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VOL. XIV. ON THE BOSTON STREET CARS. Drearily dawn<*d the heavy day A ad the h<*ur* crept wearily by. And the raw miki wind from the dismal bay O’erckmqpf the dub tray sky. But the summer of h|>pe shone in bis face. For the lioy ,a *rMtv>rav and yotlnjr. And the day crept by at a funeral pace. And the imaging words were rung. An and the old days went and the new days came. And the weeks wc|K limping past; Old time was spavined, eternity lame. But the end must come at last. JP© wrinkled, and blind and white as snow. When life** long race was riln. He reached the place where he started to go WhcuhishmuT talk* Journey begun. Oj, woe hi the man In Boston town W bo clixube on (he eahs to ride. For lie'll think that the town, when he gettoth down. !• lour kuDdrM tkoiiaaml mil.* wMr. Dark Days. BY HUGH CONWAY. Author f “Called Back” CHAPTER I. A MAYER AXI> A VOW When this story of iny life, or of such por tions of my life as present any out-of-the eonnnon features, is read, it will be found that I have committed errors of judgment— I have sinned not only socially, but also aeaitiNt the law of the land. In excuse I can plead hut two things—the strength of love; the weakness of human nature. If these carry uo weight with you, throw the paper aside. You are ton good for me; lam too human for you. We cannot be friends. Head no further. I need say nothing about my childhood; nothing about my boyhood. Ict me hurry on to early manhood; to that time when the wonderful dreams of youth beg In to leave one; when the Impulse which can drive sober reason aside must be, indeed, a strong one; when one has learned to count the cost of every rash step; when the transient and fitful flames of the boy have sett led down to a steady, glowing tire which will burn until only ashes are left; when the strength, the nerve, the Intellect, is or should be at Its height; when, In short, one’s years number thirty. let, what was l then? A soured, morose, ■disappointed Yuan; without ambition, with out rare for the morrow; without a goal or objeet in life. Breathing, eating, drinking, any instinct. Hiring in the morning, and wishing the day was *vcr: lying down at night, and earing little whether the listless ■eves I c osed might open again or not. Anti why? Ah! to know why you must • rlt with me as I sit lonely over my glowing fire one winter night. You must'read my thoughts; the pictures of my past must rise before you as they rise before mo. My sor row. my hate, my love must yours. You must. Indeed, be my very self. You may b *gin this retrospect with trl sunph. You may go back to the day when, nfter having passed my examination with high honor*. I. Bari! North, was duly en tif led to write M. I). after my name, and set to work to win fame and fortune bv doing fny bust toward relieving the sufferings of ■mv fellow-creatures. You may *av as I said then, as I say now. *A noble career; a life full of inter**#! and usefulness” \ ou may see ine full of hope nndeournge, and ready for any amount of hard work settling down In a large provincial town] T“olred to beat out a practice for mvseif] You may see !mw. after the n-nal initiatory snuggles. m% fooiinggradtiaiiy grew firmer; liow my name became familiar; how, at last. I seemed to Ik* in a fair way of winning *n cress. You may sec how for a while a dream brightened my life; how that dream faded asui left gloom in its place. You may see the woman i loved. No, lam wrong. Her you cannot see. Duly i m vsclf can se* Philippa as I saw her then—as I see her now. Heavens! how fair she was! How glori ous her rich dark beauty! How different from the pink-wldte and yellow dolls whom I have seen exalted as the types of perfec tion! Warm Sonthern blood ran through her veins and tinged her elear bmwr. cheek with color. Her mother was an Englishwo maii; but it was Spain that gave her daugh ter tiiat exquisite grace, those wondrous ■dark eyes and long curled lashes, that mass ■of soft black hair, that passionate impulsive nature, and. perhaps, that queen-like car nage and dignity. The English mother may Imve given the girl many good gifts, but her beauty came from the father, whom she had never known; the Andalusian, who died while she was but a child in arms. Yet in spite of her foreign grace. Philippa was English. Her Spanish origin was to her but a tradition. Her font had never touched her father’s native land. Its language was strange to her. She was born in England, and her father, the nature of whose occupa tion I have not been able to ascertain, seems to have spent uio*t of his time in this coun try. When did I learn to love her? Ask me rather, when and it we first meet? Even then as my eyes fell upon the girl, I knew, as by revelation, that for me life and her love meant one ami the same thing. Till that moment there was no woman In the world the siglit of whom would have quickened my pulse by a beat. 1 had read and heard of such love as this. I hail laughed at it There seemed no room for such an engross ing passion in my busy life. Yet all at once I loved as man has never loved before; and 1 sit to-night and gaze into the fire I tell myself that the objectless life I am leading is the only one possible for the man who loved but failed to win Philippa. Our first meeting was brought about in a most prosaic way. Iler mother, who suffer ed from a chronic disease, consulted ine professionally. My visits, Jlrsfc those of a doctor, soon became those of a friend, and I was free to woo the girl to the best of my ability. Philippa and her mother lived in a small house on the outskirts of the town. They were not rich people, but had enough to keep the pinch of poverty from their lives. The mother was a sweet, qdlet, ladylike woman, who bore her sufferings with resig nation. Her health was indeed, wretched. The onlv thing which seemed likely to bene fit her was a continual change of air and scene. After attending her for about six months I was in conscience bound to in dorse the opinion of her former medical ad visers. and tell her it would he well for her to try another change. My heart was heavy as I gave this advice. If adopted, it meant that Philippa and I must part. But why. during those six months, had 1 wot, passionately in love as I was won the girl’s heart? Why did she not leave me as my affianced bride? Why did I let her leave me at all? The answer is short. She loved me not. Not that she had ever told me so in words. 