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VOL. XIV.
THE PARTING HOUR.
There is something in the “parting liour n
Will chill the warmest heart—
Yet kindred, comrades, levers, friends.
Are fated all to part ;
Bat this I’ve seed—and many a pan;
Mas pressed it on my mind —
That the one who goes is happier
Than those he leaves behind.
Ko matter where the iouruey be,
Adventurous, dangerous. far,
'’To the wild deep of oleak frontier,
To solitude or war—
Still souietiog cheers the heart that dares
In ail of human kind.
And thoy who go are happier
Than those they leave behind.
The bride goes to the bridegroom’s home
Ahh doubting aud with fearp.
But does not Hope her rainbow spread
▲cross her cloudy fears ?
Ale-*! the mother who remains.
What comfort can she. tiud,
But this- the gone is hippier
Than one she leaves behind.
Ilave you a friend —a comrade dear ?
An old and valued triend ?
Be sure your term of sweet concourse
At length will have an end !
And when you pATt —as part you will—
O take it not unkind,
If ha who goes is happier
Thun you h© leaves behind !
God wills it so -and so it is
Tha pilgrims ou their way,
Though wejik and worn, more cheerful are
Than all the rest who stay.
And when at laaj, poor jpun, subdued,
Ides down Jo death rtwgued,
May he not be happier far
Thau those he leaves behind.
[Coutinuvd from first page of last week]
The Widow’s Lodger.
CH\mv xi.
A IMUOIITKRS MERCY.
Such an unexpected action on the
child’* part to'*); his fn-nds bysurpi ise,
rt.d for tire fir.t few moments tlu-iv was
some fmbarra.viM.-iit; but the old iren
tlcman only toldcd the little fellow
closely to him, and looked down very
fondly lit the winsome face.
“Ufi arlv a case of love at first sight.”
he said, "or else lie mistakes me for
someone else. Who or what is Uuky
BilfiO?
"Ilia pot name for Mr. Ifarker,Mary's
livloei,” said Margaret,\\:’,h a ki'iian I
sjuiet glance at him; “and from what I
have heard of his appearance, the jjun
enU'points of resemblance would b *
msrr uuonijh-to account for tin* mistake
on flic child’s part.”
"i’eimit me u> feet flattered. I h ve
heard of him from Mr. Hyde, and al
most f eel inclined to make his acquaint
ance. 1 suppose 1 ought to be grateful
to him for such a favorable introduc
tion to Arthur s boy.
Looking up. he saw Margaret re
garding liiiu with a cuiiuin i.prlil of iu
t-ITO'-ation in her ey es, i1 o answered
her with a smile, and, without a word
ti-mjr wipettr-n -tnqe.iiwintti O. una e—
stand each olner.
When Mr. Hyde came in, linlf-an
hour later, he found Master Arthur
playing on the lloor with Uncle Michael's
Match-chain and seals, and a handful
of qolii and silver which he had uncere
moniously fished up out of the old p-en-
Uenjavi s waistcoat pocket. Tile little
fellow laid made friends with hisjjra.nl
r ia, but di-i not care much tor his Aunt
Victoria. Passionately fond of him as
M’s* A lienin' could h..\ b on. she Lad
fibcr.fitclotisly'a manner that repelled
embiren. Siie did not like to ltave a
fold of I’iee tumbled, or a tress of hair
set awry; and the boy, lindini; that he
was only expected to sit still and be
kissed, declined iiis share of the bar
gain, and struggled down. Infant as
lie was. she resented it. Mrs. Allenby
con’d not sntisfv thP tierce hunger of
her love for Arthur's boy; every time
she looked at him she longed to have
him all her own. The bitterest tiling
in her mind at present was Unit in an
hour or two he would have to leave her
and go back to Iliat girl who was only
his mother. To be only his mother
counted very little with the lady of Or
thorpe Square when lifr own son was
the father. No one could have fought
more resolutely for her maternal rights,
and no oite would have been less willing
to give them to another.
“I see hetiiaki'S himself at home,”
Mr. Hyde said, taking him from the
floor upsjde down, and swinging him as
high as the chandetier. "What do
you think of him. Uncle Michael?”
"lie is Arthur over again, George;
everything Twould desire, lie careful
of him,”
"There is nodanger.” laughed George,
"lie would m ;ke his tortune as an
acrobat,” and he took the baby round
tjic room astride on his shoulders. “Did
he make friends easily V”
‘'That was very curious,” said Mrs.
Alleuby; "he ran straight past Victoria
and me, and went straight to Mr. Al
ieuby. Anyone would have thought
they had met before.”
“Depend upon it. Master Arthur is
wise iu his generation.” said George.
“He has a weakness for elderlv gentle
man wdio carry large goid watches and
plenty ,of sovereigns and silver for
luuvtoplay with. Mr. Barker has spoiled
him for the society of ladies, lie as
sociate* elderly gentleman with a cargo
of toys, and grey hair and eye-glasses
with unlimited sweetmeats, including
preserved ginger.”
“Uirky Bako.” said the boy, patting
Michael's cheek.
“Well,” said George, gravely; “If
TTnele Michael had the gout very badly,
wore blue spectarlm, and was generally
slovenly and brusque, he might pass at a
distance for Cnky Bako, as you call
him; at present, young man, you are
not so complimentary as you intend to
be. U*ky Bako certainly did not win
y'btfr rove by the beauty of hi* personal
apiwarnnce.”
