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“And yet, little woman, you can’ttring your self quite to like him?” “I’m getting to like him better than I did,” she replied. “But,” said he, “I never could understand your dislike for the poor soul. He cannot help being ugly.” “I don’t know,” she answered. “That is—I could not explain why. There are some motives one is unable to analyse. Besides, girls take strong likes and dislikes, often without any very real reason.” Whereunto he remarked, sententiously enough, that it was very silly of girls not tt> use their jndgment—a sentiment which brought the con versation to a close. Every man is proud of his own place, even although in his heart he may detest it. Great, then, was the pleasure afforded this good vicar by the obvious interest which friend Blackley appeared to take in all things connected with Uudflat—in the church, and house, and glebe, in the condition of the poor—even in the plan of Mr. Roper s domicile, and the quantity _ of timber round the glebe hedges. He was alike affable and enquiring on the subjects of rates and roads, and in short lionised the entire parish with positive pleasure. Better still, he lauded everything to the skies: the quality of the grass, the quantity uf the crops, the roof of the church the arrangements of the vicarage. The only things he seemed bored about were the harmonium, which had been procured, after much begging, by subscription; and the school- children, of whom he remarked, with more truth than grace, that he disliked animal odors. In short, a severe critic would have said that he was more concerned about the material than the spiritual welfare of Mudflat; but then he was not the vicar, and could not well be expected to ascend to a vicar's responsibilities. The two clergymen spent the whole of Satur day in thus lionising the little parish from end to end. In the evening, Ralph came down from London, to the great delight of Adine, who straightway devoted herself to him, leaving the duty of entertaining Horace Blackley to her husband. At supper, however, conversation perforce be came general. Ralph, now grown into a tall, handsome, though rather sickly young man, bad brought down a stock of witticism and an ecdotes from London, which he fired off bril liantly enough, being cf an age when the teller enjoys the tale even more than the hearers. Supper over—and it was a real good hot affair of the old English and savoury type—nothing would satisfy Mr. Lovett but the broaching of a bottle of Scotch whisky, a present from Farmer Roper, who had received it direct from a broth er, who happened to be learning the art of agri culture on the northern side of the Tweed. Under the benign influence of this nectar tongues soon began to wag all round. Much against her will, Adine was forced to imbibe a wme-glassfull,adulterated of course. Her first im pression of the liquid was that the water was smoked. Corrected on that point by the supe rior intelligence of the male sex, she opined that, if it was not for the smoke, it would be very nice. Lastly, she regretted in her soul that propriety compelled her to decline a second edi tion. “Charming spot this,” remarked Mr. Bleckley to her, as if to initiate conversation. During the past twenty-four hours he had not addressed to Ler a dozen sentences in all. “What, Mudflat?” she exclaimed in undis guised astonishment. “Certainly. I do not say that it is pretty, and there seems to be some water about, but to a practical man it seems a very capital place. It beats Coldhole in most respects. ” Coldhole was Mr. Blackley’s preferment in Essex. “I thought Coldhole was quite double the value of our living, besides being so near Lon don.” *‘I don’t mean in respect of income,” here- joined. “ There, I own, Coldhole is superior. I mean as regards advantages.” “Advantages!” “Yes. Only look at your glebe. To a man who really understands farming, it is worth five pounds an acre.” “Oh, Dors !” cried Adine reproachfully ; “then you’ve gone and let it to Mr. Roper for less than half its value.” But Mr. Lovett shook his head. “I don’t think,” be said, “that any one butRoper would pay our price; and he, poor fellow, pays extra for the sake of sentiment.” Mr. Blackley begged to differ. He had walked all over the glebe and was able to speak from close personal observation. The land ought to let higher; and, as far as he was concerned, having farmed the Coldhole glebe, and knowing something of the subject, it was his candid opinion that the land was worth, to a man of in telligence and enterprise, a good five pounds per acre. “And what are our other advantages?” enqui red Adine. “Climate, for one,,’he rejoined. “That is bad enough,” remarked Ralph, with a sarcastic smile. Lookers on see the best of the game. Mr. Blackley, to a dispassionate listener, appeared to have a motive in thus eulogising an obvious ly disagreeable place. Ralph somehow did not give that evil mouth the credit of uttering with a good intent. He related in after days his im pressions of this conversation. “Nonsense, my good boy,” replied