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PART TWO.
ME GREAT- MILL STREET MYSTERY.
By ADELIISTE SERGEANT.
Author of “Jacobi’s Y\ ife,” “Rot’s Repentance,” “Deveril’s Diamond,” “Under
False Pretences,” Etc.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
[SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.]
The Prologue: Chapters I. and ll.—ln Mill
Ft reft, Wbitecnapel, a disreputable locality, a
blind clergyman, the Rev. Francis nelmont,
and a street waif, Richard Eyre, are standing m
front of an empty house. Stephen Eyre, a
captain in the salvation army, has preceded
them on the information that Jess, a former
lover of Stephen's, had “got her man back
arain, and she was with him at No. 20 Mill
street.” The two had come in hot pursuit,
fearing that Stephen, in his fury, would do the
man who had lobbed him of his love some
grievous injury. Helmont fears that, an old
friend of his, George Eastwood, was the one
wuo had wronge i Jessie Armstrong, and he and
the street arab are waiting for news of the
captain and Jessie. Presently a tierce struggle
is heard overhead, and Jessie is seen fighting
ami struggling with one or more men. Pres
ently, as young Dick rushes into the house and
mounts the stairs, the body of Stephen is sci)
bunging by his hands from the window sill.
Then someone is seen pushing the clinging
fingers from the sill, and St -phen Eyre falls a
dull, heavy mass to the earth beneath. Poor
blind Helmont feels over the body of the dyiug
man, and recognizes with his fingers that of
Stephen Eyre. In the meantime the neighbor
hood has been roused, and a search inside the
house instituted. The dead body of Dick Eyre
is lound in a quantity of debris, but no trace of
any one else is discovered. Time passes on. and
Helmont receives a letter from George East
wood, who is in Sardinia, and it is apparent
that he has been away from England for some
time. Shortly afterward Mr. Helmont receives
a visit from a woman. She tells him that her
name is Jess Armstrong, and she lias come to
give herself up for the murder of Stephen Eyre.
The Story. — Chapters I. and ll.—The Rev.
F. Helmont, th -blind parson, is walking with
liis friend, George Eastwood, in Rag Fair,
Whitechapel. Eastwood is an artist, and is on
the 1 okout for models. He meets with Jess
Armstrong, whose brilliant hair captivates his
artistic eye. Ho makes arrangements fur her
to visit linn in his studio, but excites the jeal
ousy of Step! eu Eyre, her lover.
Chapters 111. and IV.—Stephen Eyre, Jess’
huinoie lover, is annoyed at the visit to tho
studio, ami frankly tells her so, something like
a quarrel ensuing. The reader is introduced in
chapter IV. to the Eastwood family, George
Eastwood and Dia a Helmont being engag'd to
he married at tue suggestion of old Col. East
wood, but neither is in love with the other, and
plan to evade the engagement.
Chapters V. and Vl—Diana simplifies mat
ters by accepting the ban t of Lord Hexham,
leaving George free to fall in love with his beau
tiful model. This he does, and his affection is
reciprocated, as she puts it — “only a thousand
times more.”
PART L
CHAPTER VII.— By the River.
Joss flew to his arms, but the gloom of his
face did not relax for a moment.
“George, George, how good you are!” she
said, clinging to him, and looking up into
his face with admiration which might well
flatter any man.
But George was not iu the mood to be
flattered; he was feeling rather sore.
“Nonsense, Jess, I am not good,” he said,
impatie itly. “Pah! what an atmosphere!
Let us get out of here. Come for a walk.”
Jess faltered.
“I haven’t nearly done my work,” she
said.
“What does your work matter? Surely
I am a little more important thaa your
work?”
She looked away from him for a moment.
Her work of late had been irregularly
done, and her employers had threatened to
dismiss her if this bundle of sacks was not
sent back in time. It would need every
moment of the evening, as Jess well knew,
to finish the work; and, more than that, her
grandmother bud threatened her with sav
age punishment if she did not get it done,
ffi.en old Mrs. Flint had bean drinking she
was more than a match for Jess, and the
girl had felt the weight of that heavy arm
too often not to dread a repetition of the
scenes which she sometimes passed
through.
But what were privation and suffering
compared with her love for George? She
smiled brightly at his face, after that one
moment hesitation.
“I’ll come this minute,” she said, “only
you must first let me see if Daddy’s awako.
He sleeps iu that corner—you can scarce
see him, it is so dark—on the shaviugs; I’ll
just look at him and then I’ll be ready.”
“Daddy 1 who’s Daddy?” said George.
He had never questioned her very closely
about her belongings.
“Granny’s brother,” said Jess, unmindful
of the slight frown that was gathering on
her lover’s brow. “He’s got paralytics or
sornethink; he can’t move no more than a
foot or an ’and, and we has to feed him like
& baby.”
Tue faults in Jess’ speech grated on
Geotge’s ear. She had been improving of
late in accent and in manner, but at times
she relaxed into cockneyism, and,[although
Ueorge was too much in love to notice it a
great deal, he could not fail to wince under
it now and then. The hours that he had
passed that day at Wychiord pointed tue
contrast between Jess and Diana a little too
strongly. The pure country air and the
foul odors of Mill street; the stately rooms,
rich in pictures and objects of beauty, and
tlie dark, low garret iu which Jess lived;
these were contrasts painful enough to him
just then, and it was still worse when he
began to make comparisons between the
persons inhabiling the two homes. Daddy
Trotter and Col. Eastwood —both pros
trated by disease, but how different in liahit
and disposition; Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Hel
mont; Jess, herself, in her faded frock, and
Diana, radiantas a goddess of the morning!
George looked round the room, and felt
rather sick. The dark garret, with its heap
of rags and broken furniture —was it possi
ble that he was going to take a wife from
this foul place ? But a ray of light from the
street fell a: this moment upon Jess’ golden
head and made it glow like flame in the
darkness. George’s poetical fancy needed
but tins reminder of her beauty to spring
up afresh.