1 had never a-ked her in words for her love. But she must have known—she must have . known! When I was with her, every look, every action of mine must have told her the truth. Women are not fools or blind. A man who, loving as l did, can conceal the true state of his feelings must be more than mortal. I hail not sjiokpii; I dared not speak. Bet ter uncertainty with hope, than certainty with despair. The day on which Philippa refused my love would be as the day of death to me. Besides, what had 1 to offer her? Al though succeeding fairly well for a begin ner. at present f could only ask the woman I made mv wife to share comparative pover- ty. And Philippa! Ah! I would bare wrap ped Philippa in luxury! All that wealth j could buy ought to be hers. Had you seen her in the glory of her fresh young beauty, you would have smiled at the presumption of the man who could expect such a being to become tlie wife of a hard-working and as yet 111-paid doctor. You would have felt that she should have had the world at her feet. j Had I thought that she loved me, I might perhaps have dared to hope she would even then have been happy as my wife. But she did not love me. Moreover, she was ambi tious. She knew—small blame toiler—how beau tiful she was. Do I wrong her when I say that in those days she looked for the gifts of rank and riches from the man who loved her? She knew that she was a queen among women, and expected a queen s dues. (Sweetest, are my wonts cnieJ7 They are t the crudest I have spoken, or shall speak, against you. Forgive them!) We were friends—great friend*. Such friendship is love’s bane. It buoys false hopes; it lulls to security; it leads astray; it is a staff which breaks suddenly, and wounds the hand which leans upon it. So little it seems to need to make friendship grow into love; and yet how seldom thatlit tie Is added! The love which begins with hate or dislike is often luckier than that which begins with friendship. Lovers can not be friends. Philippa ami her mother loft my neigh borhood. They went to London for awhile. 1 heard from them occasionally, and once or twice, when in town, called Mpou them. Time went by. I worked hard at my pro ! fessfon the while, striving, by sheer toil, to 1 drive away the dream from my life. Alas! j I strove In vain. To love Pnilippa was to j love her forever! One morning a letter came from her. I tore it open. The news it contained was i grievous. Her mother hail died suddenly. | Philippa was alone in the world. So far as ; I knew, she had not a relative left; and I believed, perhajwi hoped, that, save myself, she had no friend. I needed no time for consideration. That afternoon I was in London. If 1 could not Comfort her in her great sorrow, l could at least sympathize with her; could undertake the management of the many business de tails which are attendant upon a death. Poor Philippa! She was glad to see me. Through her tears she (lashed me a look of gratitude. 1 did all 1 could for her, ami stayed in town until the funeral was over. Then I was obliged to think of going home. W hat was to become of the girl? Kith or kin she had none, nor did she j mention the name of any friend who would i be willing to receive he£. As I suspected, j she was absoluteh ojotie in the world. As j soon as my hack was turned she would have no one on whom she could count forsympa- I thy or help. It must have been her niter loneliness , which urged me. hi spite of my better Jtidg | ment, in spile of the grief which still op ! pressed her. to throw myself at her feet and declare the desire <>/ my heart. Mv words | 1 cannot recall, hut 1 think—l know l plead j ed eloquently. Such passion as mine gives power and intensity to the most unpracticed speaker. Yet long before my appeal was j ended l knew that I pleaded in vain. Her eyes, her manner, told me she loved me not. Then, remembering her present helpless i condition, T checked myself. 1 begged her I to forget the words I had spoken; not to an | swer them now; to let me say them again in some months’ time. Let me still he her friend, and render her such service a# I could. She shook her head; she held out her baud. The first action meant the refusal of my love; the second, the acceptance of my friendship. I schooled myself to calmness, and we discussed her plans for the future. She was lodging in a house in a (pilot, re spectable street near lleUmt’s Park. She expressed her intention of staying on here for awhile. ‘Tint alone!" I exclaimed. ‘ Why not? What have Ito fenr? Still, I am open to reason, if you can suggest an other plan.” I could suggest no other. Philippa was past twenty-one ami would at once succeed to whatever money had been her mother's. This was enough to live upon. She had no friends, and must live somewhere. Why should she not stay on at her present lodg ings? Nevertheless, I trembled as I thought of this beautiful girl all alone in London. Why could she not love me? Why could she not be my wife? It needed all my self-re straint to keep me from breaking kfresh in to passionate appeals. As she would not give me the right to dis pose of her future, I could do nothing more. 1 bade her a sad farewell, then went back to my home to conquer my unhappy love, or to suffer from its fresh inroads. Conquer it! Such love as mine is never conquered. It is a man’s life. Philippa was never absent from my thoughts. L;t my frame of mind be gay or grave Philippa was always present. Now and then she wrote to me, but ber letters told me little as to her mode of life; they were short iric-ndly epistles, and gave me little hope. Yet I was not quite hopeless. I felt that I had been ton hasty in asking her for her love so soon after her mother’s death. Let her recover from the shock, then i will try again. Three months was the time which in my own mind I resolved should elapse before I again approached her with words* of love. Three months! How wearily they dragged themselves away! Toward the end of my self-imposed term ■>f probation I fancied that a brighter, gayer tone manifested itself in Philippa’s* letters. Fool