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1-ART TWO.
IBS GUT Mil MET MYSTERY.
By sergidaitt.
Author of “Jacobi’s Wihe,” “Roy’s Repentance” “Deveril’s Diamond,” “Under
False Pretences,” Etc.
I ALL RIGHTS RESERVED J
CHAPTER XXXV.
"let sleeping dogs lie."
The doctor stared, for once incredulous.
“You!” he said. "You! Impossible."
"Not impossible,” Jess answered, firmly.
"I pushed him down.”
“Bat you did not—you could not—push
him out of the window?"
“No; he fell out. The wood-work gye
way. I think he could have been helped up
again; but I pushed him down."
Tho doctor looked at her strangely, ns if
he weru diagnosing the case of a person
alllicted by some new disease.
They had paused in their walk. He
planted himself against the trunk of a
great beech tree, folded his arms, and con
tinued to survey her.
She, standing about six feet away from
him, with the golden sunlight flickering
through tho beech leaven upon her bent
f lead, remained motionless and silent.
"Now, I should like to know," he said in
deliberate tones, “what has made you
adopt this course? For you have a reason,
no doubt.”
"Yes, I have a reason. One ought to
speak tho truth, ought one not?”
“H’m—not when one’s neck is imperiled
by doing so."
Ho suw that she blanched at tho words.
“1 can’t help it,” she said, in a smothered
voice. “It is better for me to sutler tnau
—any one—else —”
“Than George Eastwood, for instance?”
said the doctor, curtly.
A look of wild terror flashed for a mo
ment from her eye3, but before he could
arrest or interpret it, it was gone. An ex
pression of great resolution —almost to be
called obstinacy—settled upon her face.
“Mr. Eastwood had nothing to do with
Stephen Eyre’s death,” she said. “I be
lieve that ne as abroad at the time. Mr.
Helmont says so. You can ask Mr. Hei
mont.”
“Who was with you in that empty house?
Number Twenty, was it not? The man
that I attended in the next house, I suppose?
Wood?”
“No," said Jess, stolidly.
“Who, then?"
“I don’t know who it was,” she answered.
“There were two or three of them—and
me. They’d been drinking and playing
cards. Stephen heard of it and came to
reprove ’em, and they fell to fighting. I
was afraid that Stephen would hurt one of
them; and so”—lowering her eyes—“X
pushed him down.”
pji“ You must have cared a good deal for the
man for whose sake you pushed Stephen
Eyre out ot the window?"
She flinched a little.
“No,” she said, turning aside. “I didn’t
care for him in particular. X didn’t want
murder done, that’s all.”
“So you did it yourself?”
There was a silence, during which she
pressed her hands very tightly together
and wrung them a little beneath her shawl.
“What was tho name of the man?” said
the doctor, noticing this action.
Her answer was ready.
“His name was Smith—John Smith,”
“Where is he now?”
"I don’t know.”
“You have not seen him since that
Bight?"
“No.”
“Nor ever will again, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, my dear girl," said Dr. Price, em
phatically, “this won’t do. I believe that
you are simply telling a pack of lies. You
have invented John Smith in order to
screen somebody else. There is no John
Smith. There never was; you’ll never see
him again because you never made his ac
quaintance. You have no business to put
a slur on the fair name of your innocent
child by making an idiotic confession of this
sort.”
Jess looked at him seriously.
“You are wrong,” she said, so earnestly
that Dr. Price was staggered in his convic
tion of her innocence. “I was there in
Number Twenty—ask Mr. Helmont if
Dick Eyre did not tell him that I was there
—and I helped—l helped to kill Stephen
Eyre.”
Her face was white as snow, but her eyes
were clear, grave, steady. The doctor was,
however, not yet convinced.
“Well,” he said, “you may be telling part
of the truth, but you are not telling the
whole. Who was with you in Number
Twenty? That is the question.”
“John Smith,” said Jess, firmly.
“Tut! John Smith, indeed! It was the
man Wood.”
“No, sir, it was not Wood.”
“W ho was Wood, then?”
“He paid me for nursing him, sir. I’m
sure I don’t know where he came from.”
“ His real name was Eastwood,” said Dr.
Price, abruptly.
He thought that ho had caught her in his
trap that time. She gave a start and a
shudder, and seemed not to know what to
say in reply. But, collecting herself, she
answered steadily:
“Not that I know of. Mr. Eastwood—the
one I used to know—went abroad a long
time ago."
“He did not marry you, then?” said the
doctor, looking her full in the face.
“1 do not know vtfhat business that is of
yours, sir,” Jess said, with a quiet dig
nity, which seemed to him to be something
new.