“Yes, light iu the darkness—th it is what
•he is,” he said to himself. “Making a sun
shine in a shady place. But I will bring
her out of the shadow and give her what
she wants, poor child; sunshine and warmth
aud care. It is a miracle that she has grown
up as she is 1”
While he mused, Jess tended the old man,
whose shrill, quavering accents now broke
Upon George’s ear.
“Where be yer going to, then? Wot busi
ness ’ave you to leave yer work? An’ wot
will the missus say to yer, eh? It ’ll be the
stick this time, an’ no mis ake.”
“O, you be quiet, Daddy,” said Jess, with
the usual freedom from reverence for age
which obtains in places like Mill street.
“Don’t you talk no nonsense. You keep
quiet and l’li soon be back.”
“What did he mean by that?” said
i*orge, frowning again, as sue came to his
side aud looked at him with her gleaming
Smile. “ ‘The stick,’ he said?”
“O, that’s just bis silly way of talking,”
Iflje IHofning ffTtoj*.
said Jess, unblushingly. “It don’t mean
nothing. Come along, dear.”
, tie followed her down the dark and
ric/ety stair, until they stood together in
the street. The sky was calm and clear
above thbir heads; but tho daylight was
fast fading, aud lamps were lighted in the
streets.
“Where shall we go?” said George. “I
want to speak to yon, Jess.”
Jess hesitated and looked a little puzzled,
then nodded to herself aud said:
“I know,” iu a triumphant tone.
She turned and leii him through the dark
alley of Baldwin’s Court and into Mile End
R Ail. The broad pavement was garish
with lights, c.ouded with passing figures,
noisy w >th traders’ cries. George East wood
stopped shore.
“W hat base you brought mo here for?”
lie si- id. “This is not a place whore one can
speak.”
But Jess oniy nodded and smiled, and
made him cross the road. Thence she
plu southw ;rd into a innzr of streets
whicu George hud never explored before,
and it was a distinct surprise to him when
he beheld th i gieam of water, white in tho
evening light, and the block-looking piers
and docks, w hich showed him that he had
g lined the riverside.
“It’s quiet enough here,” said Jess, seat
ing herself on a bit of broken wail, with
her face turned to the silent river, and her
hands folding thoraselves on her lap.
“Ain’t it still? Like the country almost,
ain’t it?”
“Have you ever seen the country, Jess?”
‘l’ ve been to the Forest,” said Jess.
‘That’s country, ain’t it? And once, when
I was at school, the teacher took us out in
vans, miles an’ mile3 away. We played
about in green fields and picked fl wers. I
duano that I liked it much—l was fright
ened—the sky seemed such a long way off,
and here it looks as if it rested a top o’ the
houses, don’t it? I think I should like it
betrer now.”
“\ou would like to leave that wretc ei
street and those wretched, degraded people,
would you n t?” said George, almost pas
sionatelv. “Jess, I have been iu the coun
try to-day, and it has driven mo wild to
think of the difference between the way in
which you live aud that of other people.
Vou have the same delicate instincts, the
same naturally refined taste-; you would
enjoy what they enjoy. It middens me,”
said the young man, startiug up and pacing
tempestuously to and fro, “to think that
you are here in that filthy deu, when others
—no better, no more beau if til than you—-
have everything heart can desire.”
Jess was silent for a moment. A little
smde touched her lips.
“Do you care so much, George?” she
adeed, softly.
“Care, darling? I would give my life to
make you happy!” he cried, and she be
lieved every word he said.
She sal silent, absorbed, with the faint
srnilo still on he- mouth, her eyes dreamy
ami content with happiness. A thrill of
sweetness ran through her whole being at
the sound of bis ardent words. She had
t ever been so happy ir. her life before.
Perhaps it was fated that she would never
he so happy in her life again.
George looked at her with sudden won
derment. She had taken off hor hat—she
was woman enough to like to show her won
derful hair, which he so often praised—and
it snoue like a golden halo round the pale
face.
“You are as beautiful as a saint—as a
Madonna,” he said, fervently. “Jess, I
want you to come away with me and be
happy. 1 will take a little hous for you
somewhere, aud you shall do nothing all
day long but what you like, and wear
your prettiest dresses every day. And you
will be with me always, and never have to
leave me.”
“Do you mean,” said Jess, simply, “in
the country—where you live—your home
that you showed me a picture of once?”
“No, dearest; I don’t mean that. I mean
a little house of our own—or a flat—in
town, so that I could go on with my work.
I am not very rich, you know, but I could
manage that.”
“Yes,” said Jess, “that would be beauti
ful."
“We should perhaps go to my old home
some day, when I was rich,” said George,
sitting down on the wall beside her, aud
putting his arm round her waist, “but not
just yet. You would not mind waiting
a little while for that, would you, sweet
est?”
“I would mind nothing that I did for
you,” she answered, fastening her gray
eyos on his face with the look of adoring
submission that he liked to see.
“My darling! How soon will you come
to me, then, Jess? Next week?”
"I don’t know,” said Jess, deliberating.
She was too simple and direct to be c y
with him. “I shall have to have a frock
made, shan’t I? And Mr. Helmont will
have to be spoken to. I thought we had to
be cried in church three weeks, George?
Will it be all right without that?”
“I’ll make it all right, little woman.
We’lt go to a registrar’s offlee and not
bother Mr. Helmont at all. And look here,
Jess —I don’t want you to say anything
about it to your people at home. You’ll
just slip quietly away with me one day
and never go back again. Do you under
stand?”
“Never go back again?” said Jess, open
ing her eyes. “Not to tell them that lam
married?”
“No,” said George, decidedly, “not even
for that.” .