that I was! I augured well from this. Telling myself that such love as mine must win In the end, I went to London, and once more saw Philippa. She received me ■clndly. Although her garb was still that of deep mourning, never, I thought, had she looked more beautiful. Not long after our first greeting did I wait before I began to □lead again. She stopped me at the outset. "Hush.” she said; "I have forgotten your former words; let us still be friends.” "Never!” I cried passionately. “Philippa, answer me once for all, tell me you can Jove Be!” She looked at me compassionately, “liow ;an I best answer you?” she said, musingly. The sharpest remedy is perhaps the kiud -5-t. Basil, will you understand me when I ;ay it is too late?” "Too late! What can you mean? Has mother” 'Die words died on my lips as Philippa, Irawing a ring from the fourth finger of her Jeft hand, showed me that it concealed a plain gold circlet. Her eyes met mine im ploringly. "I should have told you before,” she said softly, and bending her proud head; "but there were reasons' —even now I am pledged to tell no one. Basil. I only show you this, because I know you will take no other an wer.” I rose without a word. The room seemed whirling around me. The only tiling which was clear to my sight was tiiat cursed gold band on the fair white hand—that symbol of possession by another! In that moment hope and all tiie sweetness of life seemed swept away from me. • Something in iny face must have told her how her news affected ine. She came to ine and laid her hand upon my arm. I trembled like a leaf beneath her touch. She looked beseechingly into my face. “011, not like that!” she cried. “Basil. I am not worth it. I should not have made you happy. You will forget—you will find another. If 1 have wronged or misled you, say you forgive me, me hear you, my true friend, wish me happiness.” I strove to force iny dry lips to frame some conventional plirav. In vain! words would no! com.'. I sank into a chair and covered THOMSON. GEORGIA, WEBNESDAYvAPRIL 83, 1885. my tace with my hands. The door opened suddenly, ami a man en tered. He may have been about forty years of age. He was tall ami remarkably hand some. He was dressed with scrupulous care; but thcio was something written on his face wjiieh told me it was not the face of a good man. As I rose from my chair he piano *d from me to Philippa with an air of Suspicions inquiry. "Dr. North, an old friend of my mother’s and mine,” she said with composure. “Mr. Farmer,” she added: ami a rosy blush crept round her heck as she indicated tho new coiner by the name which 1 felt sure was now also her own. I bowed mechanically. I made a few dis jointed remarks about the weather and kindred topics; then 1 shook hands with Philippa and left the house, the most miser able man 1n F.ugland. Philippa married, and married secretly! liow could her pride have stooped to a clandestine up ion? Wlqit manner of man was he who had won her? Heavens! he must be hard to please if he cared not to show his conquest to the light of day. Cur! sneak 1 coward! villain! Stay; he may have his own reasons for concealment reasons known to Philippa and approved of by her. Not a word against her. She is still my queen; the one. woman in the world to me. What she Ims done is right I 1 passed a sleepless night. In the morn ing 1 wrote to Philippa. 1 wished her all happiness—l could command my pen, if not my tongue. 1 said no word about the secre cy of the wedding, or the evils so often con sequent to such concealment. But, with a foreboding of evil to come, I begged her to ; remember that we were friends; that, al though 1 could see her no more, whenever she wanted a friend’s aid, a word would bring me to her side. I used no word of I blame. I risked no expression of love or regret. No.ilmught of my grief should jar upon the happiness which she doubtless ex pected to find. Farewell to the one dream of my life! Farewell, Philippa! Such a passion as mine may, in these mat ter-of-fact, unromantic days, seem an a nachronistn. No matter, whether to sym pathy or ridicule, lam but laying bare my true thoughts and feelings. I would not return to my home at once. I shrank from going back to my lonely hearth and beginning to eat my heart out. 1 had made arrangements to stay in town for some days; so 1 stayed, trying by a course of what is termed gayetv to drive remem brance away. Futile effort! How many have tried the same reputed remedy with out success! Four days after my Interview with Philip pa, l was walking with a friend who knew every one in town. As we pasled the door of one of the most cxe urivu of tie* clubs, I saw, standing on the steps talking to other men, the nmn w hom 1 knew was Philippa’s husband. 11 is face was turned from me, so I wns able to direct my friend's attention to him. ‘ Who is that man?” I asked. "Thatman with the gardenia in his coat is Sir Mervyn Fe.rrand.” "Who is lie? What Is he? What kind of a man is he?” "A baronet. Not very rich. Just about the usual kind of man you see on those steps. Very popular with the ladies, they tell me.” "Is he married?” “Heaven knows! 1 don’t. I never heard of a Lady Ferrand, although there must bo several wlm are morally entitled to use the designation.” Aml this was her husband—Philippa’s husband! i clinched my teeth. Why had lie married under a false name? Or if she knew that naim* by which she introduced him to ino was false, why was it assmu d? Why had the marriage been clandestine? Not only S r Mervyn Ferrand, but the noblest in tlm land should be proud of winning Philippa? The more I thought of the matter, the more wretched I grew. The dread that she had been in some way deceived almost drove me niad. The thought of my proud, benutilui queen some day finding herself humbled to the dust by a scoundrel's deceit was anguish. What could I do? My first impulse was to demand an ex planation, then and there, front Sir Mervyn Ferrand. Yet 1 had no right or authority so to do. What was Ito Philippa save an unsuccessful suitor? Moreover, I felt that she had revealed her secret to me in confi dence. if there were good reasons for the concealment,! might do her irretrievable harm by letting this man know that I was aware of his true position in society. No, I could not