“He is your child’s father, is he not?” said
tho doctor, unabashed.
She made no answer.
“I told you,” he went on, “that Eastwood
was likely to be arrested for this murder.
You—to save him—immediately accuse
yourself. You loved that man, and you
would do anything to save him, would you
not r
Watching her, ho noticed the strange
look of spiritual illumination glorify her
face, as Georgo Eastwood had noted it once
before. She even smiled a little, as she an
swered:
“You are wrong. Ido not love him. But
cannot bear that an innocent man should
suffer for my sins. If he is accused, I must
clear him, at any cost,"
"Wait till he is accused, then.”
She turned upon him swiftly.
“You said that he bad been accused—that
ho was going to be arrested—”
“I did not speak quite accurately.”
“You mean that you wanted to trap me?
To see what I should say?” said Jess, flush
ing violently.
“Something like it,” replied the doctor,
with a smilo.
Btie bit her lip; the flush subsided 03
rapidly ns it had arisen, but left her very
Pale. It was evident that tears were near
Heyes.
§Jje IHofnittfl ffotasd.
“It was mean of you—ungenerous,” she
said, in a low, indignant voice. “I never
thought that you would cheat me in that
way.”
“Well, I’m not cheating you altogether.”
he answered, drily; “for I am near the
truth enough for ail practical purposes. I
and one or two more people suspect George
Eastwood; and if we chose to give informa
tion to the police we should have him locked
up in pretty good time! You sav George
Eastwood was out of England in January.
Well, that can I>q easily proved. The mo
ment I see George Eastwood, I shall know
whether or not he is the man whom I at
tended in the house next door to Number
Twenty. If he is, your denial and your
statement only make matters worse" for
him.”
“I don’t see why,” said Jess, boldly. “If
—just supposing it for a moment—if that
man Wood was George Eastwood, as you
say, it wouldn’t prove that he had been in
Number Twenty on the night of the mur
der, or had anything to do with it.”
“No, but wo should then ascertain when
and how he came into the lodging house.
The woman of the house says that he was a
friend of tho hawker’s —I forget bis name.
We should find the hawker and question
him. My dear girl, we should have the
story in five minutes.”
“But indeed, indeed, doctor,” said Jess,
who was now very white and trembling
from head to foot, “jndeed, you are wrong.
It was me and nobody else that pushed
Stephen out of the window. Nobody else
had anything to do with it. The man that
was with me wouldn’t like to give me up,
of course, and he’s broke off all friendship
with me in consequence of what I did
then—”
“That I believe,” muttered the doctor.
“And it wouldn’t be at all fair to brfng
him into the case when I had been to
blame—to blame entirely. Nobody else
ought to be vexed or punished for it. It was
my doing.”
“You’ll never get me to believe that.”
“I can’t help it,” said Jess, letting her
hands fall before her in an attitude of
extreme dejection. “I must not let any
body bo blamed for me.”
Her tone carried more weight than Dr.
Price quite wished to allow. He had cer
tainly begun by believing that Jess was
mixed up with the Mill Street Mystery; but
on further acquaintance with her, the min
gled sweetness and purity of her character
had manifested itself to him and staggered
him in his belief. Yet he could hardly con
clude that a woman would accuse herself of
so serious a crime as murder without rea
son. She ought by rights to be anxious to
conceal her guilt—and yet she spoke of it
without reserve.
What did it mean? Dr. Price was con
founded; heimd not the key of the mys
tery. He was forced to iielieve that she
was speaking tho truth after all; but ho be
lieved it against his better judgment,
against his instincts, against his perception
of character. And lie was accordingly per
plexed.
“Well,” he said at last, “I don’t under
stand this affair.”
“Nobody can understand it but me,” said
Jess.
“And why don’t you explain it then?”
“I am doing my best,” she answered,
meekly.
“Have you no thought for your child?
What will be its lot if you confess to a
murder, woman?”
Her Up trembled.
“Alice Drew will take care of Meenie,
till sae is old enough to be sent to her
friends.”
“Alice Drew? What! after you tell her
that you killed the man she loved?”
Jess turned aside and did not speak.
“And as to the child’s friends—by whom
you mean Eastwood’s relatives, I suppose,”
said Dr. Price, relentlessly, “how do you
think they will approve of your conduct?
Will they befriend or acknowledge her?
What sort of a fate do you mean to bring
on her?”
Jess shrank back and held up her hands
with an appealing gesture.
“Oh, don’t go on, don't go on,” she cried.