‘‘But be must be a nice old gentle
man.” Margaret said, "or Mary would
no be so fond of bim.”
"He is just as I have described bim,
Maggi, but I suspect he found big way
to her heart through the boy.”
“Or being very rich and very old,”
said Mrs. Allenby, “It may be worth
her while to be fond of him. invalid old
gentlemen in the hands of designing
people have made strange wills before
this.”
George laughed outright.
, “That never occurred to ine.” he said,
"but perhaps you have hit it. After all,
why should she not look out for the
main chance, and we have to remember
that the poor girl has no expectations;
she has not a relative in the world ex
cept by marriage, and whatever may he
done for her boy would scarcely be ex
tended to her.”
“Tour remark is verv sensible.” said
Mrs. Allenby.
“It is very cruel,” said Margaret,
warmly, "and I am ashamed of George;
how could any of us. or anyone be kind
to the child, make him rich if we had
the means, ami neglect his mother?”
‘‘ln legal matters, my dear,” observed
Uncle Michael, "the mother in such a
case as we are supposing, does not en
ter into the contract; the boy’s natural
guardians are chosen as the trustees of
his money till be is of Rge, and mean
t-me a small but sufficient allowsnoe is
made to her. No other way would do;
for instance the mother may be a young
widow who might marry, take the
money right out of the family, aud leave
the boy a pauper.”
“Mary would not do that,” said Mar
garet,
“We will give her credit for being
everything that is good, my dear; but
suppose, for instance, I had a quarter
ot a million to leave this boy instead of
a of—a—ahem—few- hundred pounds.
And 1 so devised it that she had the in
terest till he attained his majority. Have
you any idea what his income would be,
at say from four to live per cent?”
“l iom ten to thirteen thousand a
year,” said Victoria, quickly.
"1 had not the slightest idea,” said
Margaret.
“No, tny dear,” observed the old gen
tleman, shaking his head. “Vou are
sadly remiss in matters of business.
Victoria would be a fortune to a pro
fessional man; she would look after his
interest and her ow n; but do you think
any man in his senses would leave the
control of from t n to thirteen thou
sand a-vear to a girl who would be rich
tw ice over on as many shillings?”
“Certainly not,” said Mis. Allenby,
promptly.
"1 do not know,” Margaret said, her
heart swelling with indignation. “I do
not know what any man in his senses
or out of them would do; but I am sure
Mary would u her money wisely and
well, whether she counted it by thou
sands of pence, shillings, or pounds.
People who have been used to plenty of
money are not always the most wise or
generous with it.”
"You forget yourself, my pet." Mrs.
Allenby said sweetly; “tve were only
t,opp;i.dng a casa.”
And Margaret said no more; her
mother was silent too —she was going
far into the possibilities. Her brotln r
in-law was more l’kely to lie the posses
sor of a quarter of a million or more
than a few hundreds, bo far us careful
inquiry would go, si c kmw it to be so.
And lie was old. lade, and strong, and
with an iron constitution; but he was
Just one of those big, heavy men who.
if they are taken ill. die almost sudden
ly, or do not last king; and then, if "that
g:rl” were not iu the way. she herself,
as little Arthur's natural guardian,
would have control of the child and
perhaps his money.
“Although i think with yon.” she
said, turning with uiu x|e-et and kindm s
to her younger dan unr. “that Alary
w otftrt use her me-orn ■ - tr*n trow wnAx.
whatever it might be, it is as vou say
about people who have always been
used to plenty—they are not the meat
wise or generous with it. Now Marry
appears to have a re.it deal of common
sense, and since the hoy has been here
I will call main her.”
“When, ninimu.i?”
“To-morrow. You can go early in the
day. George shall bring me later on.
She must be an excellent mother; we
can see that by too child, baby as he is;
he Ims splendid h< altli and his m tuners
nr" so pretty; I aluvut begin to think I
shall like, her at lirst sight!”
"If not at first, yon will very soon,”
Marpsret said; “Mary is not difficult to
deal with.”
Baby's visit seemed likely to be attend
ed with the happiest results. All tiie
rancor Mrs. Allenby had cherished
against her daughter-in-law seemed to
have gone. She spoke of the child
proudly,—his mother’s evident care of
him,—his pretty manners,—and her ex
quisite taste in dress.
"And I must have misjudged her!”
she said, with generous candor, when
the boy bad gone home with Margaret,
George Hyde acting ns escort. “It is a
pity we have not met before.”
“A great pity,” Baid Affcliael; “it
would have made things better for one,
at least.”
“For one?” and she looked an in
quiry.
“For Arthur. He was fond of you,
and it preyed upon his mind; he was
delicate, and the hard work oh foot
helped to kill him.”
“So 1 told her the day of the funeral,
Michael. But we must forgive her
now.”
The old mau shook his head silently,
as he left the room.
“You may depend upon it,” Victoria
said, "he will never lejive her a penny.”
“We can depend on nothing/' Mrs.
Allenby replied, "unless we make it as
certain as we can for ourselves. Michael
has his weak moments, and we do not
know wiiat that gfrt may do witliliim.”
“Well, it does not matter to ns,” said
the girl, “we are rich enough.”