call him to account. But I must do something, or in time to conic my grief may be rendered doubly deep by seif-re proach. The next day I called noon Philippa. She would at least tell me if the name under which the man married her was the true or tiie false one. Alas! 1 found she had left her home the day before—left it to re urn no more! The landlady had no idea whither she was gone, but believed it was her inten tion to leave England. After this 1 threw prudence to the winds. With some trouble I found Sir Mervyn Fer rand’s town address. The next day I called on him. He also, I was informed, had just left England, llis destination was also in known. I turned away moodily. AH chance of f'oing good was at an end. Let the marriage be true or false. Pnilippa had departed, ac companied by the man who, for purposes /*f his own, passed under the name of Farmer, but who was really Sir Mervyn Ferrand. I went back* to my home, and amid the wreck of my life’s happiness murmured a prayer and registered an oath. I prayed that honor and happiness might be the lot of her I loved: 1 swore that were she wrong ed 1 would witu my own hand take ven geance on the man who wronged her. For myself i prayed nothing— not even forgetfulness. I loved Philippa; I lind lost her forever! The past, the present, the future were all summed up in these words I CHAPTER rr. A vim.aix’s IU.OW. They tell me there are natures stem enough to be able to crush love out of their lives. Ah! not such love asinine! Time, they say, can heal every wound. Not such a wound as mine! My whole existence un derwent a change when Philippa showed me the wedding-ring on her finger. No won der it did. Hope was eliminated from it. From that moment I was a changed man. Life was no longer worth living. The spur of ambition was blunted; the desire for fame gone; the interest which I had hitherto felt In my profession vanished. All the spring, the elasticity, seemed taken out of my be ing. For months and months I did my work in a perfunctory manner. It gate me no satisfaction that iny practice grew larger. I worked, but I cared nothing for my work. Success gave me no pleasure. An increase to tiie number of my patient* was positive ly unwelcome to me. So long as I made money enough to supply my daily needs, what did it matter? Of what use was wealth tome? It could not buy me the one thing for which I craved. Of what use was life? No wonder that such friend* as X had once possessed all but forsook me. My mood at that time was none of the sweetest. X was alone in the world; I should be always alone. ,*>o tilings went on ror more tnan a year, i grew worse instead of belter. My gloom deepened: iny cynicism grew more confirm ed; uiy life became more and more aimless. These a*e not lovers’ rhapsodies. 1 would spare you them If I could; but it is neces sary that you should know the exact suite of my mind in order to understand my sub sequent conduct. Even now it seems to mo that I am writing tnis description with my heart’s blood. Not a word came from Philippa. I made no inquiries about her, took no steps to trace her. I dared not. Not for one mo* meut did I forget her, and through all those weary months tried to think of her ns hap py and to be envied; yet, in spite of myself, I shuddered as I pictured her lotas it might really be. But all the while I knew that the day would come when 1 should learn whether I was to be thankful that my prayer had been answered, or to be prepared to keep my vow. In my misanthropical state of mind I heard without the slightest feeling of Joy or elation that a distant relative of mine, a man from whom 1 expected nothing, had died and left me the bulk of his large prop erty. I eared nothing for this unexpected wealth except for the fact that It enabled me to free myself from a rounV’wf toll in which by now I took not the slightest inter est. Had it but come two or throe years be fore! Alas! all things in this life come too late. Now that I was no longer forced to in ingle with men in order to gain tho means of liv ing, I absolutely shunned my kind. Tho wish of my youth, to travel In far countries, no longer existed with me. I disposed of my practice—or rather X simply handed it over to the first comer. I left tho town of my adoption, and bought a small house—it was little more than a cottage—some five miles away from the tiny town of Boding. Here 1 was utterly unknown, and could live exactly ns I chose; and for months it was my choice to live almost like a hermit. My needs were ministered to by a man w ho had been for some years hi my employ ment. He was a handy, faithful fellow; honest as the day, stolid as the Sphinx; and, for some reason or other, so much attached to me that he was willing to perform on my behalf the duties of housekeeping which are usually relegated to female servants. Looking back upon that tinieof seclusion, as a medical man, 1 wonder what Would eventually have been my fate if events had not occurred which once more forced me into the world of men? I firmly believe that brooding in solitude over my grief would at last have affected my brain; that sooner or later I must have developed symptoms of melancholia. Professionally speaking, the probabilities are I should have committed suicide. Hour after hour l sat gazing nt the glow ing embers, but seeing only Philippa’s be loved fac *. liow bad life fared with her? Where was she at this moment? The re solve to quite my seclusion wns finally made. I would go Into the world and find her—not for any selfish motive. I would learn from her own lips that she wnshnppv. If unhappy, she should have from me such comfort ns the love of a true friend can give. Yes, I would leave this wretched life t - morrow. Mv cheek Hushed as I contrasted wlmt I was with what 1 ought to he. No man has a right to ruin his life or hide his talents for the sake of n woman. I had another inducement which urged me to make a ehang •In my mode of life, 1 am ashamed thnt 1 have not. spoken of it. That morning* I had received a letter from my mother. 1 hud not seen her for s x yea's. Just ns 1 entered man’s estate she inaryied for the second time. Mv step-fath er was an American, and with many t*ars my mother It ft ine for her new home. Some month# ago Jhpr husband •died** L should have gone to her, but she forbad" nr*. She had no children by her second nit-hand; and now that his affairs were pra**M vdly wound tip she proposed returning Efigmud. 