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NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.
THAT HOUSE IA BLOOMSBURY,
Bu MRS. OLIPHANT,
Author of "The Son of His Father, --The Sorceress." Within the Precincts."
"Young Muscrave," “Oliver's Bride " "A Rose in June,” Etc.
COPYRIGHTED, 1893, BY THE AUTHOR.
CHAPTER XVI.
Dora passed the long evening of
that day in her father's room. It was one
of those days in which to the sun seems
refuse to set. the daylight to part. It
rolled out in afternoon sunshine, prolong
ed as it seemed for a half year's time,
showing no inclination to wane. When
the sun at last went down, then ensued a
long interval oi day without it. and slow
ly, slowly, the shades of twilight came on.
Mr. Mannering had been very quiet all
the afternoon. He sat brooding unwilling
to speak.
The big book came back with Mr. Fid
dler's compliments, and was replaced
upon his table, where he sat sometimes
turning over the pages, not reading, do
ing nothing. There are few things more
terrible to a looker-on than his silence,
this self-absorption, taking no notice of
anything outside of him, of a convales
cent. The attitude of despondency, the
bowed head, the curved shoulders, and
bad enough in themselves, but nothing is
*o dreadful as the silence, the preoccupa
tion with nothing, the eyes fixed on a
page which is not read, or a horizon in
which nothing is visible.
Dora sat by him with a book, too. in
which she was interested, which is per
haps the easiest way of bearing this; but
the book ended before the afternoon did,
and then she had nothing to do but to
watch him and wonder what he was
thinking of—whether his mind was rov
ing over the lands unkno.vn to her,
whether it was about the museum he was
thinking, or the doctor's orders, or the
bills, two or three of which had by mis
adventure fallen into his hands What
was it f He remained in the same attitude,
quite still and steady, not moving a fin
ger. Sometimes she hoped he might have
fallen asleep; sometimes she addressed
to him a faltering question, to which he
answered yes, or no.
He was not impatient when she spoke
to him. He replied to her in those mono
sylables which are almost worse than si
lence. And Dora durst not protest, could
not upbraid him with that dreadful si
lence, as an older iierson might have
done. "Oh, father, talk tome a little;"
she once cried in her despair, but liesaid
gently that he had nothing to talk about,
and silenced the girl. He had taken the
various meals and refreshments that were
ordered for him, when they came, with
something that was half a smile and half
a look of disgust, and this was the final
exasperation to Dora.
“Oh, father! when you know that you
must take it—that it is the only way of
getting well again.”
"I am taking it,” he said, with that
twist of the lip at every spoonful; which
betrayed how dittasteful it was.
This is hard to bear for the most ex
perienced of nurses, and what should it
be for a girl of 16? She clasped her
hands together in her impatience to keep
herself down. Aud then there came a
knock at the door, and Gilchrist ap
peared. begging that Miss Dora would put
on her hat and go out for a walk with
Miss Bethune.
“I’ll come and sit with my work in a
corner, and be there if he wants any
thing."
Mr. Mannering did not seem to take
any notice, but he heard the whisper at
the door.
“There is no occasion for anyone sit
ting with me. lam quite able to ring if I
want anything.”
“But, father, I don't want to go out,”
said Dora.
□"I want you to go out,” he said, per
emptorily. “It is not proper that you
should be shut up here all day.”
“Let me light the candles, then,
father?”
"I don't want any candles. lam not
doing anything. There is plenty of light
for what I want.”
Oh, what despair it was to have to do
with a man who would not be shaken,
who would take his own way and no
other! If he would but have read a novel,
as Dora did—if he would but begin to
study his big book which was the custom
of his life. Dora felt that it was almost
wicked to leave him, but what could she
do, while he sat there absorbed in his
thoughts, which she could not even divine
what they were about?
To go out into the cool evening was a
relief to her poor little exasperated tem
per, and troubled mind. The air was
sweet and fresh, even in Bloomsbury; the
trees waved rustled softly against the
blue sky; there was a young moon some
where, a white speck in the blue, though
the light of day was not yet gone; the
voices were softened and almost musical
in the evening air. and it was so good to
be out of doors, to bo removed from the
close controlling atmosphere of unaccus
tomed trouble. "Out of sight, out of
mind,” people say. It was very far from
being that; on the contrary, it was but
the natural impatience, the mere contra
riety, that made the girl ready to cry
with a sense of the intolerable, which
now was softened and subdued, allowing
love and pity to come back. She would
talk of nothing but her father as she
went along the street.
"Do you think he looks any better. Miss
Bethune! Do you think he will soon be
able to get out; Do you think the doctor
will let him return soon to the museum !
He loves the museum better than any
thing. He would have more chance
to get well if he might go back."
"All that must be decided by time,
Dora—time and the doctor, who, though
we scoff at him sometimes, knows better,
after all, than you or me. But 1 want
you to think a little of the poor lady you
are going to see."
“What am I going to see’ O, that lady!
I don’t know if father will wish me to go
and see her. O, I did not know what it
was you wanted of me. I cannot go
against father. Miss Bethune, when he is
ill and does not know."
“You will just trust to another than
your father for once in your life, Dora
If you think lam not a friend to your
father, and one that would consider'him
in all things "
The girl walked on silently, reluctantly,
for some time without speaking, with
sometimes a half pause, as if she would
have turned back. Then she answered
in a low voice, still not very willingly, "1
know you are a friend."