Mr. Black ley. “Your lungs are delicate, and the country atmosphere tries them. But this sort of place is health compared with Essex. My poor Louey is often quite laid up.” “So are we,” said Mr. Blackley. “No, my dear fellow, if you will make comparisons, I venture to assert that Mudflat is about the most unwholesome corner of the earth.” “I would gladly exchange,” responded Mr. Blackley dryly. “And I too,” asseverated Mr. Mr. Lovett “What! to our marshes? That would be from the frying pan into the fire !” “Besides,” added Adine, innocently, “Cold- bole Rectory is quite a rich living, and this is poor. It would not be fair, would it ?” “It certainly would not be wise to go to Essex for health,” said Mr. Blackley. “However, se riously, Lovett, if you have any wish to move, I have no doubt it can be arranged. I’ll get rid of Coldhole, if you will let me have Mudflat, and ’ “But what ’a to become of us?” enquired Adine. “Well, Mrs. Lovett, I suppose a nice pied a terre could be found for you. For instance, there is St. Mary’s Lingeville going begging.” “Lingeville? Oh, how delicious? The very nicest place in the world. Such shops, such dresses, such charming concerts, Dore, dear!” Mrs. Lovett was positively excited. Her Dore, however, although he smilef, did not appear to regard Mr. Blackley’s scheme as anything better than a chateau en Espagne. “I am unfortunately no patron of Mudflat,” h( remarked. “Granted. But your patrons will throw no obstacle in the way. My plan is simple. You exchange Mudflat for Coldhole. The Dean and Chapter present me, whereupon Coldhole be comes vacant. Then Mr. A. B. buys Coldhole— I have, by the way, a man in treaty for it now— and out of the purchase money I secure you St. Mary’s Lingeville, whilst A. b. pops into Cold hole. A sort of chassee croisee, you know. ” “That would be hardly honorable to the Dean and Chapter, would it, suggested Mr. Lovett. “I am sure,” interrupted Adine, “they never treated you with such consideration, that you should regard them at all in the matter!” “If the Chapter consent to the whole arrange ment, I suppose your couscience will not troub le you ?” Mr. Blackley’s face could hardly conceal the sneer he felt for Mr. L ivett’s conscience. “I should consent to nothing but what was strictly legal,” said Mr. Lovett most sternly. “Pooh! What do the Blankton Cathedral au thorities care for Mudflat? I’ll answer for it, they regard such patronage as the veriest ci pher.” “Perhaps. But their disregard of this poor little village does not alter my responsibility as a man of honor. ” “No, no, certainly not. Still in these sort of matters it is absurd to be prudish. The Lon don agents carry through this type of negotia tion every day. Clever fellows those agents are, too, only a trifle dangerous. Better, perhaps, for the clergy to manage these little arrange ments themselves. Suppose now that I sound the Chapter on my return to Blankton ? Then if they are agreeable ” "“But what about this church in Lingeville?” “Yes,” cried Adine. “Please tell us about it.” She was very deeply interested in this conver sation, and her beautiful eyes were sparkling with more than usual lustre. “It’s what they call an episcopal chapel,” he replied. “Muckrow held it, and made a pot out of it too. The present holder is a duffer, and has talked the pewholders away. That is the reason why he wants to sell.” Whiskey and water caused Mr. Blackley to drop his conventional polite manner, and to irdulge in his mother tongue —slang. “I don’t think that would suit me," observed Mr. Lovett, a fairly cautious man. ‘Dore!” ejaculated his wife. How tiresome you are!” Then Mr. Blackley adopted a slightly offen ded tone. ‘Indeed ! I should have imagined it was the very preferment of all others adapted to your re- quirments. St. Mary Lingeville is in affect a leasehold property. You tell me that ready money is an object to you”—this with no small pc iut of sarcasm. “Mudflat assuredly provides little enough of that luxury, whereas any one would advance you as much as a thousand pounds on the lease of a valuable property like St. Mary Lingeville, and you have only to exert your abili ties in order to fill your pews, whereby you would enjoy a clear income of at least eight or nine hun dred a year. However, it does not matter to me. I mean in any case to retire from Coldhole, as it disagrees with both my wife and myself, and I can easily purchase other preferment.” Dore,” sighed Adine, “you won’t refuse so capital an offer.” She would have clenched the bargain on the spot. Mr. Lovett looked grave; the temptation was strong. Ready money now, a good income in pros pect, an agreeable and healthy situation, perhaps the chance of high promotion—for Mr. Muckrow had used St. Mary’s Lingeville as a stepping stone all these baits might have caught a wiser man. 1 will think it over, Blackley,” he said. CHAPTER XIV. Monday morning. Scene, Mr. Chowner’s house in the dull old city of Blankton. Present, Mrs. Chowner and Mrs. Horace Blackley. Accessories, chintz furniture. I’m sure,” cried the latter lady, whose