“Rich enough.” and Mrs. Allenby
turned upon her with startling bitter
ness. “Are you fool enough to believe
that? Why, wlien I paid your father’s
debts I had scarcely a thousand pounds
left, and you know the rate we have
lived at since. If I had not made it
well-known that my husband's wealthy
brother was coming home, we should
have been swept into the, street before
this. The very lease of the house is
pledged, there is a bill of sale on the
furniture, the horses belong to the corn
merchant, and the carriage is a builder’s
in Icing Acre. Our income is just
enough from one half-year to Uie next to
pay the laundress and servants’ wages
and keep off our most pressing trades
men.”
’.Mother!”
“Yes; mother. And if your uncle hail
not come home I should very likely
have taken a close of something from
your father's medicine case, and left
you to fight through h without me.”
"And you have k< pt this to yourself
all these years,” Victoria said, slowly,
“if anything goes wrong now, 1 lor one
shall never forgive yon.”
CHAPTER XII.
IIAJSY’S ILLNESS.
If Mrs. Allenby bad expected her
eldest daughterto b<*ui prised or fright
ened she was disapjminted, and she her
self was not prepared for the long look
of slow resentment Victoria gave her.
The words stuug her and haunted her
when the girl had gone. “If anything
goes wrong now, I for one shall never
forgive you,”—arid that was a daugh
ter’s mercy; her reward for keeping the .
trouble to herself.
When Michael first came home, his
THOMSON, GEORG-IA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18, 1885.
sister-in-iaw nan intended to tell him.
j a d it would have been her wisest
■ course, but be was a difficult man to ap
proach. In his behavior to her there, had
always been an undercurrent of grim,
good-humored irony; he was one of the
very few who knew exactly what she
had been, and her stately imitation—an
; almost unconscious imitation—of the
! duchess she had served only amused
him. He knew, too, how hard she hud
driven his brother along the working
| road of his profession, for the sake of
j keeping up appearances, till he broke
■ down under the strain, and he did not
like her the better for tt; but where his
brother's children were concerned he
would have beeu more than kind, more
than generous.
j She had, however, let the chance go
by. He had questioned her as to her
! circumstances, and she answered in a
way Which led him to infer that they
: wer e just as he saw them. If he took
I the trouble to inquire further, she was
not aware of it; hut her creditors were
; quite satisiled; the veritable Michael
j Allenby, so often spoken of by her, had
| arrived and was located in her house.
They saw liim in the carriage with her
and her daughters, and they knew that
he was nearly a millionaire. They took
her orders, and did not trouble her with
accounts. They no longer looked upon
her as a doctor’s widow with a doubtful
j income and no ready money; she was
| Michael Allenby’s sister-in-law, and to
have asked who lie was would have been
| like inquiring as to the monetary status
of a Uotliscliild.
Mrs, Allenby went to Oranmore
Square next day, and her horses Stepped
as if no mercenary consideration had a
lien upon them. George Hyde rode
with her, curious to see how she would
meet her son's neglected widow;lie saw
that she was making mental prepara
tions for it.
Mary and Margaret were in Mary’s
1 own sitting-room when they arrived; it
I would have been termed an ante-mom,
I being quite at the back of the house;
1 but it was long and large, and would
I not have let so well as any of the others;
that,—as George told Mrs. Allenby with
i quiet. nYi-chief,—was only why Mary
| kept it for her- If.
j “lint, go.ja Heavens!" said that lady
.n dismay, "you l ever nu an to say she
: willVeccivi lor Unci' Michael there?'’
“i uni afra'n! Hie uiusi.' sod George;
i “she ecuiii not ven well as:; him to the
kitchen or her b in un, an 1 all the rest
! "Oil. I!.." is ", its t- 1 dreadful. I
That old
gen tii man must go; 1 will tell u>r so.”
"Yu" had much belter tell him to,’ 1
i raid George
i "Oh. Iv, hi; l v ender if he is at homo,
-'•iieli; e would never 1 • '.ve me it ho
sun Arthur's wife anti child, in the
1 un: ly < f the case, pushed array in a
: Gn!' ! ■ k v.i'mi such as my butler de
■ ito s' in. Dear mot the reality
■ m er sine .. me before.”
<""> ■ \ smiled. He had spent
' luU m.clj
room, r.nu could very Willingly 'have
s; -ei hi- lifetime there hud it been
| m < "S',, v.
'Audit was in this dull back room
; Mery re.-, ved her husband’s mother
w ill a ci'.hn and qitu-t grace, and a
(i; Uiiiy which took that lady by sur
prise. Mrs. Ailriiby. true to the rule
she had set herself tophiv, put. h r arms
round the girl’s neck and k,sscd her
with tearful eyes.
"It is too lute now," she said, “to
speak of what might have been if we
had met before; I only hope it is hot too
lata for us to learn to love each other.”
“Not so bad,” George said to himself.
“I wonder where she got it from, and
how will Mary answer it?”
Not even as lie expected; but with
her sweet voice, low and steady, and no
sign of a tear, she answered so far in
Mrs. AllenbyH own words.
“It is too late to speak of what might
have been if we had mit le fore, but it
is not too late to let the future speak
for itself.. I am glad you were pleased
with Artie. Margaret tells me Mr. Al
ienin' was delighted with him.”