"You do not put much heart in it,"
said Miss Bethune, with a laugh. The
most magnanimous person, when con
scions oi having been very helpful and a
truly good friend at his or her personal
expense to another, may bo pardoned a
sense of humour, partially bitter, in the
grudging acknowledgement of ignorance
Then she added more gravel.!', "When
your father knows, and he shall know in
time, where 1 am taking you, he will ap
prove; whatever his feelings may bo. he
will tell you it was right, and vour dutv
of that I am assure as that 1 am living
Dora.”
•Because she is my aunt’ An aunt is
not such a \er.v lender relation. Miss Be
thune. In books they are often verv cold
comforters, not kind to girls that arc
poor 1 suppose." said Dora, aftera little
a use, “that 1 would be called poor;”
“You are just nothing, you foolish little
thing! You have no character of your
own. you are your father's daughter, and
no more.”
• I don't wish to be anything more?"
cried Dora, with her foolish young head
held high.
"And this poor woman," said Miss Be
th uue. exasperated, "will not live long
enough to be a friend to any one, so you
need not be afraid either of her being too
tender or unkind. She has come back,
poor thing, after long years spent out of
her own country, to die.”
"To aie?’’ the girl echoed in a horrified
tone.
"Just that, and nothing less or more."
Dora walked on by Miss Bethune s side
for some time in silence. There was a
long, very long walk throngh the streets
before they reached the coolness and
freshness of the park. She said nothing
for a long time, until they had arrived at
the Serpentine, which, veiled in shadows
and mists of night, with the stars re
flected on it. and the big buildings in the
distance standing up solemnly, half seen,
yet with gleams of lamps and light all
over them, beyond, and apparently among
the trees, had a sort of splendour and
reality like a great natural river flowing
between its banks. She paused then for
a moment, and asked, withs quick draw
ing of her breath. "It is some one—who
is dying- -thas you are taking me to see!'’
"Yes, Dora; and next to your father,
your nearest relation in the world."
"I thought at one time he was going to
die, Miss Bethune."
"So did we all, Dora."
“And I was very much afraid —oh. not
only heart-broken, but afraid. I thought
he would suffer so. in himself,” she said,
very low, "and to leave me.”
"They do not,” said Miss Bethune with
great solemnity, as if not of any individ
ual, but of a mysterious class of people.
“They are delivered; anxious though they
may have been, they are anxious no more;
though their hearts would have broken to
part with you a little while before, it is
no longer so; they are delivered It’s a
very solemn thing," she went on, with
something like a sob in her voice: "but
it’s comforting at least to the like of me.
Their spirits are changed, they are sepa
rated ; tliere are other things before them
greater than what they leave behind."
"Oh,'’ cried the girl, "I should not like
to think of that if father had ceased to
think of me even before.”
"It is comforting to me,” said Miss
Bethune, "because I am of those that are
going, aud you Dora, are of those that are
staying. I'm glad to think that the silver
chain will be loosed and the golden bowl
broken, all the links that bind us to the
earth, and all the cares about what is to
hapflen after.”
“Have you cares about what is to hap
pen after?” cried Dora. “Father has, for
he has me; but you, Miss Bethune?”
Dora never forgot, or thought she
would never forget, the look that was
cast upon her. "And I,” said Miss Be
thune, "have not even you, have nobody
belonging to me. Well,’’ she said, going
on with a heavy, long-drawn breath, "it
looks as if it were true.”
This was the girl’s first discovery of
what youth is so long finding out. that in
her heedlessness and unconscious convic
tion that what related to herself was the
most important in the world, and what
befel an elderly neighbor of so much less
consequence, she had done, orat least said,
a cruel thing. But she did not know how
to mend matters, and so went on by her
friend's side dumb, confusedly trying to
enter into, now that it was too late, the 1
somber thread of another’s thought.
Nothing more was said till they were
close to the groat hotel, which shone out
with its many windows luminous in the
soft background of the night. Then Miss
Bethune put her hand almost harshly
upon Dora's arm.
“You will remember, Dora,”,she said,
that the person we are going fir see is a
dying person, and in all the world it is
agreed that where a dying person is he or
she is the chief person, and is to be con
sidered above all. It is, maybe, a super
stition, hut it is so allowed. Their wants
and their wishes go before all; and the
queen herself, if she were coming into
that chamber, would bow to it like all the
rest, and so must you. It is, perhaps,
not quite sincere, for why should a woman
be more thought of because she is going
to die? It is not quality, you will say,
but yet it's a superstition, and approved
by all the civilized world.”
“Oh, Miss Bethune,” cried Dora, “I
know that 1 deserve you should say this
to me but yet—”
Her companion made no reply, but led
the way up the great stairs.
The room was not so dark as before
though it was night; a number of candles
were shining in the farther corner near
the bed, and the pale face on the pillow,
the nostrils dark and widely opened with
the panting breath, was in full light,
turned towards the door. A nurse in her
white apron and cap was near the bed,
beside a maid, whose anxious face was
strangely contrasted with the calm of the
professional person. These accessories
Dora's quick glance took in at once, while
yet her attention was absorbed in the
central figure, which she needed no
further explanation to perceive had at
once become the first object, the chief in
terest, to all near her. Dying! It was
more than mere reigning—more than be
ing great. To think that where she lay
there she was going fast away into the
most august presence—to the deepest
wonders! Dora held her breath with
awe. She never, save wnen her father
was swimming for his life, and her
thoughts were concentrated on the strug
gle with all the force of personal passion,
as if it were she herself who was lighting
against death, had seen any such sight
before.
"Is it Dora?” cried the patient. "Dora!
