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VOL. XIV.
EQUINOCTIAL.
The sun of life has crossed the line,
TJut Kuatitu* r shiuA of Ungtiteued light
Faded and failed—till, where I stand,
Tis equal day and equal night.
One a ter one, as dwindling boars,
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away
And sot n uiay barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter's dc.y.
I am not young, I aui not old ;
The flash of morn, the sunset calm.
Paling and deei>enißg, each to each.
Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all tl eir green ;
While weaWily, along the hills,
frame the first tint of frosty sheen.
An! middle point, where clouds Mid storm
Make battle ground of this ray life !
Where, eyeu-umtched, the night and day
Wug round me their September strife ! i
1 bow me to the threatening gale ;
I know, when that is overpast,
Among the peaceful harvest days,
An Fndwu summer comes at last.
[Coutiuued from first page of last week] !
The Widow's Lodger.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MYSTERY.
Mr. barker never forgot that mmot- I
able walk. With Margaret’s hand upon i
his arm he felt a manhood and a dignity I
within him such as he had never ex
perienced before. They resumed their
conversation almost at the point where ;
baby interrupted it witli the spoon, and
Margaret took pleasure in bringing out ,
the thought and sense that were only '
kept back by the ditli lence he had !
found unconquerable till now.
“If I never see you again," he said,
as they parted; “if we are never better
acquainted than we are at present, I
shall always remember this day. You
have taught me to have more confidence
in myself. I shall never forget that
you, with your beauty and high position
—so far above me as you are in every
thing—considered me good enough to
ait with and walk with.”
"You will see me again,” Margaret
said. “I shall be very often at my sis
ter's now. I have to thank you, for you
saved me from a great disappointment.
I could not have seen baby, or stayed
with him. had the room belonged to
anyone but yourself.”
They said good-night, and a cab drove
up at the moment. A gentleman alights
ed—a tall, stout, heavily-built man, at
whom Mr. l'arker, at a distance of ten i
yards, stared in bewildered amazement.
He looked at his feet, expecting to see
a ponderous felt shoe covering a gouty !
foot, and saw instead a sltapely boot on :
a foot of the proper size. He looked j
from his feet to liis face for a pair of
bine spectacles, and saw instead a pair i
of clear, bright eyes, and then this gen
tleman went up the few steps with an
alert, powerful stride, carrying the
weight of his erect figure with ease and ’
diguity. Mr. Parker saw him raise his
hat to Margaret, and distinctly heard
her say;
“Uncle Michael.”
‘‘lam going out of my mind.” Mr.
Parker said to himself. “I must be; j
that beautiful creature has turned my I
brain. lam going out of my mind, or I
else 1 have seen a ghost. Uncle Michael!
Why it was Mr. Barker without his !
gouty foot and the blue spectacles! j
Uncle Michael!—but these people may
be wonderfully alike. Steady! I shall j
run against a post presently and hurt I
myself. Uncle Barker—Michael I mean; <
the most extraordinary thing I ever j
law."
He told Mary when he reached home,
and she listened with a gravely amused
smile. Had not Mr. Barker told her
that he and Uncle Michael were some
thing alike? It was no mystery to her,
but Mr. Parker could not get over it.
“He was so much like the old gentle- !
man upstairs,” he said, “that when he
looked at me—and he certainly did look
at me—l half expected to hear his ter
rific voice roar at me."
“I daresay you will see him here,”
Mary said, “and then you can judge for
yourself haw much resemblance there
is. You took Miss Allenby borne
safely?"
“My dear lady, you do not know how j
much pleasure you have given me," he i
said, thoughtfully. .“I never met any-!
one, except yourself, who understood j
me as your sister does, or cared to. What;
a noble creature she is!”
“As good,” Mary said, “as she is j
beautiful. She lias a very.high opinion
of you. Mr. Parker, and her friendship
is worth much to any man or woman. I
would accept anyone on trust whom
she had faith in; her instinct is so quick
and tru*.”
That sense of manhood and dignity
never left Mr. Parker again. It would
have fared badly with his riotous friends
had they attempted to play their un
seemly jests upon him now. He stood
•pon a different footing in the house,
and Miss Allenby, who came nearly
every day. rarely passed his door with
out stopping to say a few words to him.
Perhaps in mercy for him she never
stayed too long; she knew the poor fel
low was steeped to the heart in love for
her.
They had almost given Uncle Michael
np for the night when he arrived in Or
thorpe Square; buteverything was ready
for him. Mrs. Allenby had tried her
best to remember what she could of her
brother-in-law’s tastes and habits; she
had prepared the large front room on
the second-floor as a bsdchamljer, and
put some sol id, handsome furniture in
the room behind it, for him to read or
writs or smoke in—not that he had ever
been a favorite of hers, but he was her
late husband’s brother, and he was rich;
the pains she took to please him were
not entirely based on selfishness.
Nothing could have pleased the old
man more than did the unexpected
meeting with Margaret at the door. No
sooner lad lie raised bis hat than she
said “Uncle Michael!” and threw back
her veil to kiss him with a glad welcome
in her eyes. “I should have known you
anywhere.” she added, softly—“you are
so like my father.”
