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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.”