“But I thought I could help them a little
by and by,” said Jess, in a timid voice. “I
know that you say you are not rich, but
you would be rich enough, perhaps, to let
me send them some tea sometimes, or some
baccy or something. I shouldn’t like Gran
ny to think I was ungrateful, after all she’s
done for me.”
“She’s done such a lot for you, hasn’t
she?” said George, laughing, and pressing
her with his arm. “Well, you may sand
them tea and baccy—l would rather you
railed it tobacco —whenever you like, and
a sovereign now and then. Will that sat
isfy you!”
Jess still looked a little troubled and
doubtful.
“Mayn’t I go and see them sometimes?”
“Like everv slave, at heart you bug your
chains,'’ said’George, somewhat bitterly.
“O, yes, you may see them from time to
time. But not a word about our marriage
un il I give you leave.”
“Very well, George,” she said, meekly.
“Aud now I must go, my darling. You
understand that. I do not ask you to be si
lent entirely from a selfish motive? It
will be better for you in the long run.
Forgive me if I spoke crossly. I did not
mean to bo angry with my own beautiful
Jess.”
In the gathering darkness it was easy for
him to strain her to his breast and to cover
her face with kisses. i
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, FEBRUARY !), 1890.
Jess submitted, trembling a little, but
rapt in a fearful jov. When George looked
at her again she had close! her eyes tigat
ly, as if to abandon herself more com
pletely to the delight of his caresses, and
her head sank upon his shoulder as if she
never cared to move again. It was George
who had to speak first and rouse her from
her trance of jov.
“Now, my darling, we must be going.
You want to go back before your grand
mother is at home, I know, and that must
be a quarter to ten striking. Shall we
go?”
Jess raised her head with a sigh and a
smile, hut no sooner had she looked away
from him that she £ave a sud len terrified
start, and grasped Eastwood’s arm with
both hands.
“What is it, dearest?”
"It was only—someone I know.”
“Who? Not that man Eyre?”
“No, his brother. He was looking at
us. ”
“Spying on us, wash e? I’ll soon teach
him better!”
"No, no; you must not touch him. He is
a cripple—a hunchback—you can’t hurt
him. That’s the worst of it,” said Jess,
pathetically, “for he’s always in mischief
and dodging round after people, and they
don’t like to lava flagor on him when he’s
so afflicted. He’s running off now—ihere
he goes.”
She pointed to a lighted portion of tho
nearest street, and there, for one moment,
Eastwood saw a small, crooked figure run
ning with a strange, sidelong motion, but
considerable speed, as if anxious to get
away.
“Where has ha gone now, I wonde*?’’ he
said.
"O, to tell bis brother, or Grannv, that
he’s seen me here with you. There’ll be a
tine row if he does,” said Jess, catching her
breath a little.
“Jess, darling, let me carry you away to
night?’’
“Oh, no, George, I couldn’t leave them so
sudden like. It wouldn’t be fair, when
Granny’s brought me up since I was a baby'.
I’ll come next week if you like, when I’ve
tidied up the place a bit; but not before—
please, George."
He did net press the point. He meant
honestly by her, on the whole, and ho saw
that he must make certain preparations be
fore she could become bis wife.
They walked silently to the end of Bald
win’s Alley, and there, in an archway of
darkness, they kissed and said goodnight.
Tbeu George strode out i no the highway,
jumped into a hansom, and sped westward,
while Jess, suddenly remembering the hour
and the unfinished work, a id her grand
mother’s probable wrath, flew swiftly back
to her garret.
Mrs. Flint had not yet returned. The
sacks lay in an unsightly heap upon the
floor. Jess sprang to her saat, caught up
the first one came t i hand, and bsgan work
ing at it vigorously. Perhaps if her
grandmother was very drunk when she
came home, she would not notice what Jess
was doing, and the girl could keep hor
candle alight all night. In that case the
sacks would be done by morning. It would
be hard work, but with the prospect of fu
ture happiness and remembrance of
George’s caressing looks aud words, Jess
felt too exultant to care how hard she
worked.
Mho was to have no luok that night, how
ever. Mrs. Flint returned eali9r toan
usud, soberer than u-ual, and therefore
m ich more bal-tempereJ. Mho came in
w Ith a volley of abuse.
“Dick Eyre told mo, he did. Ho came
and said as ’ow you’d been hanging about
ihe wharves with some low fellow, instead
o’ doing yer work. Sacks not near done, I
s’pose? An’ you’ll get the sack to-morrow,
sure a3 you live. I’ll make yer remember
it, mi-s. If yon can’t do yer work, I’ll take
it out of yer, in another way."
And then the old woman threw herself
up on the shrinking girl, dragged her to the
floor, and bestowed upon her tho blows
which Jess had expected to receive. The
girl was powerless in the grasp of those
brawny arms. She did not attempt to cry
for help; only once, when the fury struck
more violently than usual, and it crossed
her mind that she might be too much hurt
to go away with Georgs next woek, she
gasped out a praver for mercy. “O, don’t
kill me, Granny,” she said.
But the plea produced m effect, and
Granny struck harder than before.
CHAPTER VIII.
A HOSPITAL WARD.
For the first time in bis life, Stephen
Eyre stood inside a great London hospital.
The atmosphere, so to speak, of the place
bewildered him at first. There was so much
coming and going; doctors, assistants,
nurses, visitors flitted by him with aneb
celerity and silence, that he felt ai if ho
were in a dream. He had strayed into a
wide corridor, aud stood fumbling with his
cap, and staring about him in a wild, help
less sort of manner, when one of the
white-capped nurses asked him what he
wanted.
“There’s a girl here called Jess Arm
strong,” he said, half shyly, half sullenly.
"Her that got her ribs broke the other
duy."
“O, yes, I know her. The girl with the
bom iful hair,” said the nurse, quickly.
“She’s doing very well, and she told me she
expected you to-day. Will you come this
way?”