“I can’t bear it! Wouldn’t it be worse for
her if her own father was thought to be the
murderer? Yes, she is George Eastwood’s
child, and you tell me that people will ac
cuse him! He did not do it —he did not, and
1 had better be punished for it so that no
body may blame him 1 I teU you he was
far, far away when I did it, and although
he does not care for a wicked woman like
me, I’m ready to save him and to die for
him if need be 1”
Avery unusual moisture bad gathered
in Dr. Price’s eyes. Ho wiped it hastily
away with the back of his hand, and
cleared his throat several times before he
spoke.
“My girl,” he said at last, “nobody wants
to accuse either him or you. My advice to
you is—Let sleeping dogs lie. There’s no
use in raking up the past. Let it alone and
it will let you alone. Wait until you see
' that Eastwood is in danger before you im
plicate yourself. I promise you that I won’t
say a word. I had an idea that I could fer
ret out the whole matter, and I felt some
curiosity as to how things would turn, but
I wash my hands of it from this day for
ward. It’s no business of mine, and I don’t
want to know anything more. I’ve heard
enough.”
Jess had gradually raised her drooping
head, and now looked at him piteously.
“Do you think that he’s safe then, doc
tor?”
“Safe enough if you don’t prate about
the matter to every fool you come across.”
“I’ve only spokeu to you,”said Joss, with
unconscious irony.
“Don’t say any more and then you will
be safe. Nobody suspects Eastwood except
myself—and perhaps one other person.
Never mind that. It won’t get into the
newspapers. By tho timo it gets into the
newspapers you may think about confes
sion.”
“If he is suspected, I shall tell.”
“Wait till he is. And don’t tell this fine
story of yours to Alice Drew.”
Jess flushed a little and winced.
“Because, if you do,” said tho doctor,
rather roughly, “you may depend upon it
she’ll never desert you the for the rest of
your life. She’ll spend all her time in try
ing to save your soul and that of your baby,
and she’ll be lost to the world henceforth.
She simply wants somebody to have done
her an ia jury, in order to prove how saintly
she can be.”
Jess' eyes moistened.
“She’s very good,” she murmured.
“And now let us walk back to the vil
lage,” said the doctor, glancing at his
watch, "or we shall get no dinner to-day.
And mind what I say to you. Don’t make
confession until you are obliged to. Let
sleeping dogs lie.”
They waited back to the village In si
lence. Alice was already watching for
them, and some relief showed itself in her
SAVANNAH, GA., SUNDAY, MAY 18, 1890.
countenance when Jess appeared. She had
been much puzzled by her action that
morning, and was half afraid that she had
been taken ill and wanted to see the doctor
in private.
But Alice’s brow cleared when Jess came
in, took Meenie in hef arms, and sat down
to dinner as usual. True, her faoe was
white and her eyes were red with weeping,
but these facts were not such as to call for
any especial remark, being of very frequent
occurrence.
The doctor was, on tho contrary, excep
tionally cheerful. He sat down with the
party to their Sunday dinner, and told
tales and made jokes until the hostess was
delighted. She was even more pleased
when, on bis departure, ho made her a band
some present of money for his entertain
ment, and promised to come again another
day. He was, as she expressed it to Alice,
“such an affable gentleman.”
The doctor’s last words to Jess were of a
somewhat enigmatical character in Alice
Drew’s opinion.
"Let sloeping dogs lie,” he said to her
with a friendly nod. "Mind what I say to
you now; let sleeping dogs lie.”
CHAPTER XXXVL
CONFESSION.
“Alice,” said Jess, “do you think that one
ought always to tell the truth?”
“Always,” said Alice, emphatically, “in
love.”
"Even if it hurts the worldly prospects of
the people you love?"
"VVehaveto do right and leave the re
sults to God.” said Alice.
Jess was silent. Several days had elapsed
since the doctor’s visit, and Alice had no
ticed a great change in her during that
time. Sue was quiet and apparently de
pressed ; she no longer took interest in the
sweet country sights and sounds. Twice
every day she trudged off to the nearest
railway station in order to buy a morning
and evening newspaper at the bookstall,
and over these papers she would pore some
times for an hour at a time, to the great
detriment of her work. Alice wondered
but said nothing, and did her work for her,
determined to be patient even when Jess
sat with idle hands anil dreamy eyes, gazing
into the distance as if she had nothing in
the world to do but meditate. Alice bided
her time. It was not like Jess to be selfish.
By and by she would remember that she
was neglecting her duty, and she would be
as docile and as iudustrious as of old. In
the meantime Alice did the work of both.
“I don’t know what is right,” said Jess,
looking at the clean white walls of the bed
room which she shared with Alice and
Meenie.
“Then pray for more light, dear,” said
Alice, tenderly.
A sob rose in Jess’ throat.
“Pray for me,” she murmured.