Oh, my child, my child, have you come
at last?”
And then Dora found arms round her,
clutching her close, and felt with a
strange awe, not unmingled with terror,
the wild beating of a feverish heart, and
the panting of the laborious breath. The
wan face was pressed against hers. She
felt herself held for a moment with extra
ordinary force, and kisses, tears, and
always the beat of that troubled breath
ing upon her cheek. Then the grasp re
laxed reluctantly, because the suiferer
could no more.
“Oh, gently, gently; do not wear your
self out. She is not going away. She
has come to stay with you,” a soothing
voice said.
"That's all I want—all I want in this
world—what I came for, - ’ gave forth the
panting lips.
Dora's impulse was to cry "No, no!” to
rise up from her knees, upon which she
had fallen unconsciously by the sickbed,
to withdraw from it, and if possible get
away altogether, terrified of that close
vicinity ; but partly what Miss Bethune
had said, and partly natural feeling, the
instinct of humanity, kept her in spite of
herself where she was The poor lady
lay with her face intent upon Dora,
st roking her hair and her forehead with
those hot. thin hands, beaming upon her
with that ineffable smile which is the
prerogative of the dying.
"Oil, my little girl," she Aid, —"m.v
only one, my only one! Twelve years it
is—twelve long years—and all the time
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, DECEMBERS, 1593.
thinking of this! When I've been ill. and
I've been very ill. Miller will tell you.—
I've kept up. I've forced myself to be bet
ter .for this for this!"
•You will wear yourself out, ma'am."
said the nurse. "You must not talk, you
must be quiet, or I shall have to send the
young lady away.”
"No, no!" cried the dying woman,
again clucthing Dora with fevered arms.
"For what must.l be quiet’—to live a lit
tle longer? I only want to live while she's
here. I only want it as long as I can see—
Dora, you'll stay with me, you'll stay
with your poor—poor"—
• She shall stay as long as you want
her. but for God's sake think of some
thing else, woman—think of where you're
going!” cried Miss Bethune, harshly over
Dora's head.
Then there was a pause; and Dora,still
on her knees by the side of the bed. met
as best she could the light which dazzled
her. which enveloped her in a kind of pale
flame, from the eyes pretematurally
bright that were fixed upon her face, and
listened, as to a kind of strange lullaby,
to the broken words of fondness, a mur
mur of fond names, of half sentences and
monosyllables, in the silence of the hushed
room. This seemed to last for a long
time She was conscious of peopli# pass
ing with hushed steps behind her, looking
over her head, a mans low voice, the
whisper of the nurses, a movement of the
lights ; but always that transfigured face,
all made of whiteness, luminous, the hot
breath coming and going, the hands above
her face, the murmur of words. The
girl was cramped with her attitude for
a time, and then the cramp went away,
and her body became numb, keeping its
position like a mechanical thing, while
her mind, too, was lulled into fa curious
sense of torpor, yet spectatorship. This
lasted she did not know how long.
She ceased to be aware of what
was being said to her. Her own
name. "Dora,” over and over again re
peated, and strange words, that came
back to her afterwards, went on in a fal
tering stream Hours might have passed
for anything she knew, when at last she
was raised, scarcely capable of feeling
anything, and put into a chair by the bed
side. She became dimly conscious that
the brilliant eyes that had been gazing at
her so long were being veiled as with
sleep, but they opened again suddenly as
she was removed, and were fixed upon her
with an anguish of entreaty. "Dora, my
child my child ! Don't take her away!’’
"She is going to sit by you here." said
a voice, which could only be a doctor's
voice- "here by your bedside. It is easier
for her. She is not going away.”
Then the ineffable smile came back.
The two thin hands enveloped Dora's
wrist, holding her hand close between
them, and again there came a wonderful
interval the dark room, the little stars
of lights, the soft movements of the at
tendants gradually fixing themselves like
a picture on Dora's mind. Miss Bethune
was behind in the dark, sitting bolt up
right against the wall, and never moving.
Shadowed by the curtains at the foot of
the bed was someone with a white and
anxious face, whom Dora had only seen
in the cheerful light, and could scarcely
identify as Harry Gordon. A doctor and
the white-capped nurse were in front, the
maid crying behind. It seemed to go on
again and last for hours this strange
scene, until there suddenly arose a little
commotion and movement about the bed,
Dora could not tell why. Her hand was
liberated; the other figures came between
her anjl the wan face on the pillow, and
she round herself suddenly, swiftly swept
away. She neither made any resistance
nor yet moved of her own will, and
scarcely knew what was happening until
she felt the fresh night air on her face,
and found herself in a carriage, with
Harry Gordon's face, very grave and
white at the window.
They' disposed of her at their ease, talk
ing over her head, bandying her about—
she who was mistress of her own actions,
who had never been made to stay where
stie did not wish to stay, or go where she
did not care to go. But Dora was silent
even in the rebellion of her spirit. There
was a something more strong than her
self, which kept her there on her knees
in the middle of the circle—all, as Miss
Bethune had said, attending on the one
who was dying, the one who was of the
first interest, to whom even the queen
would bow and defer if she were to come
in here. Dora did not know what to say
to a person in such a position. She ap
proved yet was angry that Miss Bethune
should bid the poor lady think where she
was going. She was frightened and ex-,
cited, not knowing what dreadful change
might take place, what alteration, before
her very eyes. Her heart began to beat
wildly against her breast: pity was in it,
but fear, too, which is masterful and ob
literates other emotions, yet even that
was kept in check by the overwhelming
influence, the fascination of the chamber
of death.