Stephen followed his guide through what
seemed to him an interminable maze of
corridors and long, well-lighted rooms, un
til he came to the ward in which Jess lay.
Her grandmother’s violence had resulted in
several rather serious injuries, and she had
boen removed to Saint Bartholomew’s Hos
pital next morning.
Since then a week had elapsed, and as she
was now considerably better, she begged
Mr. Helmont, who had visited her more
than oace, to ask Stephen Eyre to come aud
see her.
“The young fellow to whom she’s en
gaged to be married,” said the clergyman
confidentially to the Ward Sister. “She’ll
worry if she doesn’t see him, I suppose.”
Mr. Helmout knew nothing of tho grad
ually widening breach between the two,
or of Jess’ acquaintance with George East
wood.
Jess’ bed was situated at one end of the
room, aud the bed next to hers was vacant,
so the two could talk together without fear
of being overheard. Stephen, who had
expected something very grim and bare be
hin i the walls of a hospital, was aston
ished at the brightness and cheeriness of the
scene. There were texts aud pictures on
the walls, great bowls of flowers on a cin
ter table; and the nurses, with kindly,
smiling faces, moved from patient to pa
tient, administering food, medicine, or
friendly words, iu a way which excited the
young man’s interest and admiration. And
when he stood by Jess’ bedside he thought
that he had seldom see i her look so nice.
She was thinner than usual, but her face
was slightly flushed, and ner eyes were very
bright. She wore a little blue flannel
dressing-jacket, which admirably suited
the tone of her hair and her complexion.
And the one hand that she could use (for
the other was in a sling) had grown white
since her entrance to the hospital, and
looked to Stephen “quite like a lady’s.”
She smiled when she saw him and
Stephen nodded back. They did not Bhake
hands—persons in Steven’s rank of life never
do snake hands—but they looked at each
other amicably and were glad to see each
otuer once ogam. Of tue two, Stephan
was the more pleased, and Jets the more
critical. The vast gulf which separates
the man who wears a collar from the man
who ties a color ed handkerchief r .un 1 hi
neck had only of late become visible to her.
There is about as much difference of sta
tion between workingmen dressed in th. so
two ways as there is between a curate, let
us say, and a (rural) dean. It is only the
ign. rant who think that no grades exist be
low the rank of shopkesoer. Jess, having
but just attained to a knowledge of some
facts of this kind, was, not unnaturally,
disposed to insist upon them. Her eyes
rested with curious pertinacity upon the
spotted blue roll that encircled Stephen's
neck.
" \Vhat are you a-looking at ma so for?"
he asked at leugtb.
"It’s your han lkercher,” said JO3S, weak
ly. “I like a collar better. I don’t like the
spots.”
“Well, you won’t see mo in this much
longer,” he answered, half grimly, haif
triumpantly. "I’ve change l ray way o’
life since you was took to hospital, Jess.
I’m a changed man. I’m Salvation Army
now. I am; that’s what’s tho matter witu
me.”
"Salvation Army, Stephonl"
“Yes, I am.” said the man, almost fierce
ly, as ho caught the doubt in her tone. “And
vmy not, I should like to kno.v; wuat have
you got to say against it, obi”
“Notbing, 8-eve. I thought Mr. Hel
mont wouldn’t be well pleased, that’s all.”
Stephen’s brow darkened and grew light
in a way which seemed inexplicable and
awe-inspiring to Jess.
“I’ve been to Mr. Helmont,” he said, iu
a lower tone. “And what he said to me
was this: ‘Go where you got the most
good.’ Not many parsons like Mr. Hel
mont, are there, Jess? But he neve:'
brought the lesson home to me liko tho army
did.”
And then he launched forth into some ac
count of his emotio .s aud beliefs in a
strain which is too familiar to us to need
repetition. It was hen he hid finished his
rhapsody that Jess interposod a timid ques
tion.
“And when did it all happen, Stove?”
The young man turned and looked at her
wirh a strangely s lomn look.
“Jess,” ho said, almost in a whisper; “I
had a vision. I told our colonel atiout It,
and bo said Rwos a vision sent to lead mo
to the feet of Christ It was about you,
Jess, mid 1 saw you as plain as I tee you
now."
“About me?” said Jess.
She gave a littie shiver as she spoke.
She was in a nervous and sensitive cmdi
tlon, and the power of the spiritual world
seemed too near for her comfort at that
moment.
"Yes, about you,” said Stephen. His
eyes took a dream;', far-off look as he con
tinued, and hie face was lit up as if by a
lire from within. “It was the night when
Dick saw you with some one—a gentleman,
ue slid—down by the river; aud he rail off
to tell your Granny—l thrashed him well
for it afierwaru, I did; but ’twarn’t no use
then.”
“O, it was. Dick, was it?” said Jess. “He
never liked mo.”
“No, that’s true,” said Stephen, hon
estly. “lie never did. He didn’t like me
thinking of marrying you; and he-liked it
worse when he thought you was going to
throw me overboard. That was what ma le
him ruu to your Granny, when he saw you
—when he thought—now, tell me true,
Jess, was it a gentleman and was he kissing
you ?”
"You’ve no right to ask,” said Joss, with
sudden warmth.
“No right, Jess? Me, that you promised
to t ke for your husband—”
“I taka back my promise," said Jess, an
grily. “I w uldu’t have you not if you
lived a thousand years and there was no one
else to have.”
A nurse, attracted by hor slightly raised
voice, stopped for a moment by the b and,
and wondered whether sho ought to send
that rough-looking young man away. She
spoke to Joss and gave her something to
drmk, admonishing hor meanwhile not to
excite herself, whereat the rough-lo iking
fellow touched his hair with nis forefinger,
and looked so subdued ami respectful that
the nurse went away without carrying out
her first intention. And then Stephen re
sumed the conversation as if there had been
no interruption at all.
“Then .my dro im’s out,” ho said, quietly.