“God bless you. my child,” he said;
“this it worth a thousand welcomes in
side!”
He had looked with dread and dis
taste upon the prospect of a formal and
prepared reception, and he knew that
Margaret’s was genuine. Accustomed
as he was to expect an interested mo
tive in everything said and done foi
him, it was a relief to see the innocent
and eager gladness in the beautiful face
of liis young niece. It was nothing but
the truth that he was like her father—
Use resemblance between them was
striking wtien they were young, and it
grew more pronounced as they advanc
ed in years.
i ne giri iea mm in. and set her moth
er’s preparations for a stately reception
in disorder by taken him into the draw
ing-room hand-in-hand.
"I met him at the door, mamma,” she
said, “and knew him directly. Is he
not like father?”
"Very much,” Mrs. Allenby said,
softening in voice and features at the
resemblance. “More even than he used
to be; if, Michael, you had returned a
few years sooner.”
Some unexpected chord was touched
by the resemblance, for her eyes filled
as she looked at him and kissed him.
“Well, well, Charlotte,” he said, with
a short husky cough, “It is these few
years that do the mischief, and I am
older than he was, you know. 1 thought
when I came back we should both retire
and smoko our-pipes together, but it
was not to be. You have borne tho
wear and tear of this life well, ami your
children are all a mother could desire.
This,” and he turned to the tall young
lady standing waiting to be spoken to,
“is surely my niece Victoria?"
“Yes, uncle,” said ’Tory, kissing him
at arm’s length, as it were.
“If you are always as sparing of your
words and your kisSes,” he said, with
grim good temper, “you will never give
any man the heartache. There is one
who should be here whom I miss very
sadly. Charlotte.”
“My poor boy, Arthur.”
"Aye. and that wife and child of his,
are they here ?”
"No,” said Mrs. Allenby, regretfully.
“She did not come. It would take too
long to explain now, birt you shall hear
everything in the morning.”
“I shall not be here in the morning.
I have rooms at tho ‘Langham.’”
“Your rooms are ready for you here,
Michael, and you will not, I hope, think
of leaving us.”
“I)o stay, uncle,” Margaret said, as he
hesitated, “if only for a few days.”
“Well, if you will undertake the care
of a troublesome old man, it is your own
fault mind; but I shall require looking
after. 1 have given my man a holiday.”
“Let me take his place," said Mar
garet. “I used to wait upon father al
ways.”
“1 hope he paid you good wages if lie
gave as much trouble as I do. Can you
undertake to look through my letters,
sift them, answer those that are worth
answering, put the others in the fire
without burning the wrong ones, read
to me. fill my pipes, put on my slippers,
mix my grog, and take care of my loose
cash when I come home late—from the
club.”
"I will try,” Margaret said. “You
have only to tell me what to do.”
“That’s a good little girl,” he said, “I
think we shall get along together,”—
and slight as Uie infl-ctioii was it did
not escape the elder sister’s notice,—
“and since we have the night before us,
you can tell me how il is that Arthur's
wife declined to be here. You told her
I was coming home. She mast have
known I should like to see Arthur's
boy.”
“Margaret wrote to her for me,” said
Mrs. Allenby, in the same tone <f re
gret for another's folly. “Here is her
reply; and Margaret has just left her.
There were, 1 may tell you, differences
between us. I objected to tlie marriage.
Her father was a disreputable old liter
ary hack: went to tavern bars and that
sort of thing, and the girl herself, as 1
have heard, had not altogether a good
reputation. I hope it is not true. Still,
I declined to receive her until your let
ter came, and then, for tie: boy’s sake,
I made up my mind to overlook all un
pleasant matters, and Margaret wrote
to her at my request. There is her re
ply.”
CHAPTER IX.
A RECONCILIATION.
Had Michael Allenby only depended
on his respected sister-in-law’s word for
it, he might not have believed her. but
there was nothing except the truth in
his niece Margaret’s voice and eyes.
She spoke, too, in a tone of regret as to
Mary’s obdurate conduct, and there was
the plain unmistakable fact of the let
ter sent in reply to the one Margaret
had written at her mother’s request.
He spoke very decidedly when lie said
he would not go to Cranmore Square,
and Mrs. Allenby was secretly glad; but
she had her part to play, and played it
well.
“Of course she is very young," the
lady said, "and her character is natur
ally obstinate, still I have no wish to
say or think anything unkind now. Wt,
must not expect too much of her. \V
have to remember her early training
and lamentable surroundings, and so
every allowance is to be made for her.
Aixive all, there is Arthur’s boy to be
considered.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Michael, “that is
to be considered first of all.”
“It is bad enough that she should
have the care of him. even while he is
so young,” the lady went on; “but when
he grows older, and begins to under
stand tilings, it would be dreadful for
him to think of himself as the child of
a lodging-house keeper, and not what
one would call a respectable lodging
house either—wild young medical stud
ents who keep dreadful hours, and eld
erly bachelors from Heaven knows
where; a disreputable untidy old person,
who takes snuff and keeps a negro serv
ant.”
