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DEATH AND LIFE.
O Death! how ewt^t the thought
That thin worlcl’a strife Is ende ';
That all rre feared and all we nought
Are Id one deep sleep eude 1.
.Wo more the anguish of to-day
To wait the darker morrow ;
No more atera call to do or isy.
To brood o’er si u and sorrow.
•
O Death I how dear the hope
That through the thlokest shade
Beyond the steep and sunless slope
Onr treasured store Is laid.
The loved, the mourned, the honored dead,
That lonely path have trod,
And that same path we too must tread,
To be with them and Qod.
O Life 1 thou art too sweet;
Thon breath’st the fragrant breath
Of those whom even the hope to meet
Can cheer the gate of death.
Life is the scene their prese r co lighted;
Its every hour and place
Is with dear tnought of them united,
Irradiate with their grace.
tation, work the harder. I cannot
run away an in other circumstances I
might be tempted to do; my living
lies in Brixby. But you can help me
consiierably in the struggle, if you
will."
“I! How?*
“When you see me running any
risk of a tete-a-tete with Miss Gerrow
and you can possibly interfere, do,so.”
“And make you hate me for it. I
will not promise.”
“I shall not hate you—I shall be
very grateful. 1 must meet her fre
quently at the houses of mutual
trfends. You will be able to make me
your debtor in the way I say.”
The route the pair had taken brought
them at this point within the cordon
of habitation again.
Wiih a few more words of less spe
cial interest they parted for the night.
You had better go up and see her;
she is not an heiress now. Indeed,
she’ll have barely sufficient to live
upon, unless this cousin does some
thing for her.”
Edgar took his advice and went up
to the desolate great house the same
afternoon. Home commonplaces
passed and then that old, old story
burst forth which somehow always
seems to me far too sacred to be written
in detail. Edgar made a full confes
sion, and not in vain.
The “The saddest experience of my
youth,” he said, “came through mar
riage for money, and through mis
placed confidence. Very early I vowed
that that mistake should in no shape
ever be mine; that nobody should
ever throw fortune-hunting of that
kind in my teeth. And yet—with a
smile of infinite content—“I am not
oertain, Kate, after all, whether love
would not have beaten me m thoend.”
“I hope so,” the maiden answered,
shyly.
CHAPTER III.
There was a sale at Brixby Lodge,
and in due course one of the Lanca
shire manufacturer’s sons, who had
recently married, came down and was
instilled as his father’s representa
tive.
Edgar Arnton had arranged that
Kate Gerrow should reside in London
with his sisters, until such an interval
had passed as etiquette prescribed. At
the sale he was a large purchaser, and
poor, as by comparison, he had once
styled himself, the house he furnished
was one of the best in the village.
Wedding and honeymoon were boih
over, Edgar had just come in from his
day’s round of visits, and was stand
ing with his wife at the window, gaz
ing out at the fast falling snowflakes
Suddenly there was a crash behind
that caused them to look round. A
Persian kitten, gamboling mischiev
ously on the top of an escritoire, had
knocked down the plaster figure of an
antique cupbearer. The fragile arti
cle of vertu was broken into a dozen
fragments, amidst which a tiny silver
key revealed itself.
“There is where the key of uncle’s
Japanese cabinet went to, then,” said
Kate; “the hand and arm of the
image must have been hollow, and
the key, once put into the cup, slipped
through into tne interior.”
“Odd, certainly,” answered Edgar;
“let us try if it is the one.”
He went out, and from the next
room fetched a small, inlaid call let of
exquisite workmanship. The key
fitted at once.
“I was sure it would. 1 knew it
again at first sight, said the 1 idy. “It
is fortunate we waited and did not
trouble to force the box open; that
would inevitably have spoiled it. I
dofl’t suppose there is anything in the
oasket, though.
“Oh, but there is!” ejaculated Ed
gar, as at that Instant he poised up the
delicate lid and caught sight of a tight
little roll of paper.