It was the first time that she hod made
such a request, and Alice’s heart swelled
with sudden thankfulness. Bhe took Jess’
hand and knelt down with her by the side
of the little bed where Meenie was sleeping,
and she poured out her heart in prayer
with all the eloquence which only a strong
belief can bring. When she paused, Jess
Was weeping, with her face hidden in her
hands.
“Won’t you pray now, Jess dear?”
“No,” said Joss. "I can’t.”
Alice pressed her tenderly.
“It only needs one effort, dear. You’d
be stronger ever after if you would but
make it. Let your heart speak out. Why
should wo hide that we’re feeling after t.ie
Lord?”
“I only kno rr one prayer,” said Jess.
“Yes, my dear? And what is that?
‘Lord be merciful to me a sinner,’ may be;
say it with all your heart, dear, and he will
hear.”
“No, not that,” said Jess, almost wildly.
“It’s only ‘Lord God, make me strong, keep
me strong; keep me from betraying any one
I love. O, Lord God,’ ” she cried, lifting up
her clasped hands, “hear me and make me
strong 1”
Alice paused in perplexity. This devel
opment of Jess’ inner ltfo was very different
from her own.
“He will answer any prayer that is
prayed with your whole heart, I am sure,"
she said, “though why you want so par
ticular to be strong —except for Meonie’s
sake —”
“Never mind why,” said Jess, anxiously.
“Pray it with mo; pray it for me, and it
will be answered I am sure.”
So Alice closed her eyes again and put
one hand over them, and then said
soleraly:
“Lord, make her strong I—strong to bear
and endure and strive; strong to love and
trust, strong to work for Thee, Lord, keep
her strong through all the troubles and
temptations of this wicked world. Lord,
make her and keep her strong, so that she
may not betray Tnee, nor any of her loved
ones! I commit her to Thy keeping, Omy
God!”
There was a little silence, and then Jess
said in a very low voice:
“I can speak now. I can tell you now.
Take away your hand while I tell you. You
will never love me again, but I will tell you
all the same.”
“You can never tell me anything which
will make me cease to love you,’’ said Alice,
storngly. “No, I won’t take my hand away,
Jess; you can go on.”
She clasped Jess’ slender finger more
closely than ever. They wore still kneeling
beside the bed.
“I want to tell you,” said Jess, huskily,
“that I was in the house—Number Twenty
—when Stephen wask illed. I was there with
—with a man. I can’t tell you all. I can’t
betray any one else; but I can take my
share upon myself. Stephen and he fought;
and Stephen got pushed through the win
dow by accident: but I—we—it was my
fault that he fell.”
There was a dead silence for a minute or
two.
“Was it you,” said Alice, very slowly,
“that pushed him down?”
Jess caught her breath and said “Yes,” In
almost inaudible tones.
“W as it you that cut at his fingers with
a knife when he tried to climb up again?”
As if in pain the girl moaned a little be
fore she answered:
“Yes.”
“And you—you prayed,” said Alice, her
voice quivering, “to be strong enough—to—
confess?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Oh, my dear,” said the woman who had
loved Stephen Eyre, as she folded the girl
who called herself his murderess in her
strong, loving arms, “do you think that I
dare be anything but thankful that God
has let me nelp you to ropent and to save
your poor, sin-stained, miserable soul?”
Jess hardly heard the words. She felt the
sweetness of the tones, tho warmth of the
loving cla;p. She drew herself away and
let her head sink lower and lower until it
rested on Alice’s knees.
“You oughtn’t speak to me or look at me
again,” she moaned. "Why don’t you
strike me and curse me, as Granny used to
do? I deserve it now. I didn’t deserve it
then. I could not bear you to be kind to
me any longer. I know you’ll hate me
now.”
“I shall never hate any ono who is sorry
for sin,” saia Alice, earnestly. “Oh, my
poor Jess, my poor sister, I can’t say how
my heart yearns over you. lam sure that
our Lord loves you, and how could I hate
what he loves? It wouldn’t be natural. Let
us ask him to forgive you—”
“Not yet,” said Je3s, lifting up a hag
gard, tear-stained face. "I want to toll you
first— I’ll go to a magistrate if you like and
give myself up. “I’ve never had a mo
ment's peace since it happened. Maybe I’d
bo easier in prison I don’t want to conceal
It. Suppose somebody else was taken up
for it! Oughtn’t Ito prevent that?”
"Perhaps so," said Alice, doubtfully;
“bat think of Meenie—"
“Wouldn’t they let me have Meenie in
pri on with me?” said Jess, in a wistful
tone. “I thought they let woniem have
their babies with them?”