“You are mistaken, mamma,” Mar
garet said quietly; “there is but one
medical student in the house—a sweet
tempered, simple-hearted gentleman; if
he were otherwise George Hyde would
not make a friend of him. As for the
elderly gentleman, 1 just long to see
him. Mary literally loves him, and
uaby is never happy out of his rooms,
and the negro servant—that is so absurd
—he is a handsome creole or mulatto of
the lightest brown. I wonder who could
have told you such tilings?”
“I heard it from tire servants, my
dear.”
“Servants, my dear mamma; you
know how they let their tongues run
away with them. 1 should never speak
of them as reliable authorities.”
“Now I do not agree witli you there,”
Mr. Allenby said, with a smile of kind
ly humor at his niece. “I have found
that you generally can re-lie on the
statements of most servants, if you re
peat those statements; but you should
be an authority, as you are so frequents
ly at the house. Still, as your mother
correctly observes, it would never do to
let the little fellow grow up to think
lihnself the son of a lodging-house
keeper; but Uie thing is, how can we
bring this obstinate young lady to rea
son?"
“If there is no other way,” Mrs. Al
lenby said, “I will see her myself. She
will scarcely carry her ill-breeding so
far as to refuse to see her husband’s
THOMSON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 11, 1885.
mother.”
"Mary is not ill-bred, my dear ma
ma,” said Margaret’s tranquil voice;
"but you would scarcely expect her to
overlook, or forget, our neglect of her
for so many years, and be reconciled
just when it suits us.”
“Her good-breeding has not improv
ed you,’’ Mrs. Allenby said, with a hit- |
teruess shy could not suppress. “Y ou
treat me with no respect, and contra
dict me at every word."
“I am very sorry, Mamma,” and the
girl’s lips trembled; “but you are under
a misapprehension, and I like you to
know the truth. If yoit go you will be
received with courtesy, and after atime
you are sure to he good friends.” -
“What would you have me do?” and
the lady turned to her brother-in-law.
“Understand me that Ido not know
whether 1 shall ever learn to forgive or
like this girl, and if I go it will only be
for the sake of Arthur’s boy. Of courso
Ido not know what time may do. She
may be very lovable. Arthur found all
his happiness witli her, and Margaret
is entirely taken by her, as you see. I
What would you have mo do?”
“I think,” the old gentleman said, I
slowly, “I should go. It would be a :
very womanly and graceful thing to do.
The kindness in such a concession
would not fail tabring its own reward.
You may learn to-forgive and like each
other; in any case you will be doing
what is right, and that is always good;
for it is so easy to go wrong, to let pride
and stubborn temper lead us on, step
by step, till it is too late to return.”
lie spoke with some solemnity and a
touch of sadness too, as if lie hud some
such memory to repent. Mrs. Allenby
took her cue from that.
“I will go,” she said, “to-morrow. I
will not let her pride and stubborn tem
per lead me. step by step, into wrong
until it is too late.”
“Why not write first, or let Margaret
inform her of your intention? She will
be prepared then, aud in a better frame
of mind, perhaps.”
“I will write, and Margaret can speak
to her as well. We will leave nothing
undone since you desire this reconcilia
tion.”
“I do.”
Mrs. Allenby wrote that evening, and
set the letter before him to read. There
was no fault to be found in it; the tone
was conciliatory and kind, though the
lady had not abated a jot of her dignity.
Mary was wondering how to answer it
when her eccentric lodger arrived,
though it was quite early in tire morn
ing—so early that Mr. Barker, who was
standing at the window reading his pa
per while waiting for his breakfast, saw
the old gentleman alight from his cab,
blue spectacles, gout, and nil comtdete
and asked himself if he was bfigvnniu)
to have temporary attacks of insanity
“I would swear to the figure,” In
said, “and the carriage of theshouldeis
when getting down from the cab; but
then, tire gout as bad as ever and thoso
hideous spectacles, of course it cannot
be, and perhaps lain going wrong.
I had better read lip Forbes Winslow’s
treatise on soothing syrup -symptomatic
mania, I mean. X wonder if a little
music would do me good?”
Thinking thut it might, he began to
tune his violin, and after an interval of
about a minute something came thun
dering down Uie stairs, lie did not
know whether it was a chest, of drawers
or tire piano, hut his heart leaped up
into his throat, and when he ventured
to look out lie found it was only a huge
arm-chair.
“And if you do not hold thnt infernal
row,” roared the dreadful voice, “I will
jump through the ceiling and annihi
late you.”
“Jump!” said Mr. Parker, recklessly,
with all the voice he could muster, and
opened liis door about an extra inch pud
a half. “Jumpl” he repeated, “who
cares? You would not jump if you had
the gout. I don’t believe you ever had
the gout; you left it behind you when
you went .upstairs for .the baby I You
leave it behind you when you please.
Your blue frauds are simply spectacles
—I mean your blue spectacles are a
fraud. I will not stand it, sir, I—l’ll
go for a walk, there!'’
lie carried out this heroic resolution
promptly, as the girl brought in his
tray, and lie thought lie heard the old
gentleman coming. By the time lie
reached the street door, Martha spoke
to him.
“Never mind him, sir,” she said, stif
ling down a laugh; “it is only his way
and you gave him as pood as he sent.