I>r. Hyde said to himself this was
well done. She had, in a few words,
accepted the reconciliation without
losing her ow n dignity or throwing a
shadow of blame on Arthur’s mother.
In a few words more she had led the
conversation into a safe channel, and
five minutes later the only one not quite
at ease was Mrs. Allenby herself.
She had a smile with every word she
spoke—a smile for every word she list
ened to; went through the events of
the preceding evening, from baby’s ex
traordinary instinct in finding out Uncle
Michael to <tlie moment of departure,
and all the time her heart was full of a
deadly, unforgiving rage. She had ex
pected a ditferent reception—a lowly
spoken, grateful humility—a recogni
tion in face, and voice, and drooping
figure of the concession she had made,
and there was nothing of the kind. The
sweet voice was steady, the soft eyes
proud and thougliffiil; tha girl’s man
ner well-bred and self-possessed. Mrs.
Allenby acknowledged the charm of
these things, and luted her the more
bitterly.
“I feel,*’ she thought, “as if I could 1
not rest until that girl is dead.”
“Speaking of your Uncle Michael,”
she said, “reminds me that he may
come here, at any time, and he must not
see you like this.”
“In black, do you mean?” asked Mary,
innocently.
“No, my dear child, but in this room.
It is just a similar one to that I had ar
ranged for my butler, and he absolutely ;
refused to sleep iu it.”
“1 do not sleep here,” said Mary; “this
is my sittiug-ro'im, my bed chamber is
in front. It is large and open, and so i
much better for baby’s health. Most
people make a mistake about their
sleeping-rooms; when both cannot he
)arg“, they should choose the smaller
for the day time. As for butlers, I do
not know their habits or what they ex
pect.”
" You do not understand me, my dear
child. I mean that it would never do
for yon to receive my brother Michael
here, for though everything has been
explained most satisfactorily, he would
still be shocked to find Arthur's wife;
shut away at the back of the house. |
You must, you really must, get rid of
that old gentleman in the drawing
room. I will pay the rent with pleas- I
ure.”
“Thank you, madaroe,” said Mary,
with a resolute, negative gesture of her
pretty head. “I could not think of it
for a moment. Nothing would induce
me to disturb Mr. Darker.’•’
“But consider how it may injure your
prospects.”
“With whom?”
“I'ticlc Michael.” ;
“Whatever prospects T nm liave, and
Icertainly havcuoexpeclatious, will not
be injured by this. I haw met many
kind people since I It tfe been alone,
but Mr. Barker is the 1; ihdest. I should
be very sorry to lose lilrUi ihi will never
leave me through any unit or at any
suggestion of mine.” .
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Allenby,
“it is for you to decide, of i nurse. This
is not my house; still I think it almost
reprehensible to ruu th" risk of offsnd
! mg him. Do think of K: What do you
j say, George?”
! "Pray do not ask me, tny dear lady. I
j am so entirely an advocate of letting
people have their owe‘iv when they
! can afford it. As for IN’” Michael, I
I do not really think he Aid mind; and
| Mr. Barker might not e'c.i to go.”
I “But he must, if told
| “There is a IcgwUiir . .
j but Mr. Barker is a miffi. " m would be
i very likely to burricudc'ifcmself in his
rooms and keep a load 'd revolver on
the table. He thinksaibihihg of throw
ing the furniture at peopie."
j Then followed some anecdotes of Mr.
Barker’s temper that ti. ;!• Mrs. Allen
by’s heart sink, and she wondered how
Mary could have such a dreadful per
son in the house.
“Now that we have broken ths ice,
1 you may expect ms very often.” she
said at parting. We meet on quite
new terms, and wilt have no by-gones.
Is that understood?" '
“That is my wish," said Mary.
Mrs. Allenby keptjhcr word, and was
a frequent visitor. She never by any
chance caught a glimpse of Mr. Barker,
, as she told Uncle Michael with a sense
| of injury; but she made progress with
! Mary, though the progress was slow.
, Mary thought Artloc’s mother was
Sony for the past, though she was too
! proud to say it in wnnWpbut many little
, acts of kindness showed a wish fora
better understanding.
Perhaps they were never drawn so
j near together as when baby fell ill, and
never might have been. Dr. llydc said
it was an ordinary infantile complaint,
! but it filled the house with terrible
! anxiety, and Mrs. Al’imby took up her
1 quaru-rs there, to be near him night
i and day,
—' ” i
CHAPTER XIII.
The night and day spoken of by Mrs.
Allenby. in her resolve to nurse the
baby proved to lie but a figurative ex
pression. She would have stayed, but
1 Dr Hyde told her there was no real
dang. r. and that he W; S licit r left to
liis mother.
“You si; all hear how he is every day
' and twice a day if you like,” Dr. Ilyilo
i said, "but you must not so" him too
lu cj'uently. The plain truth is, he has
nut grown accustom'd to you yet, anil
vou are more La-fly lo disturb him than
i otherwise; liis baby fancies must be in
dulged as imicli as if lie were an older
i patient, and Im cannot have too much
j sleep or too much quitj,’’
Mrs. Aikailty g:<..-S%i but it n cnand
. lmid, for she Iqvcil tflat child as she
i had never loved tail one before, livery
i day, and sometimes twice a day, a mes
senger was seul from Ortlmrpe Square,
! and went hack w ith the consoling reply
—“baby was a little better,” or,'"baby
was much the sums, no worse.” This
had to satisfy them all—even Margaret,
but she was admitted when others were
not.