Kate watched in silent surprise;
Edgar slowly undid the bundle, a
shrewd suspicion of what he had
foi^id flashed upon him and making
his ordinary firm, white fingers hot
and bungling.
“It is uncle’s real will, his last and
legal will, I should say, rather,” said
Edgar with a gasp, “found just where
he might have been expected to have
placed it, and where searchers might
equally have expected to miss it.
Quite a wonder I bought the oabinet!”
Ana then he read slowly, till the full
moment of the discovery had been
realized by both brains, how lands
and houses and money snugly invested
in oonsuls had all been devised, with
out reservation or qualification, to Mr.
Gerrow’s beloved nleoe Kate, “the
companion of his old age, and the
faithful guardian of his interests.”
“Despite all precautions you have
married an heiress, then, Edgar,” said
Kate, merrily ; “the pity of it is it’s
quite too late in the day to disown her
now.”
“As if I could possibly wish to!”
Mr. Trent laughed likewise.”
“All’s well that ends well,” he said.
He was speedily put in possession of
the recovered document, acquainted
Mr. Mudbury with the olroumstanees,
and convinced the manufacturer how
futile it would be to oontest his cousin’s
claim. In a very brief space the Lan
cashire gentleman returned in disgust
to his own district Brixby Lodge be
came the residence of the Arntons and
their children.
Botft husband and wife treasure the
onoe lost key above its weight in gold.
But for Its opportune disappearance
two loving souls might have remained
apart
The Fashions.
Cardinal red velvet basques are worn
with black skirts.
Dark gloves are ‘all the rage.”
Brown, very_ clear and rich in finish,
dark green, red, tan and blue are the
shades for favor in the lines of gloves
and hosiery. »
White Danish kid gloves of exagger
ated length are worn by bridesmaids.
Sbort dresses will be worn almost
universally. For ceremonious occa
sions the train skirt is preferred.
Sailor hats trimmed with a wide
baud of ribbon, with some upright
loops atone side, are the latest revival
for young ladies’ wear.
Narrow braid, in gold or silver, is
much used tor trimming cloth dresses
of a monochrome color. E ver so little
of this garniture goes a great way in
effect.
The newest fashion in Paris—that of
wearing black underclothing—has be
come the furor amongst the women of
the highest aristocracy. The under
garments, like those of the Eastern
odalisques, are composed usually of
silk, generally of what in called foulard
des Indes. From head to foot the
Parisian lady appears when dirested
of the outer robe, as just emerging
from an ink bath—the stockings of
black silk, the slippers of black velvet
the corsets of black satin, adorned with
black lace, and the petticoats of black
surah, filled around the bottom with a
stiff mousse of blaok illusion or net.
The color most popular In Paris is
myrtle green, a shade which -almost
verges on the blue of marine green. It
will probably be the most popular
oolor here this fall and winter. An
immense proportion of green cloths
in all the dark shades have been im
ported. Garnet in high colors—so
bright as to be called cramolse in the
French list of colors—will be chosen
by ladies whose pale or sallow com
plexion renders green an unbecoming
color. Olive, prune, bronze, seal,
plum, navy blue hussar, a dark shade
of cadet blue and electric, land a light
shade of the same color are all stylish
colors. Even the uncouth old ele
phant which Mr. Barnum has so suc
cessfully transported and advertised
gives t is name to a new color Jumbo
brown, a muddy mouse shade, is so
named from the uncleanly looking
hide of the huge elephant. There are
also many snuff* browns and a number
o'shades of copper. Coppery-red and
iron-red, which are called generally
terra-cotta, are as far removed from
the color of terra cotta clay as the
crevette or shrimp-pink from the color
of the little crustacean, which gives its
name to the tint. Vtolet and royal pur
ple plum-color are also stylish shades.
Among evening tints, bronze d’art-
gold, old go'd, shrimp-pink, electric-
blue, pale-blue, rose-pink, poppy-red,
crimson and heliotrope are shown.
Bosphorus is so called from the color of
the classic sea, and is a pale tint of
marine-green, brighter than sea foam*
Cream white is imported, but will be
restricted to brides, and nfore color
will probably be used in the ball room
next winter than for several seasons
past.