Depend upon it, lie won’t do it when ha
finds you have got a spirit in you.
Speak like you did just now. I was
glad to hear it, and don’t spoil your
breakfast. Mrs. Allenby cooked it for y< >u
every bit, and made the coffee herself.”
“I will, Martha!” said Mr. Parker,
when he was in his own room again;
“why should I not? If lie were not such
a very old mail. I would really speak to
him. I would tell him how bad it is for
him at his age.”
Martha [mured out his coffee sooth
ingly, and he began his breakfast, lis
tening meanwh.le for tho dreadful
voice, hut he oniy heard it in a deep
bass laugh. It pained him rather, how
ever, to think he heard Mary s musical
voice laughing too.
“It is too bad,” he said to himself. “I
wish I had morecoinmand of my nerves.
When people treat me like a fool, I feel
like one. lam only myself, or what I
wish to be, when I am with Miss Allen
by!”
And it was too bad. .Mary told the
old .gentleman so. and he admitted it.
"But,” lie said, "how can one help it
when the fellow is so easily frightened?
If he came up and demanded an apolo
gy, or told me that but for my age he
would throw me out of the window, I
should like him all the better! Ilow can
he hope to get along in the world with
such a nerve system as liis?”
“The poor fellow may have inherited
it; I have heard Arthur say that is fre
quently the case.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Mr. Barker.
“Nervous people should not marry.
They never think what a curse they en
tail upon their children and prostority
—men and women likeonr friend. They
may be morally and physically brave
when they have time for relleclion, but
the sudden sound of a loud voiec or any
unexpected incident deprives them of
all self-possession and gives them a
temporary paralysis of mind and body.
I do not think you are nervous, my
dear!”
“I went into tho world very early,sir,
and learned it thoroughly before I had
time to be afraid of it.”
“I know,” he said, kindly; “your
father was rather a helpless man, and
you had to take care of him as well.”
“lie had been very brave,” said Mary;
“but the trouble he endured so patient-
ly broke him down. No one but a brave
man could have borne that trouble so
patiently.”
“Yes, that was him; be could endure,
bnt he could not fight,—set a stern and
savage front to the world, and beat or
wear down all that came before him,—
yet that is what must be done in these
days by all who think life worth living;
the others can only turn their faces to
the wall and die. Have you,” lie ask
ed, with one of his abrupt transitions,
“seen your Uncle Michael yet? ’
“Not yet, sir.”
“How is that?"
“He has not been here."
“If you wait for that. I am afraid you
will not see him," said Mr. Bark r. “Do
not set your pretty mouth so hard. He
has been told that Arthur’s mother
wrote to you, asking you to meet him
at her house.”
“That is quite
-And y&tmrfused to go?"
“I could not go. Aft t what I have
told you, Mr. Barker, could you expect
mo to? I know it was out of ne regal'd
for me. She only wanted to let Uncle
Michael see Arthur’s boy, and 1 was an
unwelcome but indispensable accessory.
I could not aud I will not,’ she added,
passionately. “Can you, Mr. Barker,
say that I am wrong?”
“My child,” he said, very gently, “it
Is not for me to say what is right or
wrong, lor I know what my own pride
and stubborn temper have done for me.
Sinking that question altogether, say
ing it is only the boy they want to see,
have some consideration for your Uncle
Michael.”
“Why can he not come here?”
“You see, dear, how difficult his posi
tion is. He could not very well coma
here since you have so distinctly de
clined his sister-in-law’s fully expressed
desire for a reconciliation. Do you
see?”
‘U did not think of that,” said Mary,
in perplexity; "but I do not feel as if I
could go.”
"Well, then, let him see the hoy.
George Hyde could take him—or Mar
garet. You would not mind that,
especially as 1 should most probably be
there.”
“No, I should not mind, much,” said
Mary, reluctantly.
“Well, then, that is arranged, so far.
We will have a day appointed. Unde
Michael is rather erratic in his move
ments, and though lie is supposed to be
staying in the house he has quarters of
liis own elsewhere. Will you suggest
this to your sister Margaret or Mr.
Hyde, or when you reply to the letter
you had this morning?"
“Did you know?” she asked, in sus
picion.
“Oil, yes. I see Uncle Micjiael every
day, and we talk over things; but 1 do
not want my name mentioned, or any
but yonrsell and George Hyde to know
that Michael Allenby and myself arc
acquainted. Dow did you think of an
swering tlJat hitter! ’’ ' ■ >
“I did not know. I was pondering
over it when you came in. I would
rather let Arthur go for a few hours
than see Mrs. Allenby just yet. I want
time. It would be so hard to meet her
after so long a time and what has pass
ed.”
“Perhaps you are right. You require
time to recover your miml; and it will
not matter so much for a few days if
Uncle Michael sees the child of liis old
favorite. Do not think, my girl, that
he has an unkind thought of you. I
have told him everything, and we. would
have been here long ago. but vou see
she stole a march upon us by asking you
to meet him there. Of course, as lie is
ready to admit, she could do no more.”
“And of course she made it appear
that I was declining to meet him?”