“What do you mean, Stephan?”
“I te.l you I dreamed of you that night.
And I dreamt you said them very words.
‘I taka back my promise,’ says you. And
then I saw you in a different sort of a place
—a kind of a prison it seemed to mo—”
“O, there, dou’tl” cried the girl, shud
dering.
“And you was tbero fur murder, Jess, for
murdering me. I don’t know how you had
got to that, my pretty, hut I s’pose it was
because I’d worrited you; married you aud
nagged at you, maybe, and you’d cmght up
a knife and dona f r me. 1’..0r0 was some
thing about a knife in that dream, but I
don’t know what exactly; and there was that
gentleman chap in the background, a-hov
eriug round, but not able to do either of us
much good. Aud I Woke up all in a hurry,
perspirin’ like, an’ callin’ out; an’ X couldn’t
make out what that there droain was
about. But it come to rue afterward that
it was a sort of a kind of a warning. That
it meant as how I’d bettor not sen much
more of you, Jess, for fear we should do
for one another some day. I’ve cared too
much for you for us to to be just friemilv
anil nothing more. If we can’t bo man anil
wife, we’d best say good-by altogether.”
“Did you think that out fur yourself,
Steve, or was it your 8 .lvation friends as
told you to say so?” inquire.! Jess, not un
naturally.
“Well, it was this way,” said Stephen,
not looking at her, but twisting his cap
backward and forward between his hands.
‘When I beard as you’d been brought here,
Jess, I was right down miserable. I knew
how you’d got hurt well enough—”
"O, no, you didn’t,” said Jess, hurriedly.
“I fell an’ hurt myself against the door.
I’ve told everybody so.”
“That’s all very well. Them as knows
Sally Flint knows how you came by those
broken ribs of yours. I’d have given Dick
as good as she gave you, only him beiug a
cripple I never liko to striko too hard.
Though, if you’d like it, Jess—”
“O, no, no! Don’t you touch him again.
It didn’t matter, him telling Grauny. She
didn’t do nothing to me,” Jess averred, set
ting her lips.
“So you say. Others think different.
Hows’ever, I tell you I was downright
wretched, what with my dro un aud you be
ing here. And I was walking al >ng the
street with my head down, thinking that
all the world was agon me, when some of
the array came by singing, aud looking
that joyful that I wished 'em all bad luck
tor it—they riled me so. I swore at ’em us
they passed; aud one of ’em turns round to
me aud says: ‘Are vou happy, my friend?’
Aud I says, ‘No. and be —-.’ ‘That’s
what you will be,’ says he, ‘it you don't
coine along of us to-night and storm the
fort with ua. Look out, brothers; we’ve
got a prisoner of war. We’ll put him
through knee-drill to-night.’ And there
they marched me off to oue of their meet
ings, Jew; and I heard there what’s made a
different mau of mi, praise the Lord. I
ain’t the man I was- I’m anew creature.
I’m saved now and I was lust before.”
In suite of his convictions, the words did
not fall trippingly from hi* tongue. They
were too new, to emotional, for him. He
was by nature reserved and silent, aud
even his new associates could not make him
glib.
“And 1 thought, Jess, that it would be
be t for me t > strip from my heart all
earthy love. I don’t lay claim to you no
more; and a take your saying what you
have said a- I sign. For when I told the
cap’on what my dream had been, be sa s to
me: ‘Tint's a warning, mv mau. You
must see the young wo nan as s<on as slio's
be.ter, and break off with her.’ But 1
thought—no I’ll stay and see if she wants
to be off with me or not. And when yon
said you’d t ike back your promise, why,
that w>s a sign and a token unto met My
dream’s out in the first part, and we’ve got
to take care that it ain't never out in the
second.”
Jess was crying by this time.'
*'l don’t like to be dreamed about and
talked over,” she said.
“ Why, that don’t hurt you, my doa-,”
said Stupho i, with stolid reassurance. He
paused and looked away from her before he
spoke again. “Tiiere’s another reason why
you’d best be without me, Jess. I’m a
changed mau, bless the Lord, and I hope I
sliau’t never do w iiat I’ve done before in
my time; but I’m afraid—l’m afraid.
There’s time when the blood rushes along in
my body like burning fire, and I dou’t seem
to kuow what I’.n about. It was in one o’
them mad fits that I threw the stone at tho
parson. Yes, it was mo that tluug it. I
blinded him, I did. I thought you’d ha’
gu -ssed that it was nobody but me.”
“O, Steve, how could you!” gasped Jess,
more ovorc imo by this revelation than by
armhing that ho had previously said.
“You! why, the men in the court ’ud kill
you, it' they know.”
“I know they would,"he said, holding up
his head as if he defied the world. “Maybe
i’ll tell’em some day, and soe what they
wi.l say. But, no, I can’t do that. ’Twould
do no pood, neither. I told tlie parson him
solf;biman’ me an’ Dick, we’re known,
tie”) a real good s >rt is Mr. Holmont. But
I'm sfra'd, Jess, that if I fell into oue o’
them old mad fits again I might hurt you
—you, although I love you better than
aught else in tue world—but I might hurt
you, ami then I should be lost worse than I
was before —lost body anil soul, in this
world and tho next. Sooner than that,
Joss, I’d rather you killed mo yourself, my
dear. And if not, wo’d better part.”
Hi-voice had punk into a low key, and
his eyei wore fixe 1 on vacancy. Jess lay
quietly crying oil her pillows, mid the
nurse, seeing the situation, ug lin came to
tue rescue.
“Now. my good young man,” sho said,
“what do you mean by exciting tho patiout
in this way ? Dou’t you s e that she’s too
weik to bo troubled? You’d better go
away this afternoon and come back when
she’s a li tie strongor.”
“1 didn’t mean no harm,” muttered
Stephen, sheepishly.