The one, however, admitted most of
all, and even asked for by baby himself,
was Inky Buko. The old man went
about so noiselessly that Mr. Hyde sug
gested the gout Imd been frightened
away by his little favorite's danger,
slight as it was. Uncle Michael had
gone, to Bristol, and the time of liis re
turn was uncertain; but lie sent affec
tionate inquiries, and letters were sent
to him every morning.
It was curious to Alary to see how
Arthurs 1 itlie life hail become entwin
ed with that of her eccentric lodger.
The old man would piny with him,
nurse him, or sit at his bedside by the
hour together, just as might be required
of him; he newer tired,—lds patience
never gave way. There was something
pathetic in the beauty which grew into
Ins rugged face while toe child was ill.
lie had a kind word for everyone in the
house, even for Mr. Parker, who crept
about the house on the tips of liis toes,
and inquired how baby was every hour
or so.
“You will excuse me, sir,” lie said,
meeting Air. Barker on the stairs one
day, “but would you mind telling uie
how the baby is?”
“Better,” said the old gentleman In
a whisper, “Bring your pipe and come
up and stay with uie Mi an hour.”
Their speaking acquaintance began
from that moment, and in after days
Mr. Parker was wont to tell extraordi
nary stories of the eccentric old gentle
man’s room. They were waited upon
by Sensi, who brought them curious
liquors and rare old wines, such as he
hud never believed existed out of Monte
Christo; they were served on trays of
solid gold—Mr. Parker swore to that
when doubbig> y diff rent
glass for each liquor and wine, slender,
fragile, and exquisitely cut, and for the
last—a celestial nectar, according to
Air. Parker’s description—they had gob- I
lets of pure gold, studded with gems. !
This may have been the effect of the
magnificent meerschaum, or it may have
been true. No one believed him till j
years afterwards, when a tray of solid !
gold and two goblets of the same prec- j
ions metal, studded—and thickly too—
with valuable gems, stoqjl midst' a glass
shade in Dr. Barker's drawing-room.
He. spoke of them as wedding present I
from his wife’s uncle, and said not a
word about Afr. Barker.
In those early days of their acquaint- j
anee while baby was ill. the eccentric
lodger seemed to like the simple-heart
ed, earnest-minded student. He could
look at trim very kindly through those
hideous l*i nu spectacles, and speak sym
pathetically’in spite ot histcrrihle voice 1
and bushy grey beard. All Mr. Parker’s
sercts eame'out under the infiuence of
the magnificent pipe and the rare old |
wine, and not a thing was left untold,
even his love for .Margaret.
"1 know,” he said, “nothing could be |
more hopeless, and I am w rong to build
up such a heaven out of her kindness.
Siie would be sorry, aud angry too.” ,
“Why?”
“I shall have to depend entirely on ’
my profession, and that means many ]
years’ bard work.”
“So much the better,” said the old
gentleman, cheerily. “If a profession
is worth anything, you ought to desire
nothing better. You would hardly, if
you are the man I lake yon to lie, care
to depend on your wife or your mother.”
“Certainly not.” j
“And unless vou have expectations
rrom a grandfather who nny outlive
you. or an uncle with half-a-dozen
nephews and nieces besides yourself,
what else would you depend upon? Be
independent—work and wait, and do
not forget the faint heart which never
won a fair lady. Not that Miss Allen
by is fair—it is just a healthy English
medium color that will wear well. She
might do worse.”
“You refer to me sir?”
“ Yes, sir, I do. There arc plenty of
better-looking men—plenty.”
“I know it,” said Air. Parker,meekly.
“And you are not a genius,” the old
gentleman went on; “but that is so
much the better. No woman in her
senses would marry a good-looking
genius. Work and wait, and win, my
bov. and you may find a fricml in me.”
Air. Parker took comfort from Unit.
It was a promise of the vaguest kind,
hut the medical student had unlimited
faith n tiio eccentric lodger’s power;
and from this time Jha oddly-assorted
pair were very much together; they had
un interest in common—little Arthur's
danger. The child was ill much longer
than he would have been iu the ordinary
course of things; for he had been over
indulged, and an obstinate low fever
clung to him. Mr. Barker had misgiv
ings of his own, based on a guilty knowl
edge of tamarindsachd preserved ginger;
but baby had been petted and spoiled
throughout the lions \ and there was
great rejoicing when lie toddled about
again, lie was sadly wasted, and there
did not seem much of him left hut gold
en hair ami large bright eyes; but lie
soon picked up.
A second blow, however, and a
heavier one fell upon flic house. Mary
was taken ill. She hail been needlessly
anxious over her hoy.
Now she was stricken down. Doctor
Hyde looked grave when Mr. Barker
asked him what wss the matter with
her, and the old man said;
“There is danger?"
“There is danger,” was the grave re
ply, “her system is sadly shaken, arid
some latent symptoms of pulmonary
disease have shown themselves, but the
worst feature is fever.
“Such as the boy had?”
“No, you must keep him away from
her.”
‘•Merciful Heavens, man, you will
not tell me it is contagious?”
