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Waiting for the Dawn BY IRENE INGE COLLIER, CHAPTDR X. Eloise, notwithstanding her heart was full of care ot her own would have been as deeply grieved if she bad know that her true and earnest friend Carrie Farman was now estranged from her lover on her account. Both Fred and Carrie were proud and Carrie was extremely sensitive where her friend was concerned. She was smarting with indignation at some slighting remark against that absent friend, whose sweet, sad parting look and passionate kisses were ever in her thoughts, when Fred rode over. He found her in tears and heard her again lament the loss of her frieDd. Life and joy seemed to have de parted with Eloise. ‘It is always Eloise,’ Fred said impulsively. ‘Yen have thoughts for no one else. 1 would be too proud Carrie to waste *iy love on one un worthy.’ • Eloise unworthy, Fred Denman what do you mean ?’ ‘ I mean, I can’t bear to hear a girl I love, go ing on about a Yankee school marm, who has left under a cloud, and no doubt deserves what is ssid of her.’ 4 Take that back Fred. Those are cowardly words,’ cried Carrie quite pale with anger. 4 Eloise Ennis is all that is pure and good, and the man who says one word against her shall never be called my friend.’ • You are excited Carrie. You don’t know what you are saying. And I hope you will not espouse Miss Ennis' cause so warmly every where, because it may expose you to censure. ’ 4 1 will take her part against the world, and I thank no one to come to me with insinuations against her.’ She turned away from Fred as she spoke, with eyes dashing and lip curling. He flushed to his forhead. ‘Very well Carrie,’ he said. I see you care nothing for me or my advice. Since j ou are so taken up with thoughts of Miss Ennis, I leave yon to meditate on her perfections at your leasure.’ And with a low bow, answered by a haughty bend of the head from Carrie, the two parted. It was some days before they met again. Carrie went about pale and silent, and Fred tried to be busy on bis farm; neither spoke to any of the trouble between them, but loving eyes are quick to see, ani Mrs. Farman scon perceiv ed tLat something was wrong with the two whose love-current bad seemed to glide so smoothly. Susie spoke of it to Sam in their confidential talk. These two were now betrothed lovers. Susie had prolonged her visit to her aunt at Sam's urgent entreaty, and it was a standing joke with Fred how early the gallant cavalier went away—the ‘early’ reterriDg to the ‘wee sma' hours, ayont the twal.’ He was an honeBt, ard ent, impassionat young fellow and she a lovely girl, frank, affectionate and full of life and gayety. Situ made up a family fishing party for her benefit, she and Fred being the only ones invited, except Bertram, whom Anna insisted should be asked 4 You think, to pair yourselves off nicely and leave me out in the cold.’ When the day came however, Fred pleaded business to bis cousin Susie when she asked if he was going. She and Sam set out from the house together and lingered long driving over the two miles of beautiful road that lay between the home of the Denman’s and hospitable Oak Dale. A memorable ride that was to Susie. The morn ing was beautiful, she was conscious that her cool, fresh muslin was becoming, S.im hand- j- 1 fi did she need to make her happy ? But her pride got the better of the pulse. ‘Is it you? You come in with little ceremony surely,’ she said coldly. He felt the cool indif ference of her look keenly, but he answered cheerfully. *1 did knock Miss Carrie, but no one answer ed, and seeing the hall and the parlor doors open. I came in and found you so fast asleep, I could have stolen you. A nice bouse keeper pro ten. With tbe sanctuary open for thieves to come in and steal the saint.’ She could not help langbing. ‘Not much of a saint'she said. ‘Yon was'nt very saintly yesterday’ he said ‘You were awfully cross; but you are ready to unsay all these cruel words. Are yon not my sweet love ?’ ‘Are yon ready to retract those still crneler things that you said about my dearest friend ?’ Carrie asked prompted by pride as much as by a sense that her lover had wronged her friend. ‘Why no Carrie I said nothing about Miss Ennis except what I mean. I don’t like the lips of tbe girl I love to be always dwelling on Eloise Ennis. I want you to forget her. Your constant grief for her seems to me to be very unwarranted.’ In trnth he was jealous of Carrie’s passionate love for her friend. He was ardent, exacting in his devotion, and he wished his fiancee's un divided love. He could not understand,. her loyal, almost worshipping regard for the beauti- ful, gifted being whom she had known so in timately. It was such a love as only a very young girl may sometimes feel for a sister wo man—sometimes, but it is rarely one meets with such devotion. If they conld have dropped tbe sore subject of Eloise it would been better, but nowit was brought up again, and both were too proud and unyielding to make concessions, both consid ered ihemselves aggrieved and the interview ended by Carrie’s telling him she would never marry a mas who bad not confidence enough in her judgment and her pure instinct to feel that she was competent to choose a friend, or a man who conld think so meanly of her as to believe she would desert a true friend because idle or malicious people spoke evil of her; and Fred saying, ‘Carrie jou can never have loved me as you ought, or you would not let such a little thing part us. I love you devotedly. I have loved you since we were children together and you will always be dearer to me than my life, but, I cannot in honor retract what I have truly spoken. What I said, was said honestly, and I am sorry that you take it so unkindly. I bad no wish to dictate, but I do think I have a right to believe my betrothed wife would have a regard for my opinions, and would show a disposition to conform herself to my views.’ Carrie made no response and her cold man ner irritated Fred still more. ‘I see it is better that we part now,’he said ‘You care for me no more. I will not intrude nay longer on your time. I will go away—I will not eftend your sight again. Farewell Car rie.’ He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He waited for some pign of relenting, but she still controlled herself. Pride still forbade her to ‘make up’ so readily with a lover who had, she thought, shown himself arrogant and exact ing, and who refused to take back words that she felt to be tanuting and unjust. 0ace more he repeated -Farewell—fora long long time’ and he left her side and was gone. She watched him ride away aDd then throwing hersglf on the sofa hurst into tears. CHAPTER XIII. Coming in sight ot Oak Dale, they saw the party waiting for them at the g#e. 4 There they are; come Miss Anna,’ cried Eugene, as he turned to assist her into his stylish buggy. She was looking very handsome, 'and smiled graciously as she extended her hand to her elegant escort. Sydney was not going; nor was he present this bright morning. Carrie stood at the gate with only a light veil over her head. 4 Where is F*ed’ called Mrs. Farman. Tsn t your cousin coming Susie?’ 4 1 don’t think he will Mrs. Farman. He says he has some work to do this morning. He may come when it is done, but be looks out ot spirits.’ As she said this, she looked hard at Carrie. ‘Why have you not your hat on, ma chere. Are you not going with us ?’ 4 No, I have had a dull headache for two or three days, and mother thinks I had better not go to-day. I shouldn’t add to your fun.’^ 4 it's only because Fred is not going,’ Sam began, but Carrie flushing said: 4 1 do not regulate my movements by Mr. DeDman’s,’ and her mother shaking her head at Sam, said ‘Don’t tease her my boy.’ Carrie jumped out of the buggy and went and kissed her affectioateiy. •I am dreadfully sorry that you can’t go with us dear. Ypu must rest that poor head, and be quite well and fresh this afternoon for I think (in a whisper) that Fred will be here.’ Carrie tried to look haughty, but only suc ceeded in blushing. Soon the party drove off. Sam and Susie in tbe carriage with Mr. and Mrs. Farman. Sam had dutifully told his mother of his betrothal, and tbe dear, warm-hearted old lady was all Bympathy and kindness for the young pair. Quite a joke was started up about dinner, Mis Farman declaring that when folks went to fish-fries they must dine on what they caught. ‘Nothing catch, DOtbing eat,’ at which Carrie, who had eaten a light breakfast, looked rather rueful, till Sam whispered. ‘Never fear; there's a basket hid away in the carriage, with cold ham, chicken pie, biscuits and cake enough to feed twice as many.’ Carrie stood and watched them drive away, then sighing, she turned into the house and sat down to the piano, but the very first touch of the keys brought up thoughts ot Eloise, the loss she had sustained in missing the instruc tion and society of her sweet young teacher; then the old harrowing conjectures over her fate, the mystery of her disappearance, and tbe cruelty of the insinuations that were whis pered concerning it. And this brought up the image of her fiance cold and proud as she bad seen him last. She bad had no word from hint, and now he had refused to go with the fishing party. He mast be very aDgry, and tears came as she said so to her heart, but then, she thought 4 I did right. I could not permit him to repeat slanders of my poor, sweet, loit Eloise. could not snfft-r him to dictate to me so haugh tily. I am not his slave, and I will show him that I am not so abject as to sue for a return of bis favor. He must recall those taunts, and ask my pardon or I will not forgive him. I will show him I need not pine because he with draws his smiles,’ Nevertheless, she was unhappy. She rose from the piano. She tried to crochet a little, she walked a^ont among her flowers, she sat down and tried to sew; and at last, Bhe took the book so dear to the heart of youthful maidens, Lnoille. She read the verses whose rhythmic melody soothed and Inlled her like music, until at last her senses wandered into dreaminess and she fell asleep on the sofa, and dreamed that Fred and she were reconciled again and that he called her ‘my own Carrie' and kissed her. She woke suddenly and saw Fred bending over her with a look of love in his handsome eyes. Her 'first impulse was to stretch out her hands and •cry with unfeigned gladness. Why Fred, I’m so glad to see you? I have so lonely.’ FIT a -fa fiery midsummer the most tropic any one had seen here in a long while. One, afternoon tne old yellow stage coach that brought the mail and occasional passengers to A., rumbled into town with two occupauts of its rcomy inte rior One a young man, the other a stardy-look- iDg farmer, who was rather loquacious. The younger traveler was reticent, trying to suppress his joy at soon being with his sister, but, to en tertain the old farmer occasionally, he would brtak in upon the elder to ask something .of the village he was nearing, showing plainly he was not thinking of what his talkative companion was telling him. ‘Well, its pretty dull, and they ain’t doing ! much. ’ | ‘Very small, is it not? l ‘Yes, it is small compared to the place I live in.' ‘Yes, I presume so’ He did not know what to im- and see him. Charlie ws nothing of the 1 disappointment he will I as he turned from Sid and advanced to Cht ‘Poor fellow ! he knowi Rhing, then, of his sister,’ murmured Sid. ‘Charles. I am so pleas to see you.’ •Equally as glad, Mr. f som; my sister wrote me you were here, but I d not expect to see you, an old friend, at r first look-around. How is Eloise ?’ ‘Did yon leave all well the city ?’ ‘Ail of onr mutual friei >< but as usual there are many changes. Eavi ou seen my sister to day ? [ ‘No I have not. TjjaA quite an agreeable surprise.’ •I trust it is agreeata (. will surprise sister. I have not bad a letteif pr her in four months. I guess father thinkst m too precious to be lost, traveling as I L been, from one post office to another, and L iked to forward them on tome, but they will* quite stale after seeing my dear sister.’ Mr. Sansom was an a ed; he could not say a word, and in his minc&me to the conclusion that he would not tell^n the sister he sought was gone. ‘I should think thence too precious to trust fast and loose, as theyiould have been. How is business with the nj firm, Charlie?’ •Clevis & Ennis are (jng a crushing business, the heaviest in the citfaith few exceptions, in our line I refer to. Clevis wishes to have tbe store enlarged nexjear, but I do not think he will; I am very mi^cpposed to it. But I mnst brush up before J sister sees me.’ ‘Wait a moment Chile, let me introduce you to one of Miss Eloise’siends.’ ‘Most assuredly.’ Mr. Sansom went u{&Sid. ‘Now Sid, you mustell him, for I cannot. Take him home with jn—for my sake do not leave it for me to expltfc’ ‘Mr. Sansom, I diale to; I am an entire stranger