“You will come to me in the morning
and let me know the arrangements,” Miss
Bethune said, in a low voice.
"Yes, I will come; and thank you a
thousand times for bringing her," he said.
They all talked of Dora as if she were a
thing, as if she had nothing to do with
herself. Her mind was roused by the
motion, by the air Plowing in her face.
"What has happened? What has hap
pened ?■' she asked, as they drove away.
"Will she be up yonder, beyond that
shining sky? Will she know that she is
known? Will she be satisfied with His
likeness, and be like Him, seeing Him as
He is?” said Miss Bethune, looking up at
the stars, with her eyes full of big tears.
“Oh, tell me, - ’ cried Dora, “what has
happened ?” with a sob of excitement; for
whether she was sorry or awe-stricken,
she did not know.
"Just everything has happened that
can happen to a woman here. She has
got safe away out of it all; and there are
few. few at my time of life that would
not be thankful to be like her—out of it
all, though it may be a great thought to
go.”
‘.'Do you mean that the lady is dead?”
Dora asked in a voice of awe.
"She is dead, as we say; and content,
having had her heart's desire.”
"Was that me?” cried Dora, humbled
by a great wonder. "Me? Why should
she have wanted me so much as that, and
not to let me*go?”
“Oh, child, I know no more than you,
and yet 1 know well, well. Because she
was your mother, and you were all she
had in the world.”
"M.v mother’s sister," said Dora, with
a childish sternness; "and,” she added
after a moment, "not my father's friend.”
"Oh, hard life and hard judgment!”
cried Miss Bethune. "Your mother’s
own self, a poor martyr, except that at
the last she has had, what not every
woman has, for a little moment her
heart’s desire!”
CHAPTER XVII.
Young Gordon went into Miss Bethune's
sitting room next morning so early that
she was still at breakfast, lingering over
her second cup of tea. His eyes had the
look of eyes which had not slept, and that
air of mingled fatigue and excitement
which shows that a great crisis has just
come was about his whole person. His
energetic young limbs were languid with
it. He threw himself into a chair, as if
even that support and repose were com
fortable, and an ease to his whole being.
"She rallied for a moment after you had
gone," he said, in a low voice, not looking
at his companion, "but not enough to no
tice anything. The doctor said there was
no pain or suffering—if he knows any
thing about it."
"Ay, if he knows," Miss Bethune said.
“And so she is gone.” said the young
man. with a deep sigh. He struggled for
a moment with his voice, which went
from him in the sudden access of sorrow.
After a minute ho resumed: "She’s gone,
and my occupation, all my reasons for
living, seem to have gone, too. I know
no more what is going to happen. I was
her son yesterday, aud did everything
for her: now I don’t know what I am. I
ain nobody, with scarcely the right even
to be there.”
"What do you mean 7 F.verybodv must
know what you have been to her, and her
to you. all your life."
The young man was leaning forward in
his chair, bent almost double, with his
eyes fixed on the floor.
"Yes," he said. "I never understood it
before, but I know now what it is to have
no rightful place, to have been only a de
pendent on their kindness. When my
guardian died T did nut feel it, because
she was still there to think of me, and I
was her representative in everything:
but now the solicitor has taken command,
and makes me see lam nobody. It is not
for the money." the young man said,
with a wave of his hand. '‘Let that go
however she wished. God knows I would
never complain. But I might have been
allowed to do something for her, to man
age them for her as I have done—oh, al
most ever since I can remember.' He
looked up with a pale and troubled smile,
wistful for sympathy. “I feel as if I had
been cut adrift," he said.
"My poor boy! But she must have
provided for you. fulfilled the expecta
tions—”
"Don’t say that!" he cried, quickly.
"Tliere were no expectations. 1 can truly
say I never thought upon the subject
never!—until we came hereto London.
Then it was forced upon me that I was
good for nothing, did not know how to
make my living. It was almost amusing
at first, I was so unused to it; but not
now. lam afraid lam quite useless," he
added, with again a piteous smile. "I am
in the state of the poor fellow in the
Bible. I can't dig. and to beg I am
ashamed. I don’t know," be cried, “why
I should trouble you with all this. But
you said I was to come to you in the morn
ing. and I feel I can speak to you. That's
about all the explanation there is."
"It's the voice of nature,” cried Miss
Bethune quickly, an eager flush covering
her face. “Don't you know, don't you
feel, that there is nobody but me you
could come to—that you are sure of me
whoever fails you—that there's a sympa
thy, and more than a sympathy? Oh, ray
boy. Twill be to you all, and more than
all!”
She was so overcome with her own emo
tion that she could not get out another
word.
[to be continued.]
THE WOMAN oTTaSHIOX.
Some Practical Hints For Practical
Women.
Serviceable Colors and Trimmings.
Howto Enliven Your Black Gown.
Pretty Conceits for Evening Wear.
How Senator Faulkner's Betrothed
Arrays Her Coiffure.
(Copyright.)
New York, Dec. 2 -While we fashion
writers have been prating of the magnifi
cence and luxuriousness of the styles of
to-day, the dear public has been standing
aghast. It is all well enough, say they,
to tell us of velvet and ermine, and
damask ahd point, of gauzes and passe
menteries ; we are waiting to read your
graphic description when we want
amusement and diversion. But is time to
have done with these pretty pen pictures,
and to give us some information as to
what ordinary folk should wear. Three
new dresses a season is the limit of our
capacity; therefore we cannot indulge in
caprice and extravagance. Is there noth
ing common sense and practical in the
winter’s growing’
Now. in spite of the wondroys fabrics
we have been holding up to the public
gaze these weeks past, and the brilliant
pictures we have been painting, there is a
pile of sober fabrics just back of us;
there is a quiet home-like scene that de
serves to be hung in a conspicuous place.