“No more so than typhoid fever
usually is," the young doctor said, with
a dryness in his voice that was not iu
his eyes.
The old man bowed his head in his
hands with groan.
“That is the one tiling in the world I
Would not have,” he said, "we must
save her, George; you love her I know,
but not as I do.”
"Not as you do,” repeated Dr. Hyde,
quietly; "but my future lives or dies
with her.”
He had never hinted at this before,
but Air. Barker understood him; lie
comprehended how difficult it would be
tor Arthur’s dearest friend to nnder
4uke the guaivlianship of Arthur's girl
ish widow, and retain only a brotherly
feeling us the time wore on.
George Hyde had intended to wait
till Mary’s sorrow for her young hus
band became a memory, and left room
for new thoughts of the timo to come,
but he told tlic eccentric lodger now
how much lie had built upon winning
Alary’s love.
“I had begun to feel,” he said, that it
was only a question of time, and now
this trouble has come.”
“This may be only a question of
time,” Air. Barker replied. “Alary is
young, and if you doubt your own skill,
or your affection renders you nervous,
have a physician; then there is the
nursing. Margaret must not run the
risk, although she would, and it is u
matter in which I am powerless.”
“Airs. Allenby lias offered her services,
and in the most generous spirit,” said
George; “but then ’’
“Do not think of me. Would she be
worth having as nurse?”
"Invaluable; she has nerve and cool-!
pi ss, aud is as clever as most medical
men; she would not be likely to mistake i
the medicines, give too little or too
much, nr go past the time. You are the
only difficulty.”
“I shall stay in this house,” Mr. Bark
er said, "the hoy wants mo, no one else
could keep him quiet, and I will not
leave her; as for the rest 1 can keep Out
of the way, and even should she meet
me by accident I can take care she does
not recognize me. Do you think she
had better come?”
“We could depend upon her watch
fulness and attention, and she lias
nerve, knowledge, and experience."
“Let it be so then. The women in
the house are kind enough, but they are
clumsy, even with the best intentions,
aud the hired nurse is always half
asleep, the normal condition of hired
nurses, it appears to me.”
Airs. Allenby had offered her services
when she first heard of Mary’s illness,
but George had steadily declined them.
The lady of Ortlmrpe Square thought it
hard that siie should be debarred a posi
tion that she elioso to consider hers by
right since her reconciliation -with Alary
was so complete.
“ You kept mo away from baby,” she
said, with an air of injury, “and I did
not mind so much, because he had his
mother to attend him, hut she has no
one except the servants and hired peo
ple, and I know how inefficient they
are.”
It seemed to please her very much
when George told her he found tho
hired nurse more inefficient than lie at
first thought possible, and he placed no
obstaelo in her way when she repeated
her willingness to take charge of “that
poor darling girl.”
Bhe took her position in the sick
room that same evening, and proved, as
George had said, invaluable. Mrs. Al
lenby was a woman of iron nerve and
had no fear of contagion; siie surely be
lieved in it. She was hopeful from the
outset as to Mary’* recovery from the
fever, but expressed a dread of the after
consequences. There were symptoms
of pulmonary disease, and there always
had been; Arthur had told her so when
he was attending her father.
“VVe shall puss the crisis of tho fever
safely,” she told George Hyde. "I have
seen too many fever eases to be afraid,
and this lias not so strong a hold upon
her as you think, but it will leave her
very low, and she wilt need all our
care.”
Doctor Hyde had great faith in Mrs.
Allenby. She had always taken a large
interest in her husband’s profession,
and lie would talk to her of his patients
by the lumr together, getting many a
useful hint from some remark she
might, let drop, and she had undertaken
the nursing—or the superintendence of
it—of more than oue distinguished
client when the life was valuable and
the condition critical. As for the mem
bers of her own household, she had been
their physician eversince her husband's
death, and George had to her credit
for her treatment of them.
“I hope you are right," lie said. “I
believe you are right; but I have too
much at stake to be as calm as I should
it' it wore anyone else than Mary. Give
her your care, and more than my life
long gratitude will be yours.”
“Too much at stake,” Airs. Allenby
repeated slowly. “Ah, yes, I see; but
you have surprised me, George. And
you need not fear, she shall have all my
care—Hit* more for this.”
Her familiar, affectionate touch upon
his arm was a caress, and Dr. Hyde felt
more certain of her help now she knew
that what he hadat stake, lie had not in
tended to let her into his secret yet. lie
knew there would be some soreness and
disappointment eoiioeriiinghcrduugbtor
Victoria, though there had never been
anything more than the kindly and
trustful feeling which would naturally
exist between a brother’s sister and that
brut tier’s friend.
He could not. however, disguise from
himself that a declaration was expected
of him. Airs. Allenby had gone out of
her way to advance his interest, and it
was entirely due to her that he was
sent for by so many of her husband’s
patients. George was quite aware that
lie would not have acquired such an ex
tensive practice at his age but for some
st rong private influence, but to marry
Victoria in return would have been a
heavy price to pay for it. She was
beautiful enough, and more, but her
unsympathetic nature would have been
a cloud over his heart and energy.
Had Alary been anyone else, George
would have been satisfied with himself
us her physician. As it was, he con
sidled a friend—a very eminent, man.
