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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.