Barbarities of War.
It is not generally known that the
practice of mutilation, which has fig
ured so prominently in the records of
recent Egyptian battles, so far from
being a mere passing outbreak of
fer icity, is a traditional custom, sanc
tioned by Eastern law. Both in Tur
key and Egypt it was formerly the
custom to punish any offense with the
loss of the member that committed it;
theft being punished with the loes of a
hand, false witness or treasonable
speech with that of the tongue, Ac. In
war the custom is still universal among
certain races. After the Yemen insur
rection of 1871 the present writer re
turned with a Turkish detachment
which carried with it the head of one
of the insurgent Arab chiefs. This
praotice was retorted upon the Turks
themselves with terrible effect by the
mountaineers of Montenegro In 1876^.
At the dose of that war the military
hospital at Bcutari was literally orowded
with earlees and noseless Turkish sol
diers, and severed heads hung around
the tower that overlooks Cetinje, the
capital of Montenegro, as thickly as
apples on a tree. These horrible dis
figurements served to demoralize the
Turkish troops far more than any fear
of death oould have done, and the
paralled atrocities committed by the
TurkB themselves gave some show of
justioe to the retaliation. But the
Pnnoe of Montenegro has now set his
faoe against this barbarity, and has
happily succeeded in completely put
ting a stop to it among his own sub
jects.—Jfe.
Ready Wit.
History is full of examples of the
success attained by quick witted men.
De Grammont, when a young man,
waited on Cardinal Richelieu, and
surprised the great MiLister in the
somewhat undignified amusement of
leaping on a wall. The Cardinal
looked annoyed—a less ready-witted
man would have apologiz d and re
tired. But De Grammont was wiser,
and exclaimed, “I will wager that I
can leap higher than your Eminence.”
The challenge was accepted. De
Grammont was courtier enough to al
low himself to be surpassed, and the
Cardinal was his friend for the future.
This readiness is confined to no rank
of life. Horace Walpole gives an in
stance of it in a Paris fish-woman.
The Dauphin having recovered from
a serious illness, the “dames de la
Halle” waited on the King (Louis
XV.) to offer their congratulations.
“What would have b'-come of us had
our Dauphin died?” said the spokes
woman “we skould have last our
all.” "Yes,” put in a second fish-
woman, who observed the King’s
brow darken at this somewhat equiv
ocal compliment to himself, “we
should, Indeed, have lost our all, for
our good King would never have sur
vived his son’s death.” It was ready
wit that enabled William the Con
queror to persuade his followers that
his fall.on stepping ashore in Eugland,
was an omen of good instead of evil
fortune. “I have taken ‘seisin’ of this
land,” he exclaimed, rising with his
hands full of earth; and the ready
turn dispelled the superstitious fears
which the accident had occasioned.
The lower orders often possess great
readiness at repartee. Few retorts are
better than that of the pavior to Syd
enham, the great seventeenth-century
physician. The doctor was complain
ing of the bad manner in which the
pavement was laid in front of his
house, adding, “And now you throw
down earth to hide your bad work.”
“Well, doctor,” said ihe man quietly,
“mine is not the only bad work that
the earth hides.” Old biographers are
fond of including “a ready wit” among
the virtues of the subject of their me
moirs; indeed, dull folks appear to
have been looked upon in former days
with extreme contempt. Dr. Johnson
was very out-spoken iu his opinion
regarding stupid people, inveighing
against a worthy but extremely fool
ish female acquaintance, a lady pres
ent reminded him that she was a very
good woman, addin a, “and I trust we
shall meet her in Paradise.” “Ma
dam,” roared the exasperated doctor,
“I never desire to meet fools any
where.”
A Hat-Case Full of Money,
Mr. James Rice, in his “ History of
the British Turf,” tells us that the vic
tory of Ellington for the Derby of 1856
“ was marked by a singular incident
in connection with his trainer.” The
horse had been heavily baoked for the
Epsom race, but suffered a humiliating
defeat when he ran for the Dee Stakes
at Chester, so that all possibility of
“ hedging ” was out of the question.