“O, please, nurse, don’t send him away,”
said Joss. '“I haven’t said what I wanted.
It won’t taka a minute—just somotning I
want him to do for me.”
“Just a minute, then,” said the nurse,
good-humoredly. “But don’t let me sue
any more tears if you want him to come
again.”
Jess laid her thin hand on tho young
man’s arm.
“Steve,” she said in a wliispor, "will you
do something for me?”
“Anything I can, Jess.”
“You say vou’il give me up. You won’t
mind then if I tell you that there’s someone
else—some one—”
“Tlie gentleman that Dick saw you
with?” J
“Yes. He don’t mean me no harm, in
deed ho don’t, Steve, llo’s quite honorablo,
aud all tnat. But—he’ll be expecting me
at his studio-place—where he’s been draw
ing my picture, you know—and of eourso
ho won’t know wiiy I haven’t como. Has
lie been to Mill street, do you think,
Steve?”
Stephen nodded reluctantly.
“I saw him come out of your Granny’s a
day or two ago. Ho looked put out, I
thought. Maybe your Granny told him
some talo or other about you.”
"I daresay she never told him I was here,
and he wouldn’t kuow. O, yes, nurse dear,
one minute, please. Steve, will you go to
him, and tell him I’m ill? Then he’ll un
derstand. ”
Stephen was silent for a moment.
“Jess,” ho said, at last, “you nevor asked
me to do a harder thing than that. But
I’ll do it. I have got new strength in me,
aid I’ll do it. A sort of plucking out o’
tho right eye; a so/t of cutting off o’ the
right baud, it is to mo. But I’ll do it for
you, my dear, so that you may soe 1 lovo
you better than anybody in tho world.”
She smiled up at him faintly. She was
beginning to feel very tired, aud the nnrso
was looking daggers at the unfortunate
visitor.
As ho hurriod away, she caught him by
the hand.
“Kiss me, Steve,” she said, “before yon
go.”
Ho did an odd thing for a man of his
character and training. He fell on his
knoss beside the bed, and kissed hor rever
ently, as if she had t>eon a saint. And Jess,
thinking little of tho matter, kissed him
bank.
[TO RE CONTINUED.!
MR. WILSON’S GREAT SPEECH
in tho Smith vb. Jackson Contested
Election Case.
From, the St. Louis Republic.
Then came the sonsatlon of the day. Wm.
L. Wilson of West Virginia was given the
floor. Mr. Wilson is the scholar of the
House. Ho is a little man, about five feet
four inches high and weighing not more
than 140 donnds. Mr. Wilson was for a
number of years a college president in Wst
Virginia, but, having a taste for politics,
ha was elected to the Fortv-eighth congress
and re-elected to every congress since thou.
His tariff speech, delivered in the last
congress, won him a national reputation.
He does not speak often, hut when he
does speak be is always listened to
with profound attention. When bo took
Ihe floor this evening everybody expected
something good and nobody was disap
pointed. Ilis speech was not advertised—
nobody expected it. The press gallery was
almost deserted when he urose, and the e
were many empty seats on the fl >or of tlie
Il .use. He bail uot beeu talking more than
a minute or two, however, when every
available space for either standing or sitting
room, both on the floor and iu the galleries,
was occupied.
The numbers crowded around him, and
at the beginning the republicans were in
clined to lie amused at his humor and fine
sarcasm. As he continued totaik, however,
and the republicans took in the full purp.rt
of his remarks, their faces grew long, and
his keen thrusts no longer created laughter
on that side of the chamber. But the
democrats wero delighted. The czar in the
chair sat uneasily, .-is Wilson got in his
work, the saurian hide of the man from
Maine began to quiver. The keeD dart* of
the West Virginian were penetrating. Re and
scowled. He grasped the gavel as if he
would like to fling it at tho orator, but
changed his mind. The czar nicked up u
newspaper and pretended to read, hut soon
let it drop from his hand a id began to inop
the cold perspiration from his ample brow.
As Wiisou proceeded. Heed’s (face became
purple, and be acted as if be were seated on
a porcupine’s hide. It took Wilson about
thirty-five minutes to make his s, eech. He
was eutirely unimpassioned, but overy
word he uttered weut to the marrow of the
chair.
TRAIN HER AS A BEAUTY.
CAN A GIRL BE BRED TO BE
LOVELY?
Ways of Educating the Body Which
Are Just as Certain In Their Effects
as Any Ever Employed on the Mind.
Cultivating the Figure and Com
plexion.
( Copyright .)
New York. Feb. B.—Sometimes it occurs
to me to wonder what one could do if one
had a girl to control from babyhood.
Could sho be brought up to lie beautiful?
I believe she could if the hereditary handi
cap were not too strong, did not approach
positive deformity.
One intellect is susceptible of a greater
polish than anothor, and < ne countenance of
n more winning grace; but any brain not
that of a gibbering idiot can be cultivated,
aud so can any complexion.
It is not easy to get a fine education, but
the moans of its acquirement are fairly well
understood. It is not oasy to have a fine
figure, but some day it will be known that
there are methods of disciplining the body
which aro just as certain in their operation
as any ever employed on the mtnet
To train a girl systematically for lovelinoss
would entail heavy responsibilities. It
would mean training for health primarily.
To begin with, if I had any strong interest
in my experiment, I am ufraid I should feel
obliged to take her out of town. I very
much doubt if a beauty of the highest
order, lit to live iu song and story, aud over
whose charms one might imagine kingdoms
torn in twaiu, has many times been reared
except oil green sward. The most beautiful
women have S|ient thoir early years as
"nymphs." This is Mrs. E. Lynn'Liu ton’s
word. Mrs. Grundy prefers to call them
“ho dens.”
Dr. F.ithorgill has been getting out a
little book iu London, lu wtiioh he says that
the pure bred cockney of the fifth genera
tion ha* no existence. Without ail infusion
of country blood, he dies out in much less
time. Whether or no town d-vclloi'S area
dying race, bricks and mortar do not con
tribute to tho beauty of women.