It represents a busy family circle, mother
and daughter. They are seated in their
pleasant sewing room, and you will see
one of them busily stitching at the,
machine. Another is ripping up an old
black gown; while still another fashions
some dainty straps out of warm crimson
satin. A tot sits on the stool at her
mother's feet, pulling out bastings, and a
fuzzy-haired girl reads to attentive
listeners.
You will not be able to recognize that
black gown when the finishing touches
shall have been put to it. Its skirt has
not been changed to any extent, for it
was made in the early part of the spring,
and will do very nicely. Two satin ruf
fles will be added to its feet, that is all.
Then the short bodice will be elongated
by hip ruilles. the sleeves will be cast
away, and newer and more drooping ones
of black satin inserted. A tiny roil of
satin will encircle the waist. This is for
the tall girl of slender built. She will
wear it evenings also, and will not feel
out of place, for it will be brightened
with a dainty collar and eoquilles of fresh
lace. The brown girl sewing the crim
son strip, has succeeded in getting money
enough together for a brand new outfit;
and a package lies open before her, show
ing a pile of rich brown diagonal, and,
besides it, a roll of the new "ironed”
velvet. It is both ironed and "furrowed,”
and she will have it in two bits of ruf
fles at the bottom of the skirt, and
in two more half way up. She
will make two flat collars of the
brown diagonal, each edged with a small
velvet ruffle; and she will have a single
velvet roll at the waist, and a velvet
collar. The sleeves will be of diagonal.
This, also, will answer for many occa
sions; hut the skirts will fit so very
closely at the hips, and flare so prettily
at the feet; the sleeves will not be so
large that they will be out of place in
doors, and the effect will be so unassum
ing, and withal so wholly fashionable,
that the girl will not be afraid to wear it
very often. For already a reaction has
set in, and the quiet, almost severely
made gown will be most favored for after
noon wear. In fact, the danger already
seems imminent that severity will step
over into mannishness. The skirt and tie
of the tailor-made girl sometimes suggest
nothing of the softness attributed to the
sex. But the three-gowns-a-season girl
will attempt neither extreme. She will
content herself with her brown, her
black, aud her one gown of pretty, mixed
colors, trimmed with a shot or fancy
velvet. Her new black ought to be of the
finest, softest quality she can afford, with
a silken thread or design in it possibly.
Then, if she can make for herself a couple
of sets of fancy collars and belt, to add
for evening wear, she will have sufficient
change. Warm crimson for brunette,
possibly a clear yellow; a white is al
ways goon, particularly if you have any
fine lace to combine with it. Remember
that your belts must be no longer broad
and full, but tiny rolls, that brihgout the
slenderness of the waist. For the short
bodiced effects are grown distasteful, and
we want no more of them. The narrow
band has long streamers in front, falling
to the feet. These sets are wonderful
brighteners, and if a jeweled clasp catch
the band together all the better. Some
times the belt is broadened into an ori
ental scarf, knotted loosely and falling in
fringed ends.
Black dresses are also brightened b.\
revers of white satin, by epaullettes.
revers. bibs or bands of iaeo, generally
rather heavy. Then the girl that longs
for something a bit daintier will perhaps
get along with one gown less for ordinary
wear, and get herself a pretty waist
Some of the daintiest of these are striped
lace and silk, or lace, or velvet, and one
sees not infrequently a little jet intro
duced. Russian or fancy puffed sleeves,
of which there are a dozen or more pretty
varieties, are similarly striped. Some
times the lace is introduced in some other
wav. over a bright color, and velvet is
seen in one of the short puffs that help to
make the sleeve. Then, aguin, some loose
satin or lace arrangement may start from
the shoulder in gathers, and gradually
narrow to the waist line All sorts of
prvtty conceits are allowable for evening
wear, and the clever girl is never at loss
to add the few touches that make her
wholly charming.
A timid creature that, nevertheless, has
had the courage to Journey into the far
east, has been taken up by a woman with
literary aspirations. The young creature,
for all her modesty, got hold of a pretty
robe somewhere in that poetical region;
beholding which, her aspiring patroness
conceived of an afternoon with the Ori
ental poetry, where the graceful gown
would have a chance to stand up in all its
loveliness. And, so the timid, shrinking
girl, clad in a dress that was just a little
long for her, stood up, book in one hand,
folds of dress in the other, showing the
pointed slippers, and read with soft in
tonation. It was a yellow silk, the dress,
and up each side was a row of peacock’s
feathers. A gold fringe was at the edge,
and the petticoat beneath had scrolls of
gold embroidery. There was but little
attempt to shape the gown, which was
ot*ly a slip, taken in under the arms just
a trifle. Folds of black velvet were
brought across the bust, gathered up in
the middle; the shoulder puffs were vel
vet, and epaulettes of gold embroidery
were added. Her ringlets and filet didn't
quite belong to the costume, but the en
thusiastic group gathered about her to
take in the dress, were kind enough to
pass over the diserepency.
Apropos of ringlets, 1 reproduce some
coiffures that have appeared on the Paris
stage. They are somewhat in advance of
our present accepted styles, but it may be
that we shall soon adopt modifications of
them. Two of them include ringlets.
