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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.