The eminent man simply approved of
the young doctor’s treatment—said they
were doing all that could be done; siie
could not be in better hands, and was
exceptionally fortunate in such a nurse.
Even Afr. Barker was satisfied then.
Airs. Allenby was right in Hoe predic
tion. Mary passed the crisis of the
fever safely, but it left her very low.
.she seemed to need more care than ever
now; she was in a slate of utter pros
tration at the time when in the ordi
nary course siie should have been able
to be moved from her bed to a couch,
or even from one room to another, aud
this state of things did not mend.
The worst feature in it was an apa
thetic,putieni resignation which brought
George, Hyde almost to the point of de
spair. Long after the lever was gone
she remained in the siftne condition.
Bho thanked Aire. Allenby very sweetly
lor her kindness, and seemed to grow
fond ol her; hut she-could not rally, and
did not seem to try. When they took
Hie baby to her, and let him nestle
Gown on the pillow by her side,she only
looked at him w istfully, and said, “I
am glad mamma’s boy will have such
good friends when mamma is gone.”
“Aiy darling child,” said Airs. Allen
by, “have you no w ish to livo? You
must not speak like that.”
“I should like to live, if it is to he so.”
was the low reply; “but if I die I shall
see Arthur the sooner.”
A deep sigh made her turn, and she
saw George Ilyde sitting by the bed
with his hand before his face.
“However closely tve may clingto the
memory of the dead,” Mrs. Allenby
said, in a low and sympathetic whisper,
"we should not forgot the living. If you
knew how deeply and faithfully George
loved you, you would try and live for
him.”
“I’oor George!” Mary said, softly. “It
might be if I lived; but Ido not tliiuk
I shall.”
“But you love him?” Mrs. Allenby
said, in the same whisper. “Let him
hear you say so.”
“Not as I loved Arthur,” Mary re
sponded; “but I love him dearly.”
Alary would not have said this at any
otiier time, but no falsehood can bo
told, or truth concealed, when the world !
is gliding away and death lias been near
enough to give the soul a glimpse of
Heaven. It comforted George to know
that she loved him. and might be his if
she lived. He could only, in the fullness
of his heart, pray that siie would live.
[To Im Continued]
i
BAItBEJt PHILOSOPHY.
WliyUfen Don’t Slow© In Winter.
“They any, you know, that saloon
kre]>ers imd barbers never see dull
times,” remarked a Clark street bar
ber as ho mado peveral preliminary
clips at tho reporter's forelock; “but
lam tolling you different. Wo have
our ups and downs just like the hard
ware and dry-goods men. In summer,
for instance, wo generally shave 200
men a day hero, but to-day I have had
only about seventy-five in, and I don't
suppose fifty more will show up before
we close. For the next six or seven
mouths wo won’t average more than
laO customers a day. Just a little
higher, Thoro now, sf-e-a-dy.”
The reporter settled himself in his
new position, and the man continued:
“Lots of men begin to let out their
beards about now. The middle-aged
men want to be comfortable, and a
beard is a big protection to the throat.
Shaving cleans off the dirt, and hair,
and dead skin from a man’s face and
leaves all the pores of the skin onen,
so that when ho goes out of a hot bar
ber-shop into the eold air ho is bound
to eateli cold in spite of nil the bay
rum you can put on. More cloan
sliaved men have throat trouble and
catarrh than those that grow beards in
the winter. The young dudes who
can mine beards let them out so. as to
look stylish and Englishy. The very
latest tony thing, you know, is the
Mother Hubbard beard.”
Tho reporter interpolated a gasp of
wonder in the barber’s stream of con
versation ns he questioned, “What is
that?”
“If you want a Mother Tlubbnrd
whisker,” continued the knight of the
razor, “keep your sides and chop whis
kers cut short down to within an inch
and a half of your chin, where you let
them grow long. Then train and trim
this long part into the shape of an in
verted half-moon; fix the long ends so
that they point about for your armpits,
and voirvo got a Mother Ilubbard
bean!. They are tho swell thing among
the London dudes for this winter.”
“Are fqll beards to bo the fashion
this winter, do you mean?”
“That's about the size of it. I guess
I have had more young fellows asking
me about how long their beards would
take to grow, whether 1 had any invig
orator to help out the hair just below
the lips, or how to train and part whis
kers. than I ever had before. Here’s a
N O. 11.
Trench arrangement l got in a wees
ago for training beards when they are
starting,” taking something resembling
a David’s sling made of rubber from
the shelf. "I have sold ten of them
since they got here from Now York."
“How do they work?”
“The rubber, you see, is mado to fit
the chin andjtiw. That seam in ths
middle goes right up and down where
you want your beard to part. When a
man uses this he must first put a little
wax on his chili whiskers when they're
about one inch out and then tit that
seam down the middle ol hia chin and
throat. When he goes to tie thoao
strings behind his head tho rubber
stretches and pulls back tho hair so
that it sets towards his cars, just in tho
right shape for a dude whisker. If a
fellow follows these directions for fivo
or six nights lie will have the hair on
his face lived so that it won’t need
hauling, and pulling, and brushing into
.shape. Besides, a man by using till*
can look respectable with only a two
weeks’ growth ou his face, amt his
beard will appear to be a full-growth
cut back."
"1 should think that the strain on a
mans chin would lie, too tiresome for
tin; machine to tie practicable.”