One of them adds a peculiar broad filet at
the front: it branches off into three nar
rower bands at the back, that catch down
the largo puff's that curve round the back
of the hand to match the organ pipe folds
at the back of our skirts. Between the
divisions of the filet, an aigrette
rises. The other ringlet style has a per
fect mass of embroidered ribbon, bands
and plumes covering the whole crown;
while the third coiffure has come back to
the coil at the crown, with the hair
finely waved. Two half crowns in gold
run round the head, one just over the
forehead curls, another above the twist
at the back.
Many a girl sets the fashion for her
particular set. Miss Virginia Whiting,
who will wed Senator Faulkner when the
New 'i car's bells shall have ceased to
ring, has a pretty way of her own for the
arrangement of her locks. She. too,
curls it much, but in very large waves,
and they are carelessly combed back
from her face, falling looselv away each
side. A double twist rests at the crown
of her head, so large that it adds consid
erably to her hight. At the tip of it, she
puts in a pin of finest filjgree.
Eva A. Schubert.
A SPIRIT PHOTOGRAPH.
Wheeling Turns Up With a Bona Fide
Spook Picture.
From the Philadelphia Press.
Wheeling, \\ T . Va., Nov. 22.—A most re
markable case of "spirit photography"
came to light here to-day. The most
wonderful thing in connection with the
phenomenon is that the person who made
the picture is neither a photographer nor
a believer in spiritualistic manifestations.
A good likeness of a young man who died
more than a year ago is plainly visible in
the photograph, and stands, clearly dis
cernable, looking over the shoulder of his
sister, who was one of the group of mor
tals at which the camera was "shot.”
Two weeks ago Mr. A. A. Wheat, of
this city, decided to visit his wife's
father, Capt. Robert Haase, at his home
in the country, ten miles from Danville.
Va. He took with him a snap-shot
camera of the "press-the-button” variety,
intending to take a few pictures of the
surroundings of his wife's former home.
The camera was loaded with forty plates
and ready for use.
During their say at Capt. Haase's house
Mr. Wheat shot at nearly everything in
the vicinity. One day Miss Mary Hal
eolm, a neighbor of Capt. Haase and an
intimate friend of Mrs. Wheat, called on
her. After dinner Mr. Wheat asked
Miss Halcolm to stand for a picture. She
and Mrs. Wheat, her brother, Charles
Haase, Capt. Haase and Mr. Wheat went
to the front of the house to make the pic
ture. All the party except Mr. Wheat,
who manipulated the camera, ranged
themselves on a small front veranda. Mr.
Wheat stationed himself about twenty
yards distant, and when all were in posi
tion pressed the button.
Before returning home Mr. Wheat sent
the camera to the factory to have the
plates developed. Yesterday he received
the pictures by express. They were de
livered at the store, and not having time
to open them at once, handed the package
to a clerk with instructions to open it.
Miss Jennie Baird, who was a friend of
‘Mrs. Wheat and acquainted with the
scenery surrounding Captain Haase’s
home in Virginia, aud who had also met
Miss Halcolm and her brother Charles
during one of her visits, hadpened to be in
the store when the package of pictures
came. Mr. Wheat, knowing of her proba
ble interest in the pictures, called her to
look at them. As the pictures were taken
out she passed comment upon them till
this particular picture came to view,
when she almost fainted, and cried out:
"Oh! Mr. Wheat; here’s a picture of
Charley Halcolm.”
Sure enough, in the picture, the taking
of which is described above, was a per
fect likeness of Mr. Halcolm, standing
immediately back of his sister, and show
ing the head and part of the shoulders.
He was attired as usual in life, wearing a
lay-down collar, stiff hat, slightly tilted,
and smiting, the teeth showing slightly’
His head is about four times as large as
the other heads in the picture, when, in
accordance with the rules of photography,
his should be smaller, as he is further re
moved from the camera. Mr. Halcolm
died over a year ago of typhoid fever.
Neither he nor any member of his family,
nor any person in any way connected with
the family, has any spiritualistic gifts,
nor has any of them knowledge of such
matters.
Nurse and Baby in a Well.
From the Western Mail.
The Royal Humane Society has just
publicly recognized the gallantry of a
nurse girl named Esther Grey by present
ing her with a gold medal for saving life.
The presentation took place at Bristol,
and was made by’ the mayor, who re
marked that the case of Grey was pecu
liarly interesting as well as one of great
bravery and self-devotion under trying
circumstances.
it appeared that on a Sunday’ afternoon
in August last Grey, the nurse, was walk
ing in the garden of her employer, Mr.
.1. R. Bennett, of West Park, Clifton,
with the baby in her arms, and, step
ping upon the stone which covered
a well, the slab gave way, and nurse
and child were both precipitated into the
well, which was thirty feet deep, and
contained six feet of water, in tne fall
Grey struck against an iron bar, and,
becoming stunned, the child fell out of
her arms into the water. She soon re
gained consciousness and. after groping,
regained her charge, which was then
head downward in the water. She then
supported the child with one arm, and
clung on to a bar by the other. Her cries
for help attracted attention, and at
length both child and nurse were brought
to the surface.
The parents were full of gratitude for
the nurse's admirable behavior, and the
Royal Humane Society had marked their
appreciation of her bravery by awarding
her the gold medal and certificate.
RAILROADS.
Florida Central and Peninsular Raih*oaci
FLORIDA TRUNK LINK SHORT LINE TO TAMPA. TIME CARD IN EFFECT Ter *„ .