"It did look a little like that; but,
much to his surprise, she rather made
excuses for you, and then, as a second
concession, she wrote the letter you
have this morning.”
“I always thought her a clever wo
man,” Mary said, quietly—“one who
would never put herself in the wrong.
I will write to-day and tell her to come
when she pleases.”
“The child had better see Mrs. Allen
by first,” he suggested.
“If you think so.”
“it will smooth the way, and Roften
all things down,—show him that, al
though you are willing to please him,
you have no idea of losing your own
dignity. You will like Unde Allenby
when you see him, Mary."
“I am sure of that, sir.”
"If, by any chance, he should he there
this evening, and Margaret ealis upon
you. will you send the boy?’
“Will you be there as well?”
“Most likely. I shall not be far
away.”
“I will send him, then; but they must
not keep him long.”
"Name your own time for his return,
and Miss Allenby—Margaret—will keep
faith with you. Uncle Michael is in
love witlUiac, She must frnmwhwt lie
says of her, tie somethb/g ifkiTJou.”
“Not a bit,” said Mary; “Margaret is
rattier tall, and what men would con
sider very beautiful.”
“In disposition, I meant, my dear:
beauty is nothing, though it is as well
for a woman to have a little of il, if
only to set off her mind. Should I see
Uncle Michael this morning, as I very
likely shall, may I toil h m you will
send the hoy this evening?
“Yes, Mr. Barker. I will do what
ever you think best."
“Thank you,” and he kbsed her soft
cheek tendrly. “That old uncle will
lie rather jealous of me, I fancy."
“I may care as much for him in time,”
Mary began.
“Come—come,”Mr. Barker interrupt;
ed; “that is high treason. If I told him
that, I do not know what he would
think. The boy is not up yet, I sup
pose?” *
“Not yet. Would you like to see
him?”
“Yes. but I will not have him distur
bed. The Dutch, who are a prosaic
people, say that children should never
lie awakened, for they talk with the
angels when they sleep. Tell that
young fellow down stairs I was very
sorry to interrupt liis music, but the
sound of a fiddle drives my gout out of
its mind. Does he smoke?”
“I think so—cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes! open that drawer in the
cabinet and give bim the big pipe you
will see there; it is carved like a min
aret. and holds nearly an ounce of to
bacco. Give him one of those canisters
of Latakia—Hint’s It, and tell him I will
come and have a pipe with him some
day. He can accept it as a kind of
burnt offering, and advise him not ta
' make himself ill- with cigarettes.”
CnAPTEII X.
AX UNSPOKEN RECOGNITION.
Mr. M. P. Parker, watching from the
window to see his enemy re-enter the
cab which had been waiting for him,
was electrified by seeing the old gentle
man turn and give him quite a friendly,
if mischievous grin. He was not mis
taken, though he could hardly oredit
the evidence of his own senses. He was
still more surprised, five minutes later,
when Mary entered.
“Good morning, Mrs. Allenby,” ho
said, offering her a chair. “Do sit down,
if you have a minute to spare. I find it
quite impossible to study just yet. Do
you know, just now, when that old
gentleman went away lie smiled at me
in quite a friendly maimer, as if he
thought throwing arm-chairs at people’s
doors rather an agreeable mode of ask-
Jng f“r nnjntroductioii?"
“He is Vtry sorry. Mr. Parker,” said
Mary, with u smile in her sofvly-bril
liant eyes; “he would have come to
apologize, but he thought you would
not think it the worse if it came through
me.”
“My dear lady, he might throw tho
house at me, if he liked, on those con
ditions.” Mr. Parker knew what he
meant to convey, and Mary understood
him. “Of course if you wish mo to for
give him, aud not resent it, you know
n
“I do, Mr. Parker. You see, he is sin
cere in his regret; he requested me to
give you these, as a kind of peace-offer
ing—a pipe, I think, and some Latakia
tobacco. And ho is coming to smoke a
pipe with you some day. 1 was to tell
you particularly not to make yourself ill
by smoking cigarettes.”
“Good gracious me! My dear lady,
did yon ever see such a magnificent
pipe? Quite a work of aril Look at the
delicate tracery of those minaret spires,
or whatever they are meant for! X
should not he disposed to accept this,
but since you bring it. and I am not to
smoke cigarettes. I dare say he is light;
there is a burnt-papery flavor about
them, and they may be bad for the
nerves—he ought to know. Perhaps it
is smoking such pipes as this that have
made him so strong; and the Germans
smoke big ppies, and they do not know
what nerves are. Now, you know, this
is very kind of him. Age has Us pe
culiarities—”
"And they should be respected, or at
least endured,” said Mary, gravely; “but
not when they go too far. lam very
glad you spoke to lti;u as you did.”
“Did lie hear m??”
“Not distinctly; but he could tell that
vou were very angry, aud it seemed to
make an impression upon him. lie
rather lik"S a man who can defend him
elf.”
"Well, really, you know, Mrs. Allen
by, it wus time to speak, and I should
have come upstairs but I knew you were
there, and a scene between two such
men might have upset you.”
“It Would Indeed, Mr. Parker. You
were very kind to think of that. Will
you take tea with us this afternoon? 1
expect Miss Allenby here.”