"Oh, no. .lust put one oil for a few
nights in succession and you can sleep
while your heuid is being trained. It
saves all the pulling that ruins a heard.
You get the habit of pulling anil twist
ing your whiskers when you’re starting*
’em, and you will never get over it.
You’ll keep on pulling and twisting till
you split the hair out at the cuds, and
then your Whole heard will get ragged
and stubborn like a gambler’s nuts-
tachc. Too much trimming, oftener
i than once in two weeks say, makes a
beard stiff, while too much combing or
lingering splits the hairs and stops their
growth. Lots of men say to mo after
, shaving off a beard they have been
fussing with all winter: ‘what makes
inv face so sore? Ever since I shaved
my neck chafes,’ etc. ‘Your hair’is
split,’ I always tell them. They havo
; rubbed and twisted the hair together,,
j you see, til! it is all split up so that
! when they shave it back into the skin
; it splits before it can grow out and
; curls in under the skin. Half of the
men with chafed necks and broken out
; faces can attribute their trouble to j ist
> this cause. Oh, this French business
will be an A1 thing after people got
j bold of the notion that it is as much of
a business to raise a beard as it is to
i make shoes, or—or —” and the barber
I paused for breath while lie tried to sub
j due the reporter's unruly .scalp-lock.
“What did you mean when you
spoke about a gambler’s stubby mus
tache?*’
I “Well, you know these phrenologists
! ™.v that they can tell what kind of :l
follow they have* hold of by feeling of
his hair. If it is silky they call him re
j fined, but if it is rough they say he is
, good. Now, I say I can tell a good
I deal about a man by the way lie keeps
i bis whiskers. A nervous man nearly
always has a short, stubby, aud chew
| ed-up mustache. Gamblers’ mustaches'
I /m*about always that way. Watch
I some of ’em at a faro or roulette table
some time, and you’ll notice that whea
the double-nought green scoops their
pile or they copper the ace at tho wrong
time tho mustache lias to catch it. If
they’re in hard luck they keep one hand
on the chips and the other at their
whiskers. Do you ever bet?”
“Yes, when I’vo got a pretty sure
thing.”
“Well, if you want to make a slick
little bet some time, mind what I’m
telling you. Ask some fellow how many
mustaches he would bet there were
among a hundred men passing some
place. llow many, now, would you
guess?” *
“About fifty would boa pretty lib
eral figure, 1 should say.”
“There it is; everybody is just so
wild. Now, I syn telling you gospel
truth when I say Chut on an average
eighty-five men out of every hundred
wear mustaches, and you can prove it
by counting. Is that all to-dayP”care-'
fully plastering the inverted arch of
hair. “You better buy one of those
French”—but tho reporter had lied
through the side door to hide his ashes
of roses shoes from the eyes of the im
portunate bootblack.— (Jhicago 'frir
ounc.
Gen. O. I’. Smith at Fort Donelson.
From General Lew Wallaco’s illus
trated necugnt of the capture of Fort
Donelsonfllh the December Century,wq
quote the following: “Taking Bau
man's brigade General Smith began tha
advance. They wore under lire instant
ly. The guns in the fort joined in with
the infantry who were at the time in
the rille-pits, the groat body of the
Confederate right wing being with Gen
eral Buckner. The defense was great
ly favored by the ground, which sub- >
jeeled the assailants to a double tiro
from the beginning of the abatis. Tho
men have said that *it looked too thick
for a rabbit to get through.’ General
Smith, on his horse, took position in
the front and center of the line. Occa
sionally he turned in his saddle to see
how the alignment was kept. For tho
most part, however, ho hold his faeo
steadily toward the enemy. He was,
of course, a conspicuous object for tho
sharpshooters in tho rille-pits. Tho
air around him twittered with minie
bnllecs. lircot as if on review, he rode
on, timing the gait of his horse with tho
movement of his colors. A soldier
said: T was nearly soared to death, but
1 saw tlte old man’s white mustache
over his shoulder, ami wont on.’
“On to the abatis the regiments mov
ed without hesitation, leaving u trail of
dead and wounded behind. There the
lire seemed to grow trebly hot, and
there some of the men halted, whereup
on, seeing the hesitalion,General Smith
put his cap on tho point of ills sword,
field it aloft, and railed out, ‘No flinch
ing now, my lads! Hero—tills is the
wav! Como on!’ He picked a path
through the jagged limbs of the trees,
holding his cap all the time in sight;
and the ell'eet was magical. Tho men
swarmed in after him, and got through
ill the host order they could—not alluf
them, alas! On the other side of the
obstruction they took the semblance of
re-formation and charged in after their
chief, who found himself then between
the two lircs. Up the ascent he rode;
up they followed. At the last moment
the keepers of the rifle-pits clambered
out and tied. The four regiments en
gaged in the feat the Tweuty-Gfth In
diana, and the Second, Seventh, and
Fourteenth /own—planted their colors
on the breastwork. And the gray-hair
ed hero-set hi.; cap jauntily on his head,
pulled his mustache, and rod" ..’
the front, chiding them qb4*
laughing; at them. „ m le, IheS
stay. Writer m the flail come to
back with his and” *ay, Buckner cam*
fort# to dish .rfefon; 'but all hU ali
_ rfUpfc Smith wereTalu.”