natur al plainness was by no means enhanced by the ap pearance of temper—“I’m sure, I consider that Horace has behaved extremely ill in leaving me here. He went away for the day, and has remain ed absent the greater part of a week.” “There, there,” rejoined Mrs. Chowner, a fat- tish and torpid specimen of an ancient womanhood —“when you are older, my dear, you won't grum ble. My motto is, give a man his head, and he’ll uever kick over the traces. It is your curbs that make ’em restive.” In early life Mrs. Chowner had been fond of horses and the stable. When she desired to be es pecially emphatic, she always selected metaphors from her pet subject- “It’s abominable behavior. He married me for my money, and he doesn’t care for me a rush,” whined the young lady. “Nonsense, my dear ! you are a little bit out of temper this morning. That’s all. It’s the effect of too much church yesterday.” Sirs. Chowner was matter-of-fact. Church bored her intensely, and she rather opined it had the same effect on ethers. “No, it’s not church,” almost whimpered the ill-used wife. “I wish I’d never set eyes on that hideous man. I know very well what it is, Mrs. Chowner. I know. He’s in love with that Jeze bel, Adine Lovett. I’ve found that out long, long ago !” “Well, my dear,” observed Mrs. Chowner plac idly, “men will be men. Now I recollect a horse Mr. Chowner once had ” “But Horace isn’t a horse!” cried the excited young lady. 1 only wish he was. I’d flog him soundly. I’d. ” “Spoil his temper, no doubt,” interrupted Mrs. Chowner. “It’s the way with you heavy-handed rough-riders.” “I bate that designing Adine,” said Mrs. Blackley, tossing her bead majestically. “Hate her you may, if you care to,” rejoined Mrs. Chowner, whose energies had never risen to the extent of hating a single soul. “ It’s absurd, however, to be jealous of her. You know, as well as I do, that she married her husband for love, and so I suppose she is in love with him still. Girls are generally very obstinate in their likes.” “ She’s a heartless flirt,” was the reply. “Harmless enough,” yawned Mrs. Chowner, not much relishing to hear Adine abused. In her own bland way, she preferred Mr. Lovett’s to Mr. Blackley’s wife. Comparing the rival charms of beauty and wealth, the good lady assigned the palm to beauty. Not that she omitted ever to do proper homage to money. Oh, no, Mrs. Chowner was a lawyer’s wife, and faithful to her husband's principles and practice. “ They’ve robbed us of several hundred pounds,” continued Mrs. Blackley; “ and I swear ’’—this in a whisper, as if the stronger the language the more piano should be the sound of its utteranoe—“ I could swear that, if we only knew the truth, Horace has been cajoled by that sly, artful, vile thing.” “ No he hasn’t, ” answered Mrs. Chowner blunt ly. “ I’m quite aware of all the facts of the case. If he has lost by Mr. Lovett, it is his own fault. He offered to lend him money. ” “ We don’t know the rights of the case, ” re marked the other, sententiously. “ I’m truly sorry for the poverty of those poor Lovetts, ” said Mrs. Chowner, attempting by a side-wind to change the current of a conversation too strong for her nerves. “ You ought to be thank ful, Louise, that you are so well off. ” “ I’m not well off,” snapped the other. “No one is well off with an indifferent husband.” “ Well, well, Louise, you know your plain duty is to make the best of matters. Perhaps you ain’t very fortunate in your husband. He is not so clever, or so interesting, or so manly as Mr. Lov ett; but then ” “ Mrs. Chowner, how can you ? How dare you ?” interrupted Mrs. Blackley. It needed- only for any one to disparage her beloved Horace to ex tract the true state of her feelings for that indi vidual, which was in reality one of blind devotion, tempered, as we have seen, by chronic grumb ling. Mrs. Chowner stared at her in mute surprise. Being one of a class who generally say what they mean, she failed 10 realise a paradox. “ Confound the girl! ” she thought. “ She evidently wanted me to join her in abusing her husband, and now I’ve said a simple truth she's up on end.” She was too far surprised to answer, and her opponent had it all her own way. “ It’s very wrong of you to abuse my dear Hor ace behind his back; very wrong indeed, Mrs. Chowner, and I won’t listen to it.” “Why, my good girl,” exclaimed the elder lady, “1 didu't mean to abuse Mr. Blackley. If I’d said one-half as much as you have ” But at this juncture, on hearing a footstep on the stairs, Mrs. Blackley suddenly started from her seat, and with a cry of “ Goodness gracious, he’s come!” rushed to the door, and embraced her husband, who entered, in a style more demon strative than elegant. “How dye do, Mrs. Chowner? There, there, Louey, that'll do!” The ill-used wife had already begun to fawn on her lord like a well-thrashed spaniel, to the utter bewilderment of poor Mrs. Chowner, who had an ticipated a very different scene. That was reserved for the privacy of the bed chamber. “ I’ve got a bit of good news for you, Louey ” said Mr. Blackley, as he deposited her on