“But Meenie isn’t quite a baby now, my
dear. ”
“No, she’s not. Then I’d better take her
and go right away—somewhere—where no
body knows us and —”
“What good would that do?” said Alice,
drawing the slight figure close to her. Tne
tears were running slowly down her cheeks,
but she spoke as if she were unconscious of
them. The candle had flickered for a little
while in its socket and then gone out, but
the clear white moonlight streamed
through the uncurtained casements and fell
full on the kneeling figures of the two
women, clasped in each other’s arms. Alice
paused for a few minutes before she spoke
again.
“You must give Meenie to me, Jess,” she
said, quietly, at last. “I can lo>k after her,
and care for her if anything—happens—to
you. I would love her as if she were my
own.”
“Although one—one—of her parents
killed Stephen Eyre?” said Je.s in u whis
per.
“All the more," Alice answored, whisper
ing to 5. “Because I should be so Sorry for
her. The poor iamb has done no harm;
why should we visit its pare its’ sins on its
head, poor thing? Meenie did not ask to
come into the world; it was you brought
her there. If she has no place of her own,
no home, no father and mother to take her
part, then let somebody else who is as
lonely as she is take and make a nest for
her in their heart. That’s what I’ll do for
her if you’ll let me—so help me God 1”
Jess clung to her passionately.
“You are good, you are good!” sho
sobbed. “And lam a wicked girl. Make
Meenie like you; keep her here and make
her good and I’ll bless you all my life 1”
Tho two women kissed each other. There
was little more to be said; they had almost
exhausted themselves with emotion, and
could bear no more. They sat on the floor,
as if not daring to move; and presently
Jess fell asleep, with her head on Alice’s
lap. Alice did not sleep; she sat mo
tionless, and it seemed to her as if her soul
were, os she expressed it, "wonderfully lift
ed up to heavenly things.”
With morning light other considerations
came into view. Alice had to hear the
whole story, as far at least as Jess chose to
give it; and to advise her what to do. Tho
task wus a heavy one for Alice. She would
have liked to take poor, broken-hearted
Joss into her arms and say: “Thecrime, if
it was a crime, is over and done with; I
forgive you as God forgives. Let us live
together and care for your child; you will
no longer live a careless and godless life.
You shall make amends.” But Alice was a
very conscientious woman, and she was not
sure that it would be right to hold Jess back
from making a more public confession of
the truth. Jess told her of Dr. Price’s
opinion, but she only shook her head disap
provingly when she beard it.
“He’s a perfect heathen," she said, in a
solemn tone, “and its no use to go by what
he tells you. If your conscience has
brought you to confession you’d better fol
low its leading.”
Jess kept sileuoe, because sho knew that it
was not her conscience exactly that bad
caused her to speak. It was the fear of
danger to George Eastwood. She was both
sensitive and imaginative, and it had oc
curred to her of late that she might die
young and leave him to bear, some day, all
the blame. How could she prevent the
chance of that? Then came a 1 hint, a
word, in one of the papors she had been
reading:
“Mr. George Eastwood’s connection with
a woman who was mixed up in the Mill
Street Mystery is said to be undoubted.
What are the detectives about? Mr. East
wood may be in Armenia, as it is reported,
or in Timbuctoo, but that is no reason why
he should not be asked to explain what he
knows concerning the character of that
very disreputable crew in Mill street.”
Jess read, only half understanding, but
scenting danger from afar —and trembled
as she read.
So one day she said to Alice, very
quietly:
“1 am going up to London this morn
ing. ”
Alice started.
"What for?”
“Can’t you guoes? You’ll take care of
Meenie.”
“O, Jess, Jess, you mustn’t gol I can’t
bear to think of it. It won’t do poor dear
Stephen any good, you know."
“I know it won’t. It may do me some
good, though.”
“It may—it may. But it breaks my
heart.”
“ You might do one thing for me,” said
Jess, with a very wistful look. “Don’t let
Meenie know—about hor mother, I mean.
Tell her I’m dead. Maybe I shall be dead
by the time she’s old enough to under
stand.”
“They won’t do that to you, Jess,” said
Alice, in a low, awe-stricken voice.
She knew what Jess thought.
“If they do,” said Jess, faintly, “I don’t
want Meenie to know—that’s all.”
“But the man—the man that was with
you? Not Eastwood, you say? What will
he do? Won’t he try to save you?”
“He could’t. He knows—as well as I
do.”
“But he’ll be arrested, too.”
“If they can find himl” said Jess, with a
flash of the eyes, which Alice had not ex
pected.
Tho two women regarded each other
painfully.
Then Alice spoke.
“Where are you going, Jess?”
“I’m going first of all to Mr. Helmont.
He’ll tell me what to do. I’ll be guided by
him.”