“The result was,” says Mr. Rice, “that,
against his will, Mr. Thomas Dawson,
the trainer of Ellington, won £25,000
by that horse’s victory.. On the Mon
day after the race Mr. Dawson went to
Tattersall’s to receive money. The
whole of it was paid to him in bank
notes. After the settling he dined,
and took the train for the North, hav
ing first packed his hank notes in an
old leather hat-case without any lock,
and tied simply with a piece of string.
Mr. Dawson fell asleep in the train,
and when the guard, who knew him
well, awoke him at Northampton, and
told him that he must change car-
riages, Mr. Dawson got out of the
train, leaving the old hat-case behind
him. In those days telegraphy was
not so simple and easy a matter as it is
now, and Mi. Dawson did not recover
his hat*case for a whole week, during
which time it had travelled to Edin
burgh, Aberdeen and various other
places. Ultimately it came back to
the lightful owner with the string
neither cut nor untied, and with all
the bank notes safe inside.”
We need hardly add that, despite his
characteristic and unmercenary Indif
ference to money, the celebrated “Tom
Dawson,” than whom no more popular
or large-hearted trainer ever plied his
dlffloult and responsible oraft, took
care to display no solioitude about the
missing hat-oase, and abstained, alto
gether, from revealing the nature of
its contents. He merely told the sta-
tionmaster at Ley bourne that it was
an artlole he had owned for a great
many years, and that as, in addition,
there was some papers In It which
were of n#nse to any one bnt himself,
he should like to reoover possession off
There lie the duties, small and great,
Whi'b we Irom them inherit;
There spring the aims that lead as straight
To th eir celestial spirit.
All glorious things, or seen or heard,
For love or Justioe done,
The hnpeful deed, the ennobling word,
BsAds poor life are won.
O Death t Like Day and Night,
M^mn&rdian task combine;
PiUar of darkness and ol li®ht,
Lead tbrougb earth’s storm till bright
Heaven's dawn shall shine I
A Lost Key.
CHAPTER I.
Edgar Arnton had made a highly
important discovery, ’and one that
troubled him. He was a surgeon, and
one given to examining hearts. For a
full hour, in the gathering summer
twilight of the Park avenue, he had
applied his sternest faculties to the
testing, in another sense, of his own.
The decision to which, very unwil
lingly, he came was that his suspicions
of the past three months were well
founded. He was in love. The thrill
which had gone through him as he
clasped Kate Gerrow’s hand on leav
ing her uncle’s gate every evening
pointed in that direction. The ex
pension of soul and the exhileration
of mind which he continually experi
enced in her presence, the longing
that often seized him in his moments
of professional disgust and weariness
to feast his eyes, if only for an instant,
on Kate’s bonny face, all drove home
the unwelcome conviction.
In the course of his final turn along
the broad path between the whisper
ing poplars Edgar formed a resolution.
Entering Brixby he encountered the
very friend he had desired to consult.
Mr. Trent was a solicitor, many
years the young medical man’s senior,
and his only confident In all the coun
try side.
“If you are disengaged for ten min
utes or so, Mr. Trent,” said Edgar, “I
should like to have a talk with you
about Mr. Gerrow’s niece.”
“I am entirely at your service. You
are smitten by a great appreciation of
Miss Gerrow's charms. I have seen It
coming a lor£ time.”
Edgar smiled a little sardonically in
the dimness.
“It’s a lawyer’s business to be far
sighted,” he said. “1 have found it
out now—the fact ot which you speak
—and I am afraid only just Id time.”
A harshness was in his tone which
surprise the listener.
“I do not understand,” said Mr.
Trent.
“Why, I mean that, had the disease
gone further, I might have proved un
able to overcome it, as I mean to do
now.”
“Yon astonish me more and more.
Miss Gerrow is beautiful, of good
birth, and well educated. She* is an
heiress into the bargain; and if she
cans for yoo, and her uncle consents,
what possible obstacle can intervene ?*’
“You have said,” returned Edgar,
moodily, “she is an heiress.”