a sofa for the sake of peace. “ Please tell! ” she cried, clapping her hands. “ We are not to go back to Coldhole. I have definitely arranged with Lovett to take his living in return for a church I shall procure for him at Lingeville.” “ But Mudflat is a horrible place, ” cried his wife, at once crest-fallen. “ It’8 delightful, ” he answered. “ The land is worth five pounds an acre. ” TO BE CONTINUED. out and clasped hers an 1 a voice repeated, “It is circumstances, not hearts that are change- able. With a haughty start she looked up. Whose eyes were thes * bent upon her. Could k be that this was the man who had gone away from her so loner before ? F.ir a mnninnl all (Via strength of the city of New York ! How many of us do you suppose have had an original thought in our lives; we who profess to do the thinking for the people !” “More than you imagine, perhaps. The world is so vast a ball, and the people circle so busi- from her so long before ? For a moment all the ly around it, that oue hardly feels like laying old resentment came back and her eyes flashed his hand upon a m in and saying he was born j with wounded pride and defiance. At last she here. Infact.it is difficult to trace a man’s ; said. “Excuse me sir! It appears to have birthplace by the likeness he bears to a past j taken you a long time to find this out. Sup- generation; and much more difficult to trace a ] pose I contradict you and tel) you that hearts thought. ’ ! are changeable, and those are wise who do not “Perhaps it is difficult to trace a thought have t > be told of it. just in one set form of words. But go back to a “ Which THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT. OR CIRCUMSTANCES ARE CHANGEABLE AND NOT HEARTS. “Mother, I am losing hope. I have worked and waited, and waited and worked; and I do not see the frnits of my labor. There is no jus tice in the present course of things. If I were a man, it wonld not be so. Men always find a door open for them; bnt women have to make the door and then fight every step of the way as they enter.” “Why, Laura, my child, what new cause is there for complaint, that yon are so bitter this evening ? Has the world changed since Arthur Mansfield went away, and asked you to wait until he had made his fortune?" said Mrs. Westbrook, as she turned and looked enquir ingly at her daughter. “Yes, mother, the world has changed; or rather I am beginning to see it in its true light; and to see him as be is. I knew be was not rich, mother; and 1 made no complaint when he said he would go away and work until he could give me the place in society that I ought to have. I was not unhappy, because I trusted him; and I knew that he bad ability to rise in the world. I could have waited forever, if he had only been true to me. But read this, mother, and you will see for yourself.” And she flung a letter in her mother’s lap, as if the very sight of it was torture; then turned away with a defiant, reso lute look, while her mother read: “Dear Laura : “I have just reached California, after almost a two months voyage. And in this two months, I have been thinking—soberly thinking. Two thousand miles now are be tween ns. It may be a long time before I return with the fortune for which I came in search. It seems a linos- cruel thai Iwinding you with a promise, to be kept, perhaps, for years, before I can return to you. Forgive me, my darling, if now I seem indeed cruel, for it is not without a pang that I write the next few lines. “Laura, I ought not to fetter you, so I give you back your freedom, to do with it as you will. And if you can find another that you can give the place that I had hoped would be my own; do it; and God be with you. But when I succeed, as I will, soouer or later, I will re turn; and if I find you waiting, I shall lay my heart again at your feet. “Yours “Abthdr Mansfield.” Mrs. Westbrook folded the letter carefully, and looked at her daughter. “Laura, my dear, I know you think this cruel. But, after all, it may be best." “I agree with you, mother, that it is best; for he never could have loved me, or else he would not have thought of giving me back my free dom. It would have been time enough when I asked for it The idea that he will presume to come back and offer me bis heart again! He may keep it; and I will make my own way in the world, even if I do have to fight for it step by step, rather than to s*and back now and see him make it for me. I will do it; and then we will see who has the fortune. But I shall never lay it or my heart at his feet; trust me for that. I despise him, and all mankind.” Mrs. Westbrook smiled, for this daughter of hers, was not one with whom one could mingle her tears; for, if she shed them herself, she did it when no pitying eyes were near. Pity ! she did not want that. She wanted to go out into the world and defy it—wrench from it an acknowledgment of her capability. So her mother only said : “Act as you please in this matter, my daughter; only be careful that you do nothing rashly.” “I shall not be hasty, mother; but I have re solved, and shall live up to