“1 shall only he too delighted, if you
are quite sure I shall not be ill the way."
“Quite sure.”
“An angel,” he said, when she was
gone—“two angels. Wliat a magnifi
cent pipe. I will try it now. It may be
what I have wanted to soothe my nerves.
I never thought the cigarettes might be
injurious.”
It really was a magnificent pipe; the
bowl finely carved, and just colored at
the base to a level biscuit-brown; the
stem, witli an amber mouthpiece of six
inches, was nearly thirteen inches long.
Mr. Parker removed the wadding, ad
justed the plug, and filled it carefully.
It held nearly half-nn-ounce, and he
found it very soothing, so he filled it
again.
About the time he got to the end of
this lie began to think lie was on board
a channel steamer witli a rough sea run
ning; the carpet rose in waves and the
conch lie took refuge on swayed and
swung with him. Putting liis pipe safe
ly in its ease, with a last expiring effort
he felt his way along the wall into the
next room, and fell on the bed with an
indistinct idea that tile end of the world
hud come for him. That day lie smoked
no more.
But he slept so long that Miss AJlen
by had been in the house some time be
fore he awoke, and the pleasant clink
of tho tea things going past liis door
was the first sound he heard, lie look
ed at liis watch, it was four; he put his
head into the basin and emptied the
water over it. dressed with ari unhappy
consciousness of feeling and looking as
if he had been very drunk, and waited
to be sent for. lie had to wait a long
time, it seemed, when lie was dying for
a cup of tea.
Much as they liked him, he would
have been in the way. for Hie two girls
had a great deal to say. Mary had al
ready answered the letter from Arthur’s
mother, but it had not arrived when
Margaret lefkjiouiiv and Mary had to
tell tier the contents.
“It is very curious," Margaret said,
“but Uncle Michael, who had been out
since quite early this morning—he is a
very early riser—came home not long
since, and said he should very much
like to see the boy this evening as iie
is going away for a day or two, perhaps
for a week or two, and he thought you
would not mind letting him go for an
hour or so with me.”
"I made the same suggestion in the
letter I sent a little before twelve,” said
Mary, with a smile; “and I will see
your mother at any time within the
next few days.”
“Did you say that, too?”
“Yes.”
“Dearest Mary, I am so glad.
Uncle Michael seemed so much to
Wish it.”
“And you wish it, too,” said Mary,
wiping the tears from her friend’s eyes,
and kissing her; “but it must make no
difference to us, Margaret. You will
come here just the same, for I shall
never bn at home in your house; my
visits must necessarily be purely formal.
I can accept the position, and that Is
all. My home is here, and here you
must see me when we want to love each
other.”
i “I know,” Margaret said; “arvl I
1 woiild rather come here. Still, I shall
i be glad lo see you received on a proper
| footing at our home.”
| Mary could have said how little she
; cared for that, but she would not pain
: her friend.
| “Another curious thing,” Margaret
said, "is that Uncle Michael asks very
few questions about, you, though lam
often in liis room; he likes me to be
th<re and talk to him."
I “Perhaps he does not wish to know
much about me,”
“I am sure it is not that, for he speaks '
of you in the kindest manner. Some
times 1 think lie must have some source
of information; he did, If you remem
ber, mention a friend who knew Ar
thur and you.”
“Has he mentioned this friend since?”
“Never. Mamma found courage to
put the quest, on once ns to who this
friend could be, and he simply said, in
his quiet way, ‘simply a very old friend,
madam’—he said ‘madam’ as he does
when he is not quite pleased—‘and oue
whose word I can depend upon.’ Have
you the least idea?”
“We have known so many people,”
Mary said—“ Arthur as a doctor, and I
as a lodging-house keeper. It may have
been one of his patients, or my lodger;
it does not matter, Uncle Michael will
see me for himself, I daresay, after
your mother and I have met.”
"Another curious thing," Margaret
said.
“You seem to deal in curiosities to
day,” Mary interposed.
“Yes, but this is very, very curious.
Uncle and George Hyde have become
inseparable friends. They sit and talk
of Arthur by the hour together.”
“There is nothing curious in that,
Margaret; George was always Arthur's
truest friend.”
“Yes, but they are more confidential
than that would make them; and now,
dear, had we not better have tea aud
dress baby? I promised to be home
with him before six.”
The tea was rung for and Mr. Parker
sent for in the ten minutes thnt seemed
such an age to him. Baby was having
a game on his own account with him in
the big room, aud was brought in so
tumbled and full of glee that dress
ing him for a reception seemed to in
volve some time and consideration. Ho
wanted to commence another fracas
with Air. Parker directly he saw him.
“And 1 really am not equal to it,”
Mr. Parker pleaded. “I have had too
much tobacco, little man. I filled that
magnificent pipe twice, you know,”and
he addressed botli ladies apologetically.
“I ought to have remembered that though
one would lie very soothing, there would
he too much nicotine in two—the pipe
Air. Barker so kindly gave me, you
know."
“Bakol” said the baby on the alert,
instantly, on the sound of his friend’s
name—“Unky Bakol”
“Yes, my little man—Uncle Bako, as
you call him, and a very objection
able Bako I used to think him, though
wo are the best of friends now.”