“The lawyer bit his lips to keep from
a loud explosion of misplaced merri
ment.
“The very thing, that, whether she
were pretty or plain, would make her
quite an attraction to most suitors.”
“I am aware of it. But I am not
like the majority. I am poor, my
prospeota are barren enough ; all the
world would say I was fortune-hunt
ing—marrying for money if it oame to
a marriage. Bhe might learn to think
so too, and that I oould not bear. I
have seen plenty of this already—in
my own family.”
The oonoentrated pathos of the last
sentence, and the Involuntary sigh
which concluded it, touched the solici
tor. His meditated words of bantering
remonstranoe were not uttered.
“What shall you do, then?” he
asked.
“Shun the danger, fight the temp-
CHAPTER II.
As fate would have it, a week later
was thrown into Kate Gerrow’s
company even more constantly and
more intimately than before. Mr. Ger
row was taken suddenly ill. Eigar had
to attend him and to labor hard to
ward off an attack of probably fatal
apoplexy.
They were a lonely couple, the
wealthy, eccentric owner of Brixby
Lodge and the fair young girl who
was reputed his heiress. Kate was
an only ohild, an orphan. Neither
she nor her uncle had any kinsfolk in
the neighborhood. Cousins, Kate be
lieved sbe had somewhere in the
north ; but there had been an estrange
ment in the family and these she had
never seen.
“Is it anything dangerous, Mr. Avn-
toD ? My uncle will recover, will he
not?” Kate asked, as after a careful
examination of his patient Edgar stood
for a moment or two in the wide, old-
fashioned hall.
“I sincerely trust so, Miss Gerrow,”
he replied; of course, I dare not dis
guise lrom you that there is risk—
grave risk that is inseparable from
such cases; but I see not the least rea
son for despair. Pray do not worry
yourself unnecessarily.”
“My uncle is the only aelative I
have living in the whole west of Eng
land,” she said. “You will not con
ceal his real condition from me at. any
time I beg, Mr. Arnton,” she sub
joined.
“No, Miss Gerrow. I will be quite
frauk, although it is a medical privi
lege to be discreet, you know. But
you will need a trained nurse, the
work will be too delicate for ordinary
servants and too wearying by far for
you. May I send you one from the
Holstead Infirmary?’’
“If you think that will be the best
course to take. But 1 shall certainly
wait upon my uncle principally my
self ”
And so Kate did. And day by day
in his visits Elgar Arnton met her
and fell more deeply in love. Not
that he abandoned in any degree his
determination to refrain from becom
ing Kate’s suitor. Tuat resolve was
as firm as ever. He simply elected to
drift with the tide.
The patient gradually recovered,
and bore grateful testimony to Edgar’s
professional skill.
The mend was not for long, though ;
a message in the dead of night some
few weeks after took Edgar hurriedly
away to Brixby Lodge, to find that
another seizure bad proved fatal.
Kate’s grief was intense. Edgar
must have appeared cold and distant
in the dark day* before her unole’s
funeral, fur he now felt himself com
pelled to keep down his sympathy
with an IroB hand and to breathe
condolence in the most conventional
of phrases. But for so doing he felt
morally sure that his vow of personal
sllenoe would have been irretrievably
broken.
But in the coursf of time an odd
rumor reached him. The old man’s
will had been read, and Kite was not
an heiress after all. With a chaos of
conflicting emotions within his breast,
Edgar called on Mr. Trent and learned
the truth.
“The document is dated ten years
baok, before Miss Gerrow came to live
with her unole,” said the solicitor;
“there is no doubt as to its genuine
ness. Every one thought he had made
a later one—I did mysfe’f—but none
can be found beside this. I suppose
he put the business off, as so many
people do, until it was too late. The
property all goes to a wealthy Lanoas-
shire manufacturer”
“How does Kate—Miss Gerrow—
take It?”
“As quietly as you may guess. Borne
girls would have been almost killed
by the disappointment, but not she.