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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.