I could not let my bud ling queen of
hearts risk her chances of coining into
her kingdom by b entiling air which con
tains no ozone, irritating hor lungs with the
noxious dust of our streets and prisoning
them with tho fame* of our passenger cars.
When I had carried her off into the country
there would liesd to boa liouso built for her
to live in, a house which should itself
breathe healthfully. Somebody should
stand over every workman, ami
should see that it did not
roly for its air on the cellar, sucking up
stagnation and decay through the furnace
pipes, a id that tho plumber worked as for
tho salvatiou of ins soul. It should have
plenty of windows for the sunshina to enter
and a generous open heartn in overy room.
It should have large rooms and high ceiled
ones, with no paper on the walls to catch
fl >uting gases, but fiuisliod instead with
some non-absorbent material. It should
have ha-d wood floors, with rugs instead of
carpets, few hangings and little hnc-a-brao
—aud she should spend, except wiiou sleep
ing, as little time iu it us practicable.
It should bo worth a generous fee to the
architect to porfect the ventilation of hor
bedroom.
Ass ion as Helen—Helen is a good name,
isn’t it—was old enough to bo talked to,
I would teach her the art of carrying hor
small body. I wouldn’t wait until she was
growing thin aud long-legged, like a plant
running up too rapidly, and then say to her:
“Do throw your shoulders back; you’re
getting as awkward as you can be.” But I
would take hor in hor nightgown, or with
out any nightgown, and mold her with my
hands until she fund out how to turn her
hips inward and back, draw in the abdomen,
lift the chest to its proper place, put the chin
back, and poise herself on tho balls of hor
feet and not on her heels, so that a line
dropped from the chest would strike the
toes. So she should have the erect carriage
of an English lady of an old family.
Can’t be done, you think; all nonsense
with a child. Take tho freedom out of hor
attitudes?
i know a little boy who caught this trick
of standing so young that he goes about to
day in liis kindergarten class as a baby mis
sionary, adjuring the other infants to hold
themselves properly. It’s never so easy to
sit ereot ns it is to slouch, hut it’s easier to
be graceful all through life if you wore not
allowed to become ungraceful in the grow
mg period. Why do mothers put corsets
on little girls of 9 and 10? Sometimes they
say it’s to keep them from becoming round
shouldered. i fancy if Helen’s teacher
caught her with drooping head or con
tracted ohest she would put her on the floor
flat on her back, head touching the
boards, and would make hor lift hor
shoulders and thorax, without moving
her heal, to exercise the muscles of the
back of hor neck and incite them to do
their duty. The.i she would turn hor over
on hor stomach and ma*e her lift herself,
head and all, in t esa no way. Thou she
would shift the position to the back again,
have her extend her arms, with tho back of
her hands flit upon the floor, and sweep
them slowly until they met above the head,
tiiumb to thumb still touching the floor, and
so down to the sides and back again, de
scribing semi-circles. Yet another c'lauge
to the stomach position, with both arms ex
tended straight, palms t > the floor, and first
one arm and then the other, aud theu both
should be lifted without lifting the head,
and twenty other exercises shoul i be de
vised which, to Helen, should be play.
I should not concern myself if Helen did
not begin to learn to road until she were
well along toward 12 years old; from books,
that is, for abe should have nor powers of
observation trained and her irnagimtioa
quickenod by lessons every duy on the
growing things and thfc living things out of
doors. Wheu the book work negau I should
still remember that bodies need educat
ing quite as much as minds, aDd that three
hours iu tlie library with five of chasing up
hill and down is a fair proportion. If it
wore my mind to make a profound scholar
of Helen I think I should stand the fairest
c .ance of success by this beginning.
Helen should have as much occa-Jon for a
running master as a music master; indeed,
unless sho should have a special taiout for
music, far ill re, and, 1 haven’t invented
the costume yet, but if she should b ive the
nerve und s*ill to vault a feuoe or climb a
tree, she should not be bumpered by the
tyranny of her pottic iats. If sue wero to
lie a queen indeed, she shouldn’t have the
fearlessness and dignity taken out of hor
by j'ears of halting and mincing lest she
show more than two buttons ou her bo >ts,
to say nothing of a glimpse of stockings,
even to the birds and oows, and it goes
without saying that she should tie innocent
of high heels. Her clothes should b) loose,
light and snort, and she should not be Dred
to be “a little lady,” but to make mud pies
and to run.
I have seen women who had, when
seated, the pretty, willowy grace of sway
ing orchids. I have seen women with a
magic power to defy the laws of gravita
tion ; they did not walk, they floated; but I
have never seen a woman who could rum
Yet running U as natural to a girl us to a
boy. aud if Helen possessed this supreme
grace of motion she would find it also tho
PAGES 9 TO 12.
supremo beautifier, making her round
i limbs light, supple and free. Atalanta
ran, aud if t>n hail been a Spartan
girl she couldn’t have married if she
hadn’t boon able to run. Ht whole future
depended on her physical development.
The Spartan girl hail to contest with the
hoys in the gymnasium. No f. eble girl
could 1 ass herself off us robust by any arts
of dress. Every sickly girl was obliged to
ahstaiu from marring -. The rac > could not
bo allowed to deteriorate by making
mothers of its poorer specimens. The
Greek women were the finest who have
ever existed, physically, and it is impossi
ble to look at the large-eyed, Sound lunged
creatures as they ajip ar iu any classical
collection without feeling that they tasted
all the joy and sweeti es* and beauty of
living. To achieve her namesake's beauty
Helen should try her namesake's means.
One of the prettiest women in Now Eng
land was sickly ami sallow as a girl, on the
verge of consumption. “Turn her out to
pasture,” said a wise physician. She throve
like a colt, and on tho same regimen, run
ning and kicking up her heels. Oue day
her brothers pla moil a nutting expedition.