DOIN’*. SOUTH - READ DOWN GOING NORI hURrTTrjUp--?
Daily, j Dally. j Js (o Daily. Dally.
I Change Going South
8 38am Lv Savannah.. Ar 8 33pm ; I2 09n'n
i 1-45nn I.v Callahan ..Ar' 303 pm 7 30am
-Mfxijjm 1 12 40nn i.v.Jacksonville Ar' 306 pm 20am
*l2 2dn'ht 344 pm Ar Hawthorne..Lv| 1136 am <l4lam
4 50pm ArSilverSprings.Lv
*•* 16am 604 pm Ar... .Ocala . .Lv* 1037 am *l2 Mam
*3 31am 6 08pm Ar Wildwood Lv 9 36am *ll36am
•607 am 7 10pm Ar..Lacoochee Lv 8 22am •941 pm
*6 29am 726 pm j A r.. Dade City Lv 7 47am *9 19pm
52am 834 pm Ar Plant City .Lv 652 am *Blopm
•7 55am 926 pm Ar Tampa Lv* 6 00am *7 05pm
•4 nOam 6 15pm Lv Wildwood. . Ar! 9 20ain — *To 55pm
*6 2>am 7 07pm Ar Tavares ... Lv 8 25am *8 40pm
•9 00am 8 00pm Ar Apopka. Lv 7 33am 5 55pm
•1015 am 835 pm Ar Orlando I.v! 7 00am *5 00pm
•5 40am 7 15pm Lv . I-acoochee Ar *9 30pm
•7 58am 9:4opm jAr.TarponSpgs.Lv *7 22pm
•815 am 9 46pm ,Ar Sutherland .Lv *7 06pm
*9 32am 11 00pm 'Ar St Petersburg Lv *5 40pm
*9 27am *5 06pm Ar bunnellon Lv *8 50am *4 35pm
*o 35pm j Ar. Homosassa Lv *7 10am ..
3 63pm Ar.. Gainesville Lv llliim I
7 35pm Ar JTedar Key Lv! 7 45am ,
conation is me nr siaiion ior on points in souiti
Florida reacned by me F. c. 8 P. and its ccnnecnons.
SAVANNAH AND FERNANDINA. ~ ——
I 8 38am ] JLv . Savannah . Ari 8 32pm 620 am I
4 14pm ! !Ar Fernandina. Lv: II 85am 4 30pm >
•Daily except Sunday. •’Meals. ’Sundays only! ™ ' -
Solid trains Callahan to Tampa and Orlando. Close connection at Tampa with So Pi
R. R. for Port Tampa Key West and Havana. Close connection at Owensboro with So Pi
R. R. for Lakeland and Bartow. Close connection at Tavares with J.. T. and K W r/t
Sanford and Titusville. Pullman Buffet Sleeping Cars on night trains. Through short if
Jacksonville to New Orleans. Jacksonville to Thomasville, Lake City. Macon. Atlanta r h?
tanooga, Nashville. St. Louis. Chicago, etc. Tickets sold and baggage checked* through tnaii
points in the United States. Canada and Mexico. Send for best map of Florida niihiuL,
and for any information desired, to 1 ‘ ‘s*
D. E. MAXWELL. G. M A. O. MAC DONELL, G. P. A., Jacksonville.
THE TROPICAL TRUNK LINE.™
Jacksonville, Tampa and Key West Railway,
Joseph H. Durkce, Receiver.
THE FLORIDA SOUTHERN RAILROAD CO., 1
INOIAN RIVER STEAMBOAT COMPANY, - K. B. CABLE, General
JUPITER ANI> LAKE W ORTH RAILWAY. [ manager.
-SOUTH- | | -NORTHI ’
~ ~ I „ ~ j Time Table in Effect Novi 3 ,'93! r —— —.
No. 15. | No. 35. No. 71. i j No. 14. No. 78 No
Ex. Sun.; Daily. |Ex. Sun. | I Daily Ex. Sun Ex.'Sun.
Sls pm 135 pm 855 am Lv Jacksonville Ar 63d am 125 pm rSjjOßm*
1000 pm -J 28 pm 10 0:1am Ar . Green Cove Springs Lv 520 am 12 10 pm t-Mim,
11 35 pin : 314 pm 1055 am Ar Palatka Lv] 425 am 11 15 am 400 nm
118 am i 414 pm Ar Seville Lv- 303 am 948 am .... 1
223 am 444 pm Ar DeLeon Springs Lv, 223 am 910 am
884 am [sll pm | ;Ar Orange City Junction LV| 156 am 843 am i
430 am 555 pm 1... 7777777! Ar. 7777 Sanford Lv Tjifam' 756 am ~~
| 8 40pm • 125 pm Ar { Gainesville J ••••Lv 810am*1 30 nm
I 4 40pm '1220 pm Lv.... ) • -Gainesville.... , .... Ar (10 00 am *235 nm
I 640 pm 1 248 pm Ar Ocala Lv MOO am *l2 35 am
8 15pm 440 pm Ar Leesburg Lv, • 625 am *IOSB am
$ 935 pm : 605 pm Ar .Pemberton Lv * 930 am
600 am 657 pm lAr Orlando Lv 1145 pm 640 am 7
6.52 am 730 pm ' Ar Kissimmee Lvjjosft pm 550 am
800 am 827 prh ] Ar Bartow Junction Lv 945 p m
10 20 am 1015 pm |Ar Tampa Lv 740 pm ....