it. The future shall be to me ideas, not men. I believe there is but one thing worth living for in all the world, that is, the grand interchange of thought. Hence forth, I shall only seek society for the thoughts I find: these found, 1 can afford to let men drop." “Don’t be cynical, my dear; worthy thoughts do not originate in vile hearts. Therefore, oe careful that in casting humanity aside, you do not cast away the kernel from which true hap piness will spring. Life is only in sympathy, and union of heart and heart.” But Laura, though her cheeks had lost all their warm, rich color, shook her head, and curled her lip. After this, the brilliant society pet isolated herself from social circles, dressed plainly, and spent all her time in study. When she sought any society, it was that of men and women who, as she said, could teach her something. She sought knowledge with a diligence that was feverish enthusiasm at first; but after awhile she felt that “all was vanity.” There were few grand new ideas to be learned—many that seemed so were traced back and back, until they were enshrined in old-time mysticism and mythology. Thoughts but revolved on wheels of time; and men were but the spokes that car ried them. The years slipped away, and brought her much of knowledge of men and things. She was what people termed one of the “literati," without having aimed at that distinction. In fact, she had a decided aversion to being classi fied by what she may have acquired of knowl edge. Once, when she attended a select party, gi f en by a friend for the purpose of gathering to gether all the wise and learned of the city, she looked over the m »tley group of men and wo men, and remarked to the gentleman who stood near her. “And we are the ‘literati,’ the wine and little, and you will always find that the man whom the people think is the most original, is always one who deals in old forgotten lore; who takes what he finds and turns it over and paints it anew, and then says to the credulous world: ‘Behold what the Inal of this thinking age hath wrought?’” “It may be that man has a germ of thought to begin with—yon may call itGod-giveu, if you will; bnt he still has the capacity and will to enlarge upon what he finds; to put a little here and a little there, until, in truth, he may claim the glory, not of a strictly originating power, but of one which is as great in its way; the al most infinite one of collection and selection.” “An! Mr. Holmes I see how it is. You are like other men; y ou conde nn women for their want of reasoning; you follow out your own way of grinding and sifting your wheat and you bring us only flour at last. But we women, what do we do ? We take the flour and examine it; we know that it was made of wheat, because we accept the evidence of our eyes—call it in tuition if you will; then we only ask, from whence came the wheat? We know tnat no man now living cm make one grain—and this is the j and the woman too. means that you have no welcome for me and that I may go back as I came and not carry with me the woman whom I had hop ed all along might still be true to me. “Exactli. You are wiser than I thonght! You gave me back my freedom did you not ? What reason ha l you to hope that I would re member you after so many years ? ” “ Nothing only my own ‘love which did not change. Shall I go ? ” “ You may go. ” He released her hand and walked slowly away. Miss Westbrook did not bow her head and weep this time, she only stood still and thought. Ah! “ the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. ” ° She looked straight ahead of her, away off into the future. She pulled the flower to pieces that she held in her hand and then she whis pered to herself. “Yes, I did love him; I do love him. But I have sent him away from me forever. ” “ It is circumstances, not hearts that are chang- able, and you will not send me away from you now !” said Mr. Westfield, who had returned unnoticed, and now imprisoned both hands age of wisdom !—and therefore we infer that no man ever did.” “A truce ! Miss Westbrooks. I must claim to bo vanquished, though not convinced.” “That is even a greater concession than I would have expicted, alter knowing the charac ter of my most noble enemy.” “Thank you. It is sweeter to be called a no ble enemy by some persons than a blessed com- And she did not. Flowers at a Ball—January Turned into Julie. At a recent ball in New York, given by Mrs. Lorillard, the floral decorations were so gor geous that it seemed one had stepped on the magic carpet of the Arabian Nights, and been suddenly transported from the frozen streets panion by others. But why will you ever con- j j n to some gorgeous tropic scene. A correspon- sider men as your enemies ? Is there nothing in them that would soften the word ? Will you tell me why it is tuat we always find the sharp edge of your tongue ?’’ “People generally find the weapons they have whetted, sharper than those that they left to themselves. And if men find, at last, that it only takes about six thousand years of this same whetting, to give women au edge that will not bear pressing too closely, is there a better way to do than to ask men, who did the sharpening ?” dent writes “it soft, rose-colored light reflected from the Moorish ceiling, gave a picturesque effect to the costumes of the lodies as they en tered. The interior was a veritable flower palace. To the right of the entrance three large drawing-rooms were thrown open, which, to gether with the conservatory in the rear, made practically one grand hall for dancing. In the middle room Lander’s orchestra was hidden away in a grotto of flowers, and furnished the dance music. Eight superb chandeliers, from the center of each of which were suspended Vanquished again my unconquerable! But j candelabra, bolding ornamented candles, light- I am a true Crusader, and never give up the hope of planting my feet upon holy ground. And there is first one thing that gives me a last hope ,” as he spoke he drew her into a re cess, that shielded them from the eyes of oth ers, “and this as being a last resort, I venture upon doubtfully. You must know that I have respected you for years; that I have looked up on you with more than common interest. I have often tried to tell you my whole heart, but you have justas often baffled me. But now I must and will, tell you that I love you; that I want you for my wife. Can I have my an swer?” “You can have it just as any other man would get it. I do not want to marry. I want noth ing from men, excepting their respect; and that I claim as my right. A man can out liva his love and sympathy,—I do not want them. He weighs them, and counts the loss in time or money. Take back your love and give it to some woman, who will not question its durabil ity." “Keep it my qneen? It is circumstances, not hearts, that are changeable,” he raised her hand to his lips, and was gone. Laura Westbrook stood where he had left her, and a flood of memories rushed over her. It was not thus that she had answered a man eight years before. Then her heart was young and fresh, and it bounded at the tone or caress of him, who had won it. She had told herself over and over again, that she hated him, the man who had once won her deepest love, and then been so cool and practical as to thrust her freedom in her face. But her heart was strangely softened to-night:—love, no matter from whence it comes, always softens a woman, however cold and unrelenting she may appear— and she murmured scarcely above her breath: “Oh! Arthur, perhaps, after all, I have judged you too severely.” She leaned her head upon her arm, and, this woman who had covered her heart and dried her tears during all these long years of self imposed isolation, and rankling bitterness, actually wept, A woman’s tears sometimes wield a power more magical than the woman. They do what she could never do with all her beauty, sweetness, and persua sion. And the woman, |who so rarely sheds tears when she does weep, startles and over whelm the beholder. A man who had been near, yet unobserved, because of pyramids of hot-house plants and shrubbery between, looked at her as she bowed her head, and he started toward her as if he would shield her from herself and all the worid beside^. Then he hesitated. What if sho had changed ? He turned pale at the thought, and asked himself the question: “Have I done right? Ah! I did not think how deeply I may have wounded, while I sought to sive her.” He moved uneasily toward her: and then as restlessly back again. At last he took a position where he would not seem to intrude, and yet where he could be observed by the passing and repassing throng. While he stood there, not appearing to wish the attention of any one, many questions were asked concerning him. “Who is that gentleman ? ” inquired Mr. Wil son of his friend, the host. “I mean that fine proportioned man standing on the opposite side of the room; the one who seems too much ab sorbed in his own thoughts to care for any one else just now. Who is he ? Is he a foreigner ? He does not seem to have quite the manner of a genuine “born New Yorker.” “O, that man! Why, that is my cousin, Mans field, who is just from California; and is said to be one of the richest men of the State. He has been away from here eight years; and just re turned a day or two ago. By the way, people used to say that he had a kind of fancy for that brilliant and cynical Miss Westbrook. But, from what people say of her, I doubt if his chances are not rather slim, now. She makes no effort to attract the opposite sex, and seems really too cold-hearted and proad to love, or to be loved.” At this instant, Mr. Mansfield disappeared; and the conversation dropped. Why had he disappeared so suddenly ? The truth was, he saw that his strange immobility was attracting notice; and he was determined that the lady over whom he stood guard, should not be the object of obtrusive attentions. He began to feel a little restless at the awkwardness of his position; but just then Miss Westbrook got up and moved away to the father end of the conservatory. Was it presumption ? Perhaps it was; but he followed her. When he came to her side, she was bending over and pretending,to examine the petals of a rich exotic plant. Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were lighted with a peculiar softened, glow. She was looking at this flower with the eye of connoisseur, but it was evident that it was only with the eye that she examined it, for the thoughts seemed to be deeper. But as she held it in her hand, suddenly a hand reached ed up the fair scene. These also were beauti fully ornamented and draped with festoons of smilax and rosebuds. In the conservatory rose- colored globes shed a soft radiance over the rich tropical plants and palms, and made a most striking effect. All the windows between the lace curtains were decorated with ferns, azaleas and red and white japonicas. To the left of tho conservatory the billiard-room was fitted up as a smoking-room and was filled with statues and garlands of lily of the valley and carnations. The staircase leading up to the upper rooms was festooned with ivy and flowers. In the niches and alcoves were statues, imbedded in flowers, with a vault of palms and ferns sus pended over them. On the second floor, in conformity with an idea first put into practice by Mme. Murnetta in London, last season, all the chambers were used as supper-rooms, and these also were profusely decorated. A farmer friend had occasion to write the local editor of this paper a note the other day. In closing his note he asked, “Urb, can you tell me the way out of the present hard times?” Of .course we can. Keep pegging away—live within your income, and save a little for a rainy day—sell your surplus stock and grain—if you can’t get your price take what you can get; take the money and pay your honest debts; and if you owe no debts, put the money at interest and don’t go on credit any more; work steadily and be economical —make no bad or fool trades, and the first thing you know you will be sitting up cross-legged, with peace and plenty. Now, we’ve told you the way out, and if you don’t go it is your own fault.—Dawson (Ga.) Journal Loving Fviendg Never cast aside your friends if by any possi bility you can retain them. We are the weakest of spendthrifts if we let one drop off through inattention, or let one push away another, or if we hold aloof from one through petty jealousy or heedless slight or roughness. Would you throw away a diamond because it pricked you? One good friend is not to be weighed against the jewels of the earth. If there is coolness or unkindness between us. let ns come face to face and have it out. Quick, before the love grows cold ! Life is too short to quairel in, or to carry black thoughts of friends. It is easy to lose a friend, but a new one will not come for calling, nor make up for the old one. “ Couldn’t Lie fob that Monet. ”—A story is told ot a young Waverville, Me., lawyer, who has of convival turn, who had in his hands a number of unsettled accounts against an old farm er in the vicinity, who never paid any debts un til he was sued, and then only after loud out cries against the lawyers for “ grinding the faces of the poor.” One day he came in to settle a bill, when the lawyer offered to disoount him a dollar and a half if he would go into the street, mingle with all the groups of people whom he might meet and lead the conversation up to a point where he could incidentaly remark that he (the lawyer) was a sharp and worthy fellow. The old man wanted the money, but finally he said impressively: “Squire ! I’m a very old man and have done many wicked things in my life; but with my views of eternity I can't lie like that for that money.” The dollar and a half was discounted without extorting any recompense therefor. ‘ The Philadelphia Times, says of the proposition to admit an Indiana delegate to Congress: “ It is good provided you are sure of your Indian. There are some Indiane who are born Congressmen; who can talk, tipple and play draw with the most ex perienced politicians in the country. But there are some who have not fully cultivated these gra des of public life, and who might not prove such sooiable companions on the floor of the House. The bald-headed Congressmen can favor this new proposition conscientiously and without fear, but the member who has [any hair on the top of his head will be very likely to feel a little backward about rushing it through—at least before the army is increased in numbers. The ever sensational Mercury thinks the Chand ler confession—a prelude to impeachment,and goeB on to give prophetically, the programme of Ben Butler, in ti e bold game they intend playing upon the President. Butler seems the most bittsr sleuth hound in the pack, though he doesn’t bark -o loudly. He is to handle the Louisiana matter, and he believes he is armed with such proof as will not alone leave Stanley Matthews, Wayne McVeigh, and Charley Foster on their backs, but will impli~ cate Mr. Hayes personally in all their treachery. He intends so show that the office of Presi dent was bought by “an honest man from Ohio” under circumstances which prove him to be oeiver of stolen goods.