“He’s a church clergyman,” said Alice,
in a tone of objection, adding, however,
immediately, “but a good man, I believe.”
"He wds always very good to granny
and me. I shall tell him and hear what he
says.”
“Let me go with you. Joss?”
“I’d rather go alone.”
“What shall I say to our friends here?”
“Wait a little while. Say I’ve gone to
see someone in London. I may como back
maybe. But no, I don’t think I shall.
They’ll see it all in the papers. It’s time
for me to go • now, Alice. Say good-by,
won’t you?”
“Good-by, Jess, and God bless you!”
“You forgive me, Alice Drew?”
“I forgive you, Jess Armstrong, with all
my heart. As I believe Stephen forgives
you. and as God forgives, so do I.”
They kissed each other, but without tears
or apparent emotion. They were both very
palo and grave.
“And now there’s Meenie,” laid Jess, with
a strange little gasping sigh.
Tho golden-haired child was toddling
about the room with a toy in hor hand.
When Jess beat down and drew her to her
breast, Meenie cried out and resisted. She
thought that an attempt was being made to
take her toy away, and she set up a lusty
scream.
“Meonie, my darling, my childsaid
Jess, In a tone of sudden agony. “KGs me
—kis> me; it may be for the last timer’
But seized by one of the fitful impulses to
which children are often subject, Meenie
ran to Alice and buried her head in the
folds of Alice's dress. Jess stood up, white
and quivering.
“VY’on’t she come to me? Will she al
ways shrink from me like this s'” sho said.
Alice’s common sense roas ertod itself.
“Meenie, be a good child and kiss
mother.” she said, picking up tho little
creature and holding her out toward Jess.
“There 1 Give your mother one kiss. ”
Meonie smiled and throw her dimpled
arms suddenly round Alico’s neck. But she
would not look at her motaor. For some
whimsical reason she continued to hide her
face.
And Jess, becoming aware of the lateness
of the hour, was obliged to turn away. See
kissed the baby hand and was vigorously
slapped in return, for Meenie had naughty
moods and was not always amenable to rea
son. And there was no time for Jess to
wait until the return of good humor.
“Kiss hor for me, Alice,” she said, at
length; and turned sorrowfully away. “She
is you child now.”
Ana not two hours later, Francis Hel
mont was startled by the arrival of n visi
tor who claimed to be Joss Armstrong,
and sad that she wished to give herself up
to tho police as the murderess of Stephen
Eyre.
[to be continued!.
DESIGN FOR A COUNTRY HOUSE.
By R. W. Shoppoll, Architect,
(Copyright by the Author.)
Tho prevalent belief that architects’ esti
mates are too low, fostered by those whose
interests such a belief will serve, is uufor
tunate for owners, because It leads many of
them into signing contracts that are too
high. That there aro occasional mistakes
in estimating and that there aro a few
architects who habitually estimate too low,
is admitted, but to accuse the entire pro
fession is as absurd as to say that all physi
cians aro incompetent and dishonest be
cause there aro “quacks” found in their
ranks.
The imitators (and they aro few) are tho
“quacks” of the architectural profession.
Never having originated a design, they are
unacquainted with the materials and labor
required for construction. Usually they
abuse other architects, especially those
from whom they have borrowed most
liberally, and they proclaim their “origin
ality” with great vehemence. If the in
tending builder will avoid this small class,
be can hardly make a mistake in consulting
architects anywhere.
■4 -
perspective.
Following will be found a brief descrip
tion of the design illustrating this article:
General Dimensions—Width over all, 50
feet; depth, including verandas, 43 feet 0
Inches, flights of stories: Cellar, 6 feet
6 inches; first story, 0 feet 0 inches; second
story, 8 feet 6 inches; attic, 8 feet.
Exterior Materials—Foundations, stone;
first story, clapboards; second story, gables,
ami veranda roof, shingles; main roof,
slate. Outside blinds to all windows ox
copt those of the staircase, attic and cellar.
GGrchehiT | J
L’DrarV'
I !58-,u4 ’ 3 ' ' tT
x- 1
PdFlorv J A
FIRST floor.
Interior Finish—Sand-finish plaster. Cel
lar ceiling plastered one heavy coat. Ash
floor in first story with an under-flooring of
soft wood; hard fpine floor in attic; soft
wood floors elsewhere. Soft-wood trim.
Ash staircase. Panels under windows in
parlor, dining-room and library. Kitchen
and bathroom wainscoted. Interior wood
work finished in hard oil.
