, Extra CuHoice, sy Mait Post-paip. 12 extra choice mixed Gladiolus, flowering bulbs, 25c. 5 Grand Lilies, 5 sorts, including Auratum,- - 50¢. 6 New Double Pearl Tuberoses, 66 ss 25c. 5 * Cacti, different sorts named, - - 50c. 5 Rare Chrysanthemums, 5 sorts named,- - 50c. 20 Bulbs and 10 pkts. Flower Seeds, all different,- 50c. SPECIAL OFFER The above liberal offers are made te introduce our superior goods. We will send, post-paid, everything * offered for only $2.75 ; Hardy Moonflower, Manettia, Spider Lily, Gladiolus, Tuberoses, Chrysanthe- mums, Lilies, Cacti, Bulbs, Seeds, and Catalogue. Order at once; these offers may not oppear again. OUR BLUE CATALOGUE (A superb work of art in blue) of FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SEEDS, BULBS, PLANTS, * AND RARE FRUITS, is the finest ever issued. 128 pages, hundreds of elegant engravings, Stipple Lithograph Covers and 5 large colored plates. We offer the finest novelties in Flowers, Vegetables and Fruits ; notably : Our great Japanese Wineberry, Floral Park Plums, Butterfly Orchid, Star Phloxes, Water Plants, New Roses, Dahlias, Gladiolus, Chrysanthemums, etc. Also the greatest collection of rare Cacti and Flowering Shrubs. This elegant and expensive Catalogue will be sent for only TEN CENTS, which is only a part of its cost to us, or if yon order anything here offcred and ask for Catalogue, it will be sent FREE. Addres JOHN LEWIS CHILDS Floral Park Queens Co., N. Y. ir