77777777771 7doom - lv Bartow Lvi 530 pm' 777*.777.7
]* 9 35am I Ar Arcadia Lv +2 35 pm T
•Daily. ’Daily except Sunday. only.
Trains 3> and 14 carry through Pullman Buffet Sleepers dally between New York and Port
Tampa, connecting at Port Tampa Mondays and Thursdays for Key West and Havana.
1 runs 1.5 "1 u ,ar ■■ i|f. n Pullman steeping cars netw eu in i oiati urn , nrt l'ampa
INDIAN RIYER STEAMERS are appointed to perform the following service
Leave Titusville daily, except Sunday, at 5:30 a. m., for Rockledge, Melbourne and way
landings; returning leave Melbourne 12:00 noon.
Leave Titusville for Jupiter Mondays and Thursdays at 8:30 p. m.; due Jupiter 7 00 p. m ,
following day, connecting with Jupiter and Lake Worth Railway for points on Lake Worth.
Returning leave Jupiter Tuesdays and Fridays at 10 p. m., due Titusville following evening.
G. D. ACKERLY General Passenger Agent. Jacksonville, Fla.
TYPEWRITERS.
Remington Typewriter
The history of the REMITJGTOIf shows a steadily rising tide of popularity and success. \
It Is absolutely unrivaled for all the essential qualities of a first-class writing machine,
r 1 First invention of the Typewriter now known
cad AN v • as the Remington Standard. A few machine*
ociiU rUK Ail / made by hand during this and the following
ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE. experiment, of the Inventor.
£7 I Of having somewhat improved upon the first
j crude attempts, it was brought to the
<| Remington factory, at Ilion, N. Y.
&-ifc :L t A After more than a year of painstaking labor
lOf on the part of many able mechanical experts,
lv® I* the first Remington-made machines wers
IT WSkwTT put u P on market.
• , . ‘ -Ya U, I OOA S’x years after, only 1,000 machines had been
47 ;' .rV’ :. [ r 'l ; 4 1 OOvi sold. The public were slow to realize th§
( value of the invention.
1 | number increased to 2,300 machines.
ADOPTED AS THE OFFICIAL Z J 888 s'ooo 5 ' 000 ma , chi ? es wer ? so,d this year ' ItKrc *
r m ln popular favor. In
WRITING MACHINE / 1 CQA Sales had risen to 20,000 machines per
f 1 O 7U. annum.
OF THE 7 Found a production of 100 machines per da?
rAbT cot ttmdtam 44 n inadequate to supply the still rapidly in-
YvOPaJ) S COLUMBIAN 7 I creasing demand. We have planned exten
i:YPnQTTir\N 4 sive additions to our factory, to enable it to
£ArUMIIUI , Ii 2 keep pace with all demands.
WYCKOFF, SEAMANS & BENEDICT,
327 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
C. S, RICHMOND,
MACHINERY, CASTINGS. ETC. ’
KEHOE 5 I RON WORKS*
IRON AND BRASS FOUNDERS, MACHINISTS, BLACKSMITHS AND BOILERMAK
ERS, ENGINES, BOILERS AND MACHINERY, SHAFTING, PULLEY’S, ETC.
Special attention to Repair Work. Eslimalcs promptly furnished. Broughton street
from Reynolds to Randolph streets. Telephone 268.
MEDICAL. “
\ Chichester'S eroush, red Cross Diamond Brard A
* r\h\is #
THE ORIGINAL AND GENUINE. Tbf only Safe, Harts and rtliabU Pill for >al.
y &Mk Drugziat for (Thich—ter a English I>umond Brand In Kc?d and Gold metallic
/ fD boie waled with bine ribbon. Take no other kind. Substitutions and IwvUatw^*
fcjflT All pills In boxes, pink wrappers, dungerou* counterfeit*. At Drugfl*t. or •• ,
l Cr 4c. in stamps for particulars, testimunlala, and “Hellef far Ldle*," m leffer, bj *****
-X V 10.0)0 Tcilmooltu.. Sam* rarT. CHICM E*TK RCMCM 1C A L CO.,
N r 6.U by ull Local Urucal.W- 4MILAPX'*riA. *
STABLES.
PUiMniOU^TfABLES;
138 and 140 Bryan St.
ELEGANT LANDAUS, VICTORIAS, T
CARTS, BUGGIES and SAD
DLE HORSES.
E. C. GLEASON.
Telephone No. 12.
PRINTING.
If You Want Good Material and
Work, Order Your
LITHOGRAPHED
AND
PRINTED STATIONERY,
BLANK EOOKS,
FROM
MORNING NEWS,
Savannah, Ga.
OLD newspapers. 200 for 25 cents, at Busi
ness < )fflce Morning Nows.
HARDWARE.
hardware,
Bar, Band and Hoop Iron,
WAGON MATERIAL,
Navaf. Stores Suppfies.
FOR SALE BY
EDWARD LOVELL'S SONS
155 Broughton and 138-140 Stats M” _
The Steamer 2£lph a ’
K. F. DANIELS, Master.
On anti after SUNDAY, Oct.
change her Schedule a* follows*
9 a m
Leave Savannah. Tuesday
Leave Beaufort, Wednesday
Leave Savannah. Thursday Saro
Leave Beaufort, Friday
The steamer will stop at BUilfton pn
trips each way.
I or further information apply to .
(.. H. MEDLOCK.
OLD NEWSPAPERS. 200 for 25 ceuU, •*
Business Office Morning Now*
muon is me mm Siam lor an mis in sou in
fiorida mm try ifieF. c. s p. and ns connections.