Colors—Clapboards, bronze green. Trim,
blinds, sashes and rain conductors, dark
red. Outside doors, dark red, with bronze
green panels. Veranda floor, dark olive
drab. Veranda ceiling, lilac. Brick-work,
Indian red. Wall shingles, dipped and
brush-coated red; veranda roof shingles a
darker red.
ilßarßl]l4<g
'y. i /
SECOND FLOOR.
Accommodations—The principal rooms
and their sizes, closets, etc., are shown by
the plans. Cellar with concrete floor under
whole house. Laundry under kitchen.
Attic plastered and finished as a large play
room; space for throe or four bedrooms in
stead, if preferred. Hoater pipes and regis
ters in all rooms. Ail sides of the house
equally presentable. Open fireplaces and
mantels in hall, parlor and dining-room, and
set range in kitchen, included in estimate.
i
! t * x>r gs* Ro ° r ~ ~
/ ChJdrtW |u
j- l'y.c rHaz.2
! Roof | *
ATTIC FLOOR.
Cost—ss,loo, notjincluding heater. The
estimate is based on New York prices for
materials and labor.
Feasible Modification*—Rights of stories,
colors, sizes of room* and kinds of mate
rials may be ehanged. Laundry tubs may
be placed in kitchen. Foundation may be
planned for a level grade. Size of cellar
may be reduced and concrete floor omitted.
Extent of veranda may be greatly reduced.
Number of fireplaces and mantels may be
reduced or all omitted.
NEW RKDFERN IDEAS.
A Few Suggestions Relating to the
Very Latest Fashions.
New York, May 17.—A new thing is a
very jaunty uew tenuis blouse. It is of
white tannis flannel, with doep pointed yoke,
belt and cuffs of bright red China silk,
polka-dotted with white.
The bottom is shaped into scallops, which
are outlined with a double row of rod braid.
The sums idea, reversod, is carried out in
white braid upon the yoke.
The vory pretty tennis gown pictured in
our next sketch is narrow bluo and white
striped tonnis cloth, with a wide Bkirt
border of plain Hue. From the pointed
girdle of blue four bands extend up above
the bust lino, each one widening at the top,
where it has a white braided medallion
representing a tennis ball. A sash is drawn
up very narrow in front, and falls in large
ends at the back.
In the gown illustrated here the most
marked features aro the pleated cape drap
ery upon the bodice, and the embroidered
and braided part of the skirt. This is done
in dark green and stiver upon light gray
cloth, the rest of the gown being of dark
stem green serge.
A cork core floating rope has been invented.
The inventor claims that his floating rope of
one inch thickness will stand a strain of more
than 1,000 pounds. It can be used in life-lines,
on life rafts and as a heaving line to tie heavy
hawsers to. At a life-saving station such a rope
would be very valuable.
TAGES 9 TO 12.
SUGGESTIONS FOR WOMEN.
Some Interesting Facts Which Aro
Worth Considering.
Brooklyn, N. Y., May 17.—A very
lovely friend of mine, a woman Blow to
anger and of considerable intellectual
power, has reached the highest point of in
dignation because of the following remark
of her physician. It is my opinion that
this professional man must have had un
usual provocation, or else ho is by nature
honest beyond the average. This is what
he said: “A physically weak and
spiritually timid woman is not of
the slightest uro anywhere.” This asser
tion, though a little rough and some
what exagerated, is true in the main. That!
I know and my readers know chronic inva
valids, some who, completely bed-ridden,
are towers of strength iu the family and
neighborhood, and es not alter the essential
fact. The swift and beautiful spiritual
growth in their cases has more than com
pensated for the physical disability. But a
woman who is both weak iu body and poor
in spirit is about as useless a piece of
mechanism as was ever set a-going. I can
remember when the woman who did not
scream at a mouse or a caterpillar, or who
was able to climb a stone wall without
usdstunce, was considered lackiug in refine
ment. I recall ati incident that hap
pened not longer than three years
ago which proved that the transmitted
idea of a woman’s clinging dependence on
man \< us even then a very active one. A
young lady was swinging in a hammock on
tho piazza of a seashore cottago. Several
gentlemen were reading and lounging on
the lawn. The occuixi.it of the hammock;
realized ail of a sudden that a wasp’s nest
had opened right over her head. It was
not a comfortable position, but being a girl
of excellent common sense and considerable
courage, she neither screamed nor moved.
Tho pestiferout creatures, loft entirely un
m tested, fliinlly grouped themselves upon
tho piuzza floor a short distance away.
This was her opportunity. Without the
least flurry she lett the hummock, went into
the house, filled a pail with water aud
poured it over the black heap. A second
pail finished them entirely, and a broom
soon after removed all signs of their exist
ence. There was nothing particularly neroio
in tbi~. It was simply a wise and sensible
act, but the point is that not one of the
young men approved of it. A Yale student;
declared that “any girl who would meddle
with wasps when men wore abuut deserved
to be stung so that she would avoid such
unwomanly performances in the future.”