11 *r letter told m? that she would In* in London in three days’time, and suggested tiiat I should meet her there. But now buck to the night. It was mid winter, and bitterly cold out of doors. My lamp was not yet lighted; the glow of my flie alone broke the darkness of the room. I had not even drawn the curtains or shut the shutters. At times I liked to look out and see the stars. They shone so peaceful ly, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so un like the world, with its strife and fierce passions and disappointment*. I rope languid y in in my chair and walk ed to the window, to see what sort of anight it was. As l approaclu-d the casement I could see that the nicies hail darkened; moreover, I noticed that feathery II ikes of mow were,iaccumulating in the corner of mc!i pane. I went close to the window and peered out into the night. Standing within a yard of me, gazing lute tty dimly-lit room her face stern and pal# i* death, her dark eyes now riveted on my >wn—was a woman; and that woman was Philippa, my lore I For several seconds I stood, spellbound, gazing at her. That I saw more than a phantom of my imagination did not at once enter into my head. In dreams I had seen • the one I loved again and again, but this was the first time my waking thoughts had conjured up such a vision. Visirtu, dream, reality! I trembled as l looked; for the form was that ot Philippa in dire distress. It was seeing the hood which covered her head grow whiter and whiter with the fast falling snow which aroused me to my senses, and made every fiber thrill with the thought that Philippa, in flesh and blood, stood be fore me. With a low cry of rapture l tore asunder the fastenings of the French case ment, threw the sashes apart, and without a word my love passed from the cold, bleak night into my room. She was wrapped from head to foot In a rich dark fur-trimmed cloak. As she swept by me 1 felt she was damp with partially thawed snow. 1 closed the window; then with a throbbing heart, turned to greet my visitor. She stood in the center of the room. Her mantle had fallen to the ground, and through the dusk 1 could see her white face, hands, and neck. I took her hands in mine; they were as cold as ic'cles. “Philippa! Philippa I why are yon beret” I whispered. “Welcome, thrice welcome, whether you bring me Joy or sorrow.” A trembling ran through her. She said nothing, hut her cold hands clgaped mine closer. I led her to the lire, which I stirred until it blazed brightly. She kneeled before it and stretched out her hands for warmth. How pale she looked; how unlike the Philippa of old! Hut to my eyes how love ly! As I looked down at the fair woman kneel* t ing at my foot, with her proud head bent as in shame, 1 knew intuitively that 1 should he called upon to keep my oath; and know ing this, I re-registered it in all its entirety. At last she raised her face to mine. In her eyes was a somber lire, w hich until now 1 had never seen there. “Philippa! Philip pa!” I cried again. “Fetch a light,” site whispered. “Let me see p friend's face once more—if you are still my friend.” “Your friend, your true friend forever,” I said, as I hastened to obey her. As l placed the lamp on the table Philip pa rose from her knees. I could now see that she was in deep mourning. Was the thought that flashed through me, that it might be that site was a widow, one of joy or sotrowl I hope—l try to belidvc it was the latter. We stood for some moments In silence. My agitation, my rapture at seeing her once more seemed to have deprived me of speech. I could do little more than to gaze at her and tell myself that I was not dreaming; that Philippa was really here; tlutb it was her voice that I had heard, her hands I clasped. Philippa it was, but not the Philip pa of old! Tiie rich, warm, glowing beauty seemed toned down. Her face lmd lost its exquisite color. Moreover, it was the face of one who lias suffered—one who is suffering. To mo it looked as if Illness had refined it, as it sometimes will refine a face. Vet, if she had been ill, her illness could not have been of long duration. Her figure was as superb, her arms as finely rounded, as ever. Sue stood firm and erect. Yet I trembled as 'I gazed at that pate promt race and those dark solemn eyes. I dared not for the while ask her why she sought me. She was tho first to break silence. "You arc changed, Basil,” she said. "Time changes every one,” I answered, forcing a smile. “Will you believe me,” she continued, “when 1 say that the memory of your face as 1 saw it last has haunted even my most Joyful moments? Ah me, Basil, had I been true to myself 1 think I might have learned to love you.” She spoke regretfully, and as one who has finished with life and its love. My heart beat rapidly; yet 1 knew her words were not spoken in order to hear me tell her that I loved her passionately as ever. “I have heard of you once or twice,” she said softly. "You are rich now, they tell mo. but unhappy.” “1 loved you and lost you,” I answered. “How could 1 be happy?" "And men cm love like this?” she said aadlv. "All men are not alike, then?” "Enough of me,” 1 said. "Tell me of yourself. Tell me how 1 cau aid you. Your husband ” She drew a sharp, quick breath. The color rushed back to her cheek. Her eyes glitter ed strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calm ly and distinctly. “Husband! I have none,” she said. “Is he dead? ’ “No”— she spoke with surprising bitter ness—“no; I should rather say I never was a wife. Tell me, Basil,” she continued fiercely, “did you ever hate a man?” es,” I answered emphatically and truly. ; Hate a man! From tlu* moment 1 saw the ! wretch with whom Philippa tied 1 hated j him. Now that mv worst suspicions wer* ; true, what were my feelings? I felt that my lips compressed themselves. I knew that when I sink imy voice was as stem and bitter as Philippa’s. “.Sit down,” J I said, “and tell me all. Toll me liow you knew l was here—where you have comp from.” Let me but learn whence she came, and I ; felt sure the knowledge would enable me to lay mv hand on the man I wanted. Ah! j life now held something worth living for! I ‘1 have been here some months,” said I Philippa. "Here! In tills neighborhood?” “V os. 1 have seen you several tlm n s. I have been living at a house about three miles away. I felt happier in knowing that, in case of need X had one friend near me.” 1 pressed her hands. "Go ou,” I said, hoarsely. “He sent me here, lie had grown weary of m*. 