"Mav I ask Nelly F’ she questioned, planning
a fine time for hor only girl friend. “Pooh,
she can’t go,” answered the hoys. “She’s a
girl 1” One of those girl* died of the New
England scourge, but it was not tho one
whose sox was forgotten. She still thrives,
and can still climb a tree.
Helen should swim and should paddle a
oanoo. She should throw a stone. She
should fence. Sho should ride a horse, but
not on n side saddle. Sho should skate.
She should dance. She should walk—walk
like a tiger, with every muscle doing its
work, firm, easy, counterpoised. She should
have the full grace that liatu o meant to
bestow ou her crowning production. Every
day of hor Jife should round her arms and
fill out her die-it, and train down her figure,
and make firm her muscles, and give her the
p dse ami lightness of varied motion—give
her vital force and staying power.
Helen should eat, ami wliut she should
eat anil how, should be one of her teacher’s
chief studios. Good digestion moans good
complexion. Pickles aid piuk ice cream
mean a dull, thick skin with pimples. If
Helen is to come .into her kingdom, the
kitchen in which her meals are prepared
must bo presided over with as much intelli
gence as if it were a chemical laboratory.
And it is. The experiments conducted iu it
are of the utmost importance, and on
their results depend tlie brightness of
Helen’s eyes, the clearness, soft
ness, satin smoiitlinesa of her skin.
Helen’s cook can do much to make Helou’s
flesh flabby and coarse, sickly, blotchy and
irritable. Helen’s cook can do much to
make it elastic, pink-tinted aud dimpled.
Helen is a baby sovereign, and sho must be
reverently served with milk aud cereals,
fruit, beefsteak, plenty of simple, nutritious
broths and soups, coarse bread made from
whole wheat flour and simple sweots
and puddings. She must eat at regular
hours aud lie thought a respoct for the gospel
of that which is wholesome.
She must have a hath every day. Per
haps a sponge bath with a good rubbing in
tiio morning and a warm bath at bedtime.
This is good for both figure and complex
ion.
All of those things should contribute to
the really artistic care of her body and to
the education of vital grace. Helen’s beauty
teacher could not transform her features,
but, if she were such a teacher as we shall
yet have for such beauty courses, Helen
could hardly fail of a back os straight as an
arrow, lips and cuookij rosy, fine eyes, soft
bright huir, and a body plump and well
shaped, for these aro quite within the con
trol of training.
“H. IL” used to say that “laughing mas
ters might as well he paid as dancing mas
ters to help on society.” Running races in
the wind is the very thing to put juyousnose
into Helen’s mariner, an! joyousno-s is so
rare in America as to be in itself almost
bi'auty. Helen’s face must not bo empty or
dull. Sho must think and she must feel,
and the thinking and the feeling must put
lifo aud expression into tho statue. She
must know, aud the sound mind iu the
sound tiody must make a sweot and whole
some woman.
And to what end? One Helen might go
back on her beauty training, sit over a
register, o it heavy course dinners with bon
bans bet ween meals and cover up the first
pimply blotch that appeared on her fore
head with chalk and carmine ami a dotted
veil. But that doe* not altor the fact that
tho coming woman must boas strong and
free of body as the ancient ideals.
Eliza Putnam Heaton.
ALL IN A SINGLE ROOM.
A North Carolina Family of 28 Who
Live in One Apartment.
From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat.
In the western port of North Carolina,
about seven miles west of Hot Springs,
there lives a family by the name of Brooks.
It is a very interesting one, aud many a
visitor to the quiet little town of Hot
Springr has had his curiosity so aroused by
stories of this family that they have hired
teams aud driven seven miles to the Brooks
residence. This consists of a little, low log
cabin in an unsettled district, and is occu
pied by father, mother, and twenty excep
tionally handsome children.
Every one is a blonde, with golden-yellow
hair and peachy complex! m, and ail as ig
norant, wild and untutored as they are
beautiful. In addition to tho above family
proper the two older girls are married. One
is a widow with two chi Idren, aud the other
has three children and a husband. Both
those little fainili-s are living with the old
folks at home, making in all a family of
twenty-eight when none are missing. Tho
house, or log cabin, consists of but one
room, anil tnat a very small one. On two
sides of this are built seven berths, one
above another, against tlie wall, and they
wero evidently built with the cabin.
In these “buxes” tho parents,cnildron and
grandchildren lay themselves away when
night comes on. Tnreo times a day this
interesting family may bo seen at meals.
Tho older members seat themselves about
on the ground in front pf the house, “Indian
fashion,” aud are favored with tin plates
and iron spoons, while the younger ones
stand around a rough iiome-m ide table
inside the cabin, eating beaus with a relish
that is good to look upon. This is the prin
cipal diet; now and the i they have a change
but it is of the same plain, cheap order!
They are all healthy and robust, knowing
nothing of sickness.
Tlie fatner of this familv, who has to
"hustle” for the beans to fill tlie twenty
eigut hungry mouths, makes as high as $lB
some mouths, but oftener bis income will
not exceed sls per mouth, which sum ha
earns by walking *ven miles dally to Hot
Springs, to work iu the mill of Frank Ga
hagan. Tho mother, who has a baby in
arms, seems contented and happy as she sits
with one foot ou the side of the home-made
cradle, made of an ordinary pine box, with
rockers sawed out of a pirn- board, which
she every now and then gives a "kick” to
keep the cradle moving, while she sing*
over and over again a few lines of some old
hymn she has learned. Every one is struck
with the remarkable beauty of the children,
from tlie youngest to the oldest It is some
thing wonderful. The parents have found
names for ail but oue, which is without a
name as yet.
SpzAKiNoof grammar, criminals and judge*
differ widely in opinion in regard to the length
of sentences,—Aosfon Courier,