“Is that your eccentric lodger?” Mar
garet asked.
“ Yes, the dear old gentleman who is
so kind to me and baby. Every gentle
man is an uncle or unky to baby, and
Bako is his attempt at Jlarker. lie war
hero this morning, but' not for long.”
Much more might hnvo been said con
cerning Unky Bako, but tho time was
going, ami Master Arthur had to he
dressed. Mr. Parker retired, not quite
knowing what to do with himself unless
lie took a walk round the square. He
cast a longing look Sfrthe magnificent
pipe and was nearly tempted, but the
recollection of liis channel journey in
the morning made him pause, so he
went for a walk round the square. He
was sure, at least, of seeing Miss Allen
by again, and if lie judge*d liis time well,
touching her hand once more. As il
happened, however, ho missed them by
about a minute: the carriage had called
for them. Nothing less than the car
riage and pair, witli a liveried servant
by the coachman’s side, was good
enough for Arthur Allenby’s little son.
Michael Allenby was in a singular
state of excitement and expectation foi
him, while waiting for the carriage; so,
in truth, were his brother’s widow and
Victoria. Ho paced the whole length
of tho drawing-room to and fro, with
liis hands behind him, and did not beat
t.lie roll of the carriage wheels, heard
nothing till Airs. Allenby said—
“ They are here.”
Then lie sat down at the end of the
room, while the others stood nearer tho
door. They saw the glorious little fel
low, with his beautiful Saxon face and
curly hair, and stooped to intercept
him, but he broke from them with a
glad cry of “Unky Bako!" ran across
the room to Alichael Allenby, and
climbing on the old gentleman’s knee,
he nestled down to him quite oblivious
of the rest.
(To be continued.)
“ Painting It lted. ”
A citizen who was waiting at the cor
ner of Jefferson avenue and Wavnc
street yesterday was accosted by a man
about 27 years old, who said he wanted
a little information. When told to
drive ahead he asked:
“Almost every paper I pick up has
something in il about somebody painting
the town red. I don’t see any red
round Detroit to speak of. Do they
paint the buildings, or sidewalks, oi
what?”
“Aline innocent friend," replied the
citizen, “the term docs not refer ex
actly to paint aud brushes. If you
should como in hero to clean out De
troit, or if you are going on a high old
spree, or if you intended to raise an ex
citement, you should slant yolir hat
over your lo:t ear, spit ovtir your right
shoulder, and announce in a loud voice
that you were going to paint the town
red.”
"Because red is tho color of blood—
fire—lightning—red hot times, oh?”
“Exactly.”
“Kind of a figurative expression f”
“Just so.”
“Well. I’m glad I've found out, and
I'm much obleeged,” said the stranger,
as lie walked away.
Two hours later lie was conducted to
tho Central Station by two officers,
four-fifths drunk, and a tough case to
handle. He hud a black eye, a bloody
nose, a bleeding car, aud had been
rolled in the dirt until he was a sight to
see. AVhen the Captain asked the
charge the prisonor replied:,
“lied paint. Captain—put ’cr down
red paint. Been all round paintin’ 'ar
town red. Town been all round
paintin' me red. Whoop! Lively old
town! Lively old red! Got painted
till’er can’t rest! Put ’or down red
paint—more’n a bur’l of it!”— Detroit
free Trees.
Women Gamblers.
There is a maried woman residing in
this city says The liroo! hjn Time t, who
two weeks ago went with a friend of
her own sox to the races at Coney
Island for the first time. The friend
was a regular attendant at the neigh
boring tracks, ami bet her money as
regu'arly as she look her seat on tho
grand stand. A regard for strict truth
compels the statement that she lost
with about equal regularity. The
isro. 10.
novice, wno haa never seen a horse
race before, aud who knew as much
about the merit* of a thorough-bred a*
Jumbo does about Sanskrit, was in
duced to bet a *5 bill. With the
charming recklessness ao characteristic
of the sex, she picked out the horse rid
den by the neatest looking and beet
dressed jockey for her first gamble. She
won. Day after day saw her in the
same scat at Brighton Beach or Sheep
head Bay, and on Thusrday evening
last she had acquired enough of the
slang of the betting ring to announce
to some friends that she was “just #BOO
ahead of tho game.” This is no fanci
ful story. Its truth can be vouched for
by a very prominent official of this city.
The woman referred to i* respectable,
and moves in good society, but in two
weeks she has become a confirmed
gambler. No manly man asm sea wo
men bet as they do now a ukjn at the
local race traces, and watch- the tm
healthy excitement, the anxiety, ami
often llie anguish revealed in their
faces while the result of a race in
which they are interested is in donbt,
without a sense of shame and sorrow
for the sordid exhibition. Tills gam
bling by women, which is assuming
colossal proportions, ought to bo
stopped on decent race-tracks at one*.
The time will certainly come—and h i
not far off—when it must be stopped.
It is not a pleasant sight to see the
mothers of families and loose women
sitting side by side fevered with the
same excitement.
