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6 Worth Womans While The Passing of the Uptons. ISS JANE was dead. The Colonel sat on the front porch smoking as George Kemble drove by with his wife. It was in the time of the second Mrs. Kemble, and they were in an open buggy—the present Mrs. Kemble goes in a pony phaeton with a high-stepping mare. As Mr. Kemble drew rein in front of the gate the Colonel rose and walked >u [fl down to meet him. “Good morning! Won’t you come in?” he said, advancing and lifting his hat to Mrs. Kemble with a stateliness of courtesy which, while it threw the heavy Mr. Kemble into heavier silence, produced no effect upon his short wife but one of pleased loquacity. “No, thank you,” she said, “we are goin’ over to town, and just stopped by to tell Miss Cor nelia that Miss Jane Upton died last night. Yes— last night! Well, it must have been between mid night and day. When George got out at daylight to feed, he met the hired man from down there on his way to telegraph to her brother.” “Well, I am sorry to hear this,” said the Colo nel. “Yes,” responded Mrs. Kemble, “and Miss Cor nelia’ll be sorry. I ’lowed she’d want to go down when she heard it. There’ll have to be some wo men folks go—l won’t get back till this evenin’. I reckon her folks’ll be here tomorrow; they never come about much when Miss Jane was alive, but though she’s dead, the old place ain’t, an’ it’s a good property, too.” As they drove away the Colonel turned back along the gravelled walk and entered the porch, his shoes sounding gritty upon the stone steps. “Cornelia!” he called. His sister appeared in the door in garden hat and shawl. “Who was that at the gate?” she asked. “George Kemble and his wife. They came by to let us know Miss Jane Upton died last night.” “Why, brother!” she gasped, and dropped into a chair. The Colonel resumed his seat and his smoke—it was late in February, and the sunshine had a feel of spring. “When did she die? Oh, yes, last night! Poor Miss Jane! And with not a woman on the place, nor a chick or a child of her own. I declare this is too bad!” “I guess Upton was there—they say she’d been sick for several days.” “Oh, but he never seemed to count! Though I reckon he was kind to Miss Jane—l’ve never heard that he was anything but kind. How she ever took it into her head to marry that man, a nobody from nowhere for all anybody ever knew, is more and more a mystery to me. And he so much younger than herself, too. Miss Jane must be—why, she’s all of sixty! And you know when Mr. Upton came here to take charge of her place ten years ago—what did they say was his age when the marriage so excited the whole country side? I don’t know—l’ve forgotten—but he’s a youngish man now, for all that great beard he wears, not so much past forty, I should say.” “Mrs. Kemble said they’re looking for her folks; they’ve been sent for.” The Colonel disliked gos sip on principle, but here was a more than ordi narily interesting state of things; Miss Jane’s fam ily was one of the oldest in the county, the Marr place was likewise one of the oldest; in the family burying ground slept generations of Marrs, and their home remained much as they had left it. At least there had been few changes in Miss Jane’s time; for sixty years she had lived there, and when, after fifty of them, Mr. Upton came, she still saw no need of change, though she did allow him to prevail upon her to put up a new-fangled gin which had been ever since a gigantic monument The Golden Age for October 18, 1906. By FLORENCE L. TUCKER to her weakness in giving in and yielding to in novation, for it was a failure from the first. The Colonel and Miss Cornelia sat and talked, or she talked and he listened, till the uncertain sun, passing on, left a melancholy chill behind. “I had started to the hot-house to work around a little, but if you’ll order the buggy I’ll drive down there,” she said, and rose to go in. But turn ing back she spoke again, “I dread to go. Poor Miss Jane! It’s all so sad—and there’s going to be trouble. Everybody knows how incensed her family were at her marriage, and now they are not going to let Mr. Upton be left there in the old place.” And other people were of the same opinion. Up ton was a peaceable man, harmless and easy-going, but he had never seemed to fit into the neighbor hood; he was not, as Partheny once said to her mistress, “our nation o’ folks,” and Miss Cor nelia, while amused at her way of putting it, had to admit to herself it was apt. It is a question whether he had not himself felt it—the Cherokee hedge, the double row of poplars which shaded the driveway to the house, the curious old structure itself, reminded him, outside or in, of the dead and gone Marrs—they had placed the old mahog any and horsehair furniture there, their pictures looked at him from the walls, and the unfriendli ness of the living gave, to his eyes, a sinister look to these shadows. People had never accorded him the right of having his wife called by his name— to some she was Miss Jane Upton, but the old families still called her Miss Jane Marr. And how that she was gone they waited to see what they should see. Would Mr. Upton be left as his wife’s legal heir, or would her family oust