1 was about to have a child. 1 was in his way-a trouble to him.” Her scornful accent as she spoke was In describable. “Pnilippa 1 Philippa J groaned, “had you sunk so low as to do his bidding?” She laid her hand on my arm. "More,” she said. "Listen! Before we parted In* struck me. .Struck m•! He cursed mo and strucK me! Basil, diet you ever hate a man?” I threw out my arms. Mv heart was luM of rage and bitterness. "And you became tfljs man’s mistress rather than my wife!” I gasped. Neither mv love nor her sorrow efiiild stop tnis one reproach from passing mv lips. She sprung to her feet. “You!” she cried. “Do you—think—do you Imagine—— Bead! Only this in ruing l learned it.” She threw* a letter toward me—threw it with n ge-ture of loathing, as one throws a nauseous reptile from one’s hand. 1 open ed it in *rlianieally. "Yes,” sin* said, “you are right In think ing I had fallen low. So low that I went where he ehoNe to send me. So low* that I would hnv * forgiven the ill-treatment of months—the blow, even. Why? Because until this morning he was my husband. Henri the letter. Basil, did you ev.r hate a m m?” Before I rend I g’aneod nt her In alarm. She spoke with almost feverish excitement. Her words followed one another with head long rapidity. But who could wonder at this mood with n woman who had such a wrong to declare? She grew calm beneath mv glance. “Head,” sin* said, .beseechingly. “Ah, God! I have fallen low; but not so low as you thought.” She buried her face in her hands while I opened and read the letter. It was dated from Paris, and ran so; "As it seems to me that we can’t exactly hit it off together, 1 think the farce bail bet tor end. The simplest way to make mv Dimming clear is to tell you that when 1 married you 1 had a wire alive. She has • tied since then; and I dare say, had we managed to get on l etter together, I should have asked you to go through the marriage ceremony once more. 11 wever, *s things are now, so they mid bolter stop. You have the satisfaction of knowing that morally you are blameless. “If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to accept tiie situation, lain prepared to act generously, and do tiie right tiling in money matters. As I hate to have! anything hang ing over in*, unsettled, and <to not rare to trust delicate negotiations to a third party, X shall run across to England and see you. I shall reach Boding on Wednesday evening. Do not send to the station to meet m *;X would rather walk.” The letter was unsigned. My blood boil ed as I read it; yet, in spite of mv rage, 1 felt a grim humor us I realized the exquisite cynicism possessed by the wr ier. Il<*re was a man striking a foul and recreant blow at a woman whom lie once loved—a blow that must crush her to the earth. I!s own words confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and yet in* can speak coolly about nt mey ar -nng( inonts; can even enter into petty de ad!* concerning his approaching visit! Fie nust he without sham *, without remorse* i villain, absolutely heartless! 1 folded the letter and pined It In my ♦least. I wished to keep it, that 1 m.glit 'cad it again and again during the i-ext twenty-four hours. Long hours they would be. This letter would aid m: to make them pass. Pnilippa made no objection to my keeping Jr. .She sat motionless, gazing gloomily into the lire. “You knew the man’s right name and title;” I asked. “Yes, from the first. Ah! there I wrong ! od myself, liasil! The rai k, the riches, per j haps, tempted m •; and—Basil, 1 loved him then.” , Oh, the piteous regret breathed in that last sentence! 1 ground my teeth, and felt that there was a stronger passion than even love. “That man and I meet to-morrow,” I told myself softly. “But you spoke of a child?” 1 said, turn in'/ to Phliippn. “It is dead—dead—dead!’’ she cried, with a wild laugh. “A fortnight ago it died. Head! My grief then; my joy to-day! See J I am in mourning; to-morrow 1 shall put thin mourning off. Why m tirn for what is, a happy event? No black after to-morrow.” H r mood had once more become excited. As before, her words caino with feverish rapidity. I took her hands in mine; they wen* now burning. “Philippa, dearest, be calm. You will see tluu man no more?” “1 will see hint no more. It is to save my seJf from seeing him that Iconic to yu. L ttle right have I to ask aid lr< in you; Out your words cam ; back to me in my need. There was one friend to turn to. Help me, Basil! 1 coin's to you as a sister may come to a brother.” “Asa sister to a brother,” I echoed. “I accept the trust,” I added, laying my lips r< veiontially on her white forehead, and vowing mentally to devote my life to her. “You will stay here now?” I asked. “No, I must go back. To-morrow I will come—he in', now, Basil, my brother, you will take hi .* far away—far away?” “Where you wish. Every Jand is as one to me now.” I She had given me the right, a brothel’s right, 1o stand between her ami the villain who had wronged her. To-morrow that man would be here! How 1 longed for the moment which would bring us face to face! Pnilippa rose. "I must go,” she said. I pressed food and wine upon her; she would taka nothing. She made, however, no objection to my accompanying her toiler home. We left the house by the cast ment by which she entered. Together we stri ped out on the snow-whitened road. She took my atm and wo walked toward her home. I asked her with whom she was staying. She told me with a widow lady and two children, named Wilson. She went to them at Sir Mervyn XVrrand’s command. Mrs. Wilson, ho told her, was a distant connec tion of his own, and he had made arrange ments for her to look after Philippa during her illness. “What name do they know you by?” I asked. . "He said I was to call myself by tho false name, which, for purposes of his own, he chose to pass under. But 1 felt myself ab solved from m\ pr mise of secrecy. Why should I stay in a a range house with strange people by Sir Mervyn Farrand’s request, unless I could show good cause for doing so? So 1 told Mrs. Wilson everything.” ".She believed you?” “She was bound to believe me. J would have no doubt cast upon my word. I show ed her the certificate of m v marriage. What ever she may have thought at first, she saw then that I was his wife. No one else knows it except her. Toiler lam Luly Ferrand. Like me, she never dreamed to what man’s villainy can reach. Oh, Basil! Basil 1 why are such men allowed to live?’ For the first time Philippa seemed to breakdown. Till now the chief character istics of iter mood had been scorn and anger. Now, sheer grief fori lifetime appeared to sweep away every other emo tion. Sob after sob broke from her. I en deavored to calm her—to comfort her. Alasi bow little 1 could say or do to these end.** I She leaned heavily and despondingly ou my arm, and lor a long while we walked in si lence. At last she told mo her home was close at hand. “Listen. Philippa,” I said; "I shall come in with you and see this lady with whom you are staying. X shall tell her Xam your brother; that lor sonn* time 1 have known liow shamefully your husband Ims neglected you; and that now, with your full consent, 1 mean to take you away. Whether this wo man believes in our relationship or not, matters noth 1 tig. i suppose she knows that man is coming to-morrow. After his heart less desertion, she cannot be surprised at your wish to avbid meeting him.” 1 paused. Philippa bent her head as If assenting to my plan. "To-morrow,” 1 continued, “long before that wretch comes here to poison the very air we breathe, 1 shall come and fetch you. Early in the morning 1 will send my ser vant for your luggage. Mrs. Wilson may know me and my man by sight. That makes no difference. There need be no conceal ment. You are free to come and go. You have no one to fear. On Thursday morn tug we will leave this place.” “Yes,” said Philippa, dreamily, "to-mor row 1 will leave—l will come to you. But I will come alone. In the evening, most likely, when no one will know where 1 have gone.” “But how much better that I should take you away openly and in broad daylight, as a br- tlier would take a sister!” "No; 1 will come to you. You will not mind waiting, Basil. There is something I must do first. Something to be done to-mor- i row. Something to be said; someone to be seen. What is it? who is it? 1 cannot recol lect.” She placed her disengaged hand on her brow. She pushed back her head a little, and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen air on her temples. Poor girl! after what she had that day gone through, no wonder her mind refused to recall trivial details and petty arrangements to lie made before she joined me. Sleep and tiie certainty of mv sympathy and protection would no doubt restore her wandering memory. However, although l again and again urged her to change her mind, she was firm in her resolve to come to ine alone. At last, very reluctantly, l was obliged to give way on this point: but I was determined to see this Mrs. Wilson to-night; so when we reached the house I entered with Philippa. I told her then* was no occasion for her to be present at my Interview with tho hostess. She looked frightfully weary, and nt my suggestion went straight to her room to retire for the night. 1 sat down and awaited the advent of Mrs. Wilson. She soon appeared. A woman of about five and thirty; well but plainly dressed. As I glanced at her withoonie curiosity. 1 decided that when young she must, after a certain type of beauty, have been extremely good-looking. Unfortunately hers was one of those faces cast in an aquiline mold—faces which, as soon ns the bloom of youth is lost or tiie owners thereof turn to thinness, become, as a rule, sharp, strained, hungry, and severe iooking. Whatever the woman’s charms might once have been, she could now boast of very few. As she entered the room and bowed to me her lace expressed undisguised surprise at seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her. 1 apologized for the lateness of my call; then hastened to tell her its object. She listened with polite impossibility. She made no comment when I repeatedly spoke of my so-styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It was ejenr thnt, as Pnilippa had said, Mrs. Wilson was convinced as to the valid nature of the marriage. When i told her it was Lady Ferrand’# in- tention to place herself to-morrow under my protection, she simply bowed. When 1 said tiiat most likely we should leave England, and for a while travel on the continent, she said that my sister’s health would no doubt be much benefited by tlieelumge. "I may mention,” she added, for the first time taking any real part In the talk, “that your sister’s state Is not quite all it should be. For the last day or two 1 have been thinking of sending for the medical man who attended her during her unfortunate confinement. He lias not seen her for quite a week. I mentioned it to her this after noon; but she appears to have taken an un accountable dislike to him, and utterly re fused to see him. I do not wish to alarm you—l merely mention this; no doubt you, her brother, will see to it.” Tam myself a doctor. Her health will bo my cirr,” I said. Then I rose. “You are reh't<*d to Sir Mervyn Ferrand, I believe, Mrs. Wi'son?” X asked. She gave me a quick look which might moan anything. ”\Vo are connections,” she said carel(fS*ly. "Yon mu*, have been surprised at his sending his wife away at such a time?” "I am not in the habitof feeling surprised at Sir Mervyn * actions. lie wrote to me and told me that, knowing my circiims:nuces were straitened,he had recommended a lady to come and live with me for a few months. Wm-’H I found ihi* lady was his wife, I own 1 was, for once, surprised.” . From the emphasis which she laid on cci> tain words, I knew it was but tiie fact of Philippi*# being married to the scoundrel that surprised her, nothing else. I could see that Mrs. Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand thoroughly, and something told me that her relations with him were of a nature which, might not bear investigation. I bade hi r good-night, and walked hack to mv cottage w.th a heart in which sorrow, piiy, hatred,exultation,and, It maybe, hope, were strangely and inextricably mingled. [To bo Continued.] Oeorffo Eliot's biography ha* already brought in to its publisher $40,0.0. JSTO. 16. I do not ask thee, Fate, to bake For me so very largo a cake ; Choose thou tho size—but I entreat That though but small, it shall be sweet. Let those who liko it have it. I Feel no desiro,for sawdust pie. I have no wail for all the years Pvo lived on crusts washed down with tears. If I must drain tho bitter cup As heretofore, why—fill it up. But when my cake, if ever, comes, Vouchsafe it to me full of plums. Beware of Progress. “While dis am de aige of progress.” said Brother < Jardner, as ho rose up with a force of 080 pounds to tho square inch, “do not progress too fast. Dar am inch a thing as puttin' too much sugar in a sweotouke. “Frinstance, progress has car'fed us past de pint whar’ we kin stuff ole hats an’ coats in de winders in place of broken panes, but doau’ jump to de conclushun dat you has got to run in debt fur lace curtains to keep up wid de times. “IVogress has car 1 tad us past do pint, whar 1 men believe in ghosts an’ gob lins, but (loan 1 emagiue dat you am called upon to show yer smartness by ridiculin’ any of de onsartin passage* in de Bible. “Progress lias car 1 fed us past de pint whar’ religun forbids a man to enjoy hisself, but (loan 1 feel called upon lo w’ar yer hoofs off in dancin’, or to get so used to a pack of kcerd.s dat you shuffle yer kuife an 1 fork as soon as you sot down at do tabic. I “Progress has car'iod us past do pint of biHn’ ’talers wid do hides on, but dey has got to be paid for all de same, an’ you musn’t judge of a man's char acter by h’arin’ him order Saratoga chips. “Progress no longer permits our sons to w’ar out our ole cloze, but when you ketch a young man iioein 1 co’n with broadcloth on his legs an’ a paste dia mond in his Idled shirt you kin make up yer mind dat Injun meal am gwine to take a raise of fifty cents on a hun dred. “Progress demands dat our chill’en be eddecated, but bekase yer boys can figger cube root an 1 yer gals chatter French, doan 1 miss do chances to Tarn de fust a good trade, an’ de second do art of bakin’ bread an’ cookin’ bacon.” — Detroit Free Press. m ■ ♦ A Specimen Sponjfc. A curiosity is a man seen at tiie white house every Saturday afternoon and at evening card receptions given by ladies in society. He made his debut here, so to speak, a year ago, as Mr. Blank Blank, of England. He is quite English in physique, and affects the English accent perfectly when speak ing. He Is rather line-looking, and, with his good figure and iron-grav side whiskers. might be mistaken for an En glish lord. He insists on his double name, Mr. Blank Blank, and pleading ly protests when anybody parts his ’name in the middle by addressing him as “Mr. Blank.” Ho is to be seen everywhere, and always at tiie front, taking ladies into supper or with them on his arm for a promenade. At one house, where the hostess looked with anxious face when asked: “(’an you fell me the name of that gentleman?” a lady guest said, helplessly: “Ho comes to mv house, but 1 do not know his name.’ The wife of a cabinet minister said, after discussing the man: “He comes to our receptions without an invitation. We don’t know him, and have never invited him to come, but he makes himself as much at home as if a friend of ray family, and I hear tiiat he has also been to the Z ’s evening parties without being invited. If the man is from England it is some time, ago, as iie really hails from a western state, where he had a career of dissipa tion and his family labored hard to re form him. They succeeded in making a sober man of him. and to keep him reformed. His sister works in a de partment here and furnishes him with pocket money, as well as the visible means of support. In the meantime he is everywhere in society, going to the best houses uninvited as ‘Mr. Blank Blank, of England, 1 and playing his part with an assurance that woflld, to use an inelegant expression, bring a blush to the face of a government mule.”— Washington Capital . Wliat Water Will Cure. Uncle Zaek Baker, of Benton county, is interested in a mineral spring. lie has not attempted to introduce a bill offering the spring as an amendment fo the constitution, a piece of legislation, though, which may bo expected of him: “What is the water good for?” asked tho Speaker of the. House. “Good for everything. It will cure any case of yaller j a riders in the world. Tell you what's a fact. A feller came along some time ago with a yaller dog. He was tiie yallerist dog I ever saw, but he fell in that spring, and when he came out lie was as white as a sheet.” “How is it for rheumatism?” “I’ll tell you what’s a fact. Do you know young Alf Wilson?” “I think so.” “Well, Alf had tho rhmunatiz so bad that ho had to carry one leg on hi* shoulder. He drank that water for three weeks and cau now jump a ten rail fence.” “Will it cure lying.” “Will it? Tell you what’s a fact. A Little Hock newspaper man came up there some time ago, and now can al most believe half of what he says.”— Arkanaaw Traveler. John Dan forth, known as “Major John,*” was a character of whom tho Connecticut papers are now tolling an ecdotes, Dan forth being under the sod. llis chief oddity whs Ins spread-eagle patriotism, copied from that of Jona than Brooks, who, clad in red clothes of continental cut, used to mount Gor ton's heights. New London, and de liver an oration to wondering urchins and grazing cows. One day when there was a real meeting at tho grove, Dan fortli got up to make an address. Soon after lie had begun the quick-witted president of the day sprang to his feet and shouted: “Three cheers for Maj. Danforth, who has just finished his great speech!” The major stood be wildered amidst a cannonade of np plauso and finally sat down like a man in the mazes of a dream. Tho Grandson of an ex-Govornor of Kentucky, says tho Louisville Time ... hns just been plscoil in the penitentiary, the (■rumtson of another ex-Governor is in jail awaiting tho penitentiary anil the grnntlson of one greater than any of our Governors was reoeutly killeit in a bar-room brawl. Great qualities appear to wear out before they reach 'ho thinl generation.