Oscar Wilde has evolved anew stylo
of iiat, which he hopes will supersede
tho prevailing storc-pipo shape. It
bears a strong resemblance to a flower
pot set bottom upward.
Our President*.
Mr. Cleveland will be the twentr
second president of the country. Of
the presidents, seventeen were elected
and four—Tyler, Fillmore, Johnson,
and Arthur—succeeded to the office
from the vice presidency. Thomas Jef
ferson nnd John Quincy Adams were
elected by the house of representative*
in default of an election by the elector
al cullevo, and Rutlierforil B. Hayes
was declared elected by the commission
selected to decide the disputed election
of 1876. Seven of the presidents—
Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Mon
roe, Jackson, Lincoln and Grant—were
elected a second time.
Gen. Grant was the youngest of the
presidents when inaugurated, being 47;
Fierce and Garfield were 49; Polk and
Killmoro, SO; Tvler, 51; Lincoln, 62;
Van Buren and 'Taylor, SS; Washing
ton aud Johnson, 57: JefTerson, Maal
on, and John Quincy Adams, 58;Mon
roe, 59; John Adams and Jackson, 62;
Buchanan, 66; Harrison, 68. Garfield
died the youngest, not having reached
his fiftieth birthday; Polk was 64 at hi*
death; Lincoln, 56; Pierce, 65; Taylor.
66; Washington and Johnson, 67; Har
rison, 68; Tyler and Monroe, 7S; FilL
more, 78; Buchanan, 77; Jackson, 7#;
Van Buren, 80; John Quincy Adam*.
81; Jefferson, 83; Madison, 85; John
Adam-, 91.
The honor of furnishing president*
has not been evenly distributed among
the states; Virginia, Massachusetts.
Tennessee, New York, Ohio, Louisiana-
New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, and
Illinois furnishing all the incumbents so
far. Cleveland will be the third presi
dent from New York—Van Buren and
Arthur being liis predecessors.
It is somewhat remarkable that no
member of the United States senate
should ever have been elected to tb*
presidency at the time of his incum
bency. Disregarding the fact that ex
perience in this body ought to fit a man
for the high office, the peoplo have ig
nored the senators. The army has fur
nished a large number of presidents,
and, with the exception of Hancock.
McClellan, aud Scott, no military man
nominated for the office has failed of
election. Washington owed his eleva
tion to his success m the field; Jack
son’s record in the war of 1812 was tha
wave which lifted him into the whit*
house; and Harrison, Taylor, Pierce,
Grant, Ilaye •, and Garfield wore the
epaulets of a general before they were
honored with the chief magistracy of
the nation. >
There are now two ex-presidente liv
ing—Grant and Haves—and after th*
4tli of March Mr. Arthur will make a
third.
Too Busy to Think of Dogs. •
Mr. Busytnan is looking up and down
the street for a lost dog. He is distress
ed because, he says, bis family is so
fond of the dog, which bus' been in the
h use nearly nine years. Already ho
has attempted to laid and whistle homo
a hairless Mexican dog, a big black
Newfoundland, a red Irish setter, and
a black-and-tan.
“What kind of a dog was it?” asks a
policeman who has been watching Mr.
Bu'iyman and is growing suspicious of
him.
Mr. Busyman is startled.
“I declare,” he says, “I don't know.
I never saw the dog in my life, you
know; often heard my wife and tbo
children speak about him, but forgot
what they called him. I’ll go home and
gel a description.”
A bus., mau of many cares is not the
kind of man to seek for a lost dog.—
Turlington Hawkaye.
Scene on a railway platform at Hei
delberg—Traveler to University etu
dent: “Sir, you are crowding; keep
back, sir.” U. S. (fiercely): “Don't
you like it? Allow me to tell you that
I am at your service at any time or
place.” Traveler (benignantly: “Ah,
indeed, that is ve y kina of you. Just
carry this sacbel for me la the hotel.”
German Toper.
Sweet Is the voloe of the maiden fair:
Bright Is the alow of the rising pieont
Soft are the sephyre that etirthe sir: “
Loud Is tbo blast of the trombone's tune.
The maiden will sleep ere the morning frays
Tho glow of the mw n will fade away!
The zephyrs will die when the ntght It gooes
But the blasted trombone will still play en.
—Eomervillo Journal
The light of her eve* wee a shining blue,
The ont of her lips a ruby rrd:
And this wae all that he thought to do.
Aa he placed his hand on her welhiioleed heed.
To steal one long tranacient klea:
Ami he bonded overwent on bla toes,
Bnt ell the remembrance of hia bllaa
la the soars of fingernails on bl* nose.
—Cheru busco People.
At a cheap restaurant; “Will you
have a 25-cent dinner, sir, or a S5-cent
one?” “Wliat is thedifferwncebotween
the two?” “Ten cents, sir."— french
Fun.
“Just look at that dress; my, don't
she put on lots of agony?” remarked a
Heights lady to her husband as they
mot a lady on the street. “I think it*
her husband who puts on the sgony
when he gets tho bills,” ho replied as
he looketlnskance at his wife. •
An English surgeon says that shaving
Is a deadly practice, and if steadily in
dulged iD shortens Hf*bv tore.- 1 rears.