this stranger summarily, and so make an end to the trouble? As the Colonel and Miss Cornelia drove down next day to the funeral George Kem ble and his wife overtook them. “I reckon you’ve heard,” said Mrs. Kemble, “that her brother won’t be here. They got an answer to the telegram sayin’ that him an’ his wife have gone to California. Must be his health ain’t never got no better. Did you come down yester day?” “Yes,” answered Miss Cornelia, sadly. “I was wonderin’ what they might er laid her out in. You say you was there?” “Yes,” she said again, “but she was dressed when I got there, in her best black silk.” Poor Miss Jane! Independent all her life of small vanities she had dressed as suited herself, her dress was part of herself. The silks, of which she possessed an interesting number, had been made when hoopskirts were in vogue; when they went out the extra fulness was none in the way, and when fashion swelled its proportions once more, there she was all ready. Miss Cornelia passed into the parlor and stood again beside her old friend. She was dressed in the best black silk, yes—but around her neck, almost concealing her head and front, was a huge feather boa! Miss Cornelia felt chilled and frozen—she turned through the open door into the next room where women were seated around a blazing fire; it was Miss Jane’s sitting room, and the minister stood near the door that the crowd which filled both apartments might have the benefit of his remarks. Mrs. Kemble, glowing in the warmth of the fire and the latest cut in dol mans looked, Miss Cornelia could not help seeing even then, more than ever like Victoria, Queen of England. Indeed, the likeness was so striking at all times that between herself and the Colonel their rising neighbor’s wife was most commonly spoken of as “Miss Victoria,” and sitting there placidly blinking at a colored print, “At Stonewall Jack son’s Grave,” underneath which hung a circular gilt frame enclosing a wreath made from the locks of many Marrs—flowers and leaves and blades of grass, fashioned of hair with wire and beads— contentedly studying these works of art, Miss Vic toria was very much like herself. At the close of the simple service, the minister, after the usual custom, announced that all who wished to do so, might take a last look at the re mains. But no one accepted the invitation. Not understanding that individual curiosity had more promptly paid the last tribute, and apprehending he had not been heard aright, he repeated the offer. Silence still ensuing, Miss Vict’ry rose in her place. “They’ve all done seen it!” she said, falsetto like. Miss Cornelia turned faint, and attempted to fan herself with the end of her cape—the sense of decency was so at war with her sense of the ludicrous, she was all but overpowered. At dinner that evening the Colonel asked: “Cornelia, what was that Miss Vict’ry said when she spoke out in meeting today?” And again she was nearly overcome; when having controlled herself sufficiently to tell him, his ex pression was so comical as to make Partheny, serving, almost fall over the cat in her effort to get out of sight. When he had left the room the maid said: “What I want to know, Miss Cornelia, is, what was that cur’us smell around that place today?” “The disinfectants they used, Partheny.” “Well, the estenchons was consider’ble!” sniffed Partheny. For some weeks after Miss Jane’s death inter est and wonderment as to the disposition of her property continued unabated, but Mr. Upton al ways a quiet man, was even more so now, and from all that could, be learned or conjectured, no action on the part of her people had yet been taken. Things had about settled down into quiet again when one morning in April the Colonel, opening his daily paper, said: Listen here, Cornelia!” and read: (Continued next week.) There’s never a rose in all the world But makes some green spray sweeter; There’s never a wind in all the sky But makes some bird’s wing fleeter; There’s never a star but brings to heaven Some silver radiance tender, And never a rosy cloud but helps To crown the sunset splendor; No robin but may thrill some heart, His dawnlike gladness voicing. God gives us all some small, sweet way To set the world rejoicing.—Selected. To be able to have all the things we want, this is riches; but to be able to do without, that is power.—George MacDonald. By enduring a hardship cheerfully, or by ac cepting discomfort without murmur, we may be of more real service to our fellows than by performing acts of ministry while we appear to begrudge the required effort, or while we, ourselves, are in an unloving mood. The way in which we do our most generous deeds is sometimes of as much impor tance as the deeds themselves. Many a child or man has been made more glad by the pleasant looks and words of one who had to refuse a requested favor, than by the reception of a desired favor from one who gave it with a sneer or a frown. The importance of the right way of doing good, in the line of giving or of withholding, should not be forgotten or undervalued. Charles Buxton says, in this line, “You have not fulfilled every duty unless you have fulfilled the duty of being pleasant.” How does that apply to our service of today?— Selected,