Tho girl’s reply was exceedingly pertinent:
“But what will become of the girls who
always depend up >n men when there are no
men at bund?’’ As my readers will suppose,
this question was qui e unanswerable.
It is happily the fashion now for women
to know something of their own bodies.
The development of the muscles is no longer
confined to men. It has beou discovered
quite recently that women have muscles*
and that much depends on their proper use.
There aro some of tho femiuine muscles that
roally require more consideration than those
of men. This is particularly true of the
abdominals. A woman who does not use
her abdominal muscles in the respira
tory process is likely to have
troublo with her lungs, aud especially likely
to full into n decline after the birth of chil
dren. Lungs that are not properly oxygen
ated and fully inflated become weak and
unable to resist climatic and atinospherio
conditions. Women who have strength
ened the abdominals by scientific exercise,
who have learned to use them with every
breath they draw, will not only be exempt
from the usual ills, such as a tendency to
tako cold, indigestiou and rheumatism, but
their children will be born with less pain
and danger, aud recovery will be more
spoedy.
it sometimes seems to mo past belief that
style should have come to the aid of health.
But it is quite true. Even the dresses of
the ultra fashionable are noted for their
beautiful simplicity. The spine-heating
bustle is no longer seen. The hollow bacic
is pot a void to be filled with cotton, hair
or old newspapers. The most radically
fashionable dresses are made on a gown
form, thus forcing the shoulders to beur all
the weight, and with petticoats gathered on
to a yoke and the yoke fastened to a corset
waist, the hips and all the delicate internal
organs are entirely relieved from the drag
and strain which has made so many women
Invalids for lifo.
The ludiu silks were novor so pretty as
they are this season, and are made in every
conceivable manner, though never with
elaboration by those who have good taste.
Loops of velvet ribbon are the favorite
trimmings for matorinis of light weight.
The domestic India silks are very beautiful,
aud as they are somewhere about 10 or
II cents a yard, and can scarcely
be told from the real article, they
are much used for tea gowns.
I have seen some pretty street dresses
designed of these goods and aro intended,
for the very hottest weather. The domestic
Indian will wash, but of course will not be
as fresh and as glossy afterward. But)
there is no more necessity for laundering
them than there would be for washing the
imported silks. Nuns’ veiling, mulls, and
nainsooks are also much worn, and are all
made in the simplest manner. Notwith
standing the talk in seme circles, drew
skirts will not touch the ground. The
swing-clear skirt is still the favorite, and
luckily, for health, comfort and cleanliness,
it is likely to continue to be.
The styles for girls are just as simple as
for their eldors. White flannel will be much
u>ed for children’s frocks. This material
faced with blue and trimmed with blue
braid is exceedingly pretty. Tho greatest
care is now to have our little girls lightly
clothed, and the weight of their costumes,
as with their elders, to come upon the
shoulders. There is no more talk about
“making a figure,” and gymnastic drill and
calisthenic drill have come to take an impor
tant place on many school programmes. See
to it, mothers, that your children breathe
from the diaphragm and abdominal mus
cles. By a little care now a worldof fatura
misery can be avoided.
Eleanor Kirk.
Ahead of Time.
An old traveler relates that when Cheyenne
was at the zenith of its glory a sign of “General
Offices of the Cheyenne, Pacific Slope and
Sandwich Islands Railroad,’' was hung out one
morning, says the New York Metropolitan.
One day an eastern man walked in, carpet-bag
hi hand, and said:
“1 supiiose you connect at San Francisco with
the regular steamers?”
“Weil, yes; I suppose we shall,” was the hesi
tating reply.
".-.hall? Isn’t your road through yet?”
“Well, not quite.”
“l)o you take in Salt Lake?”
••Salt Lake? Yes, I tiiink we do.”
“How muen for a ticket?”
"Well, I can’t say exactly, as we have none
on sale lust yet.”
“Can I get one at the depot?”
“Well, I think not; we haven’t any depot
yet.”
“I suppose I can walk on the traok,” persisted
the stranger.
“Well, I should have no objection if we had a
track."
“No depot, no tickets, no trains, no track,
what sort of a railroad have you got anyhow?”
“Well, you see it's only on paper thus far, but
as soon as we can sell $8,000,000 worth of stock
we shall begin grading and rush business right
along. If you happen to be along when we get
to going we will put you through os low as any
other responsible route.”
The stranger stuck his hands in his pockets,
stared hard, whistled softly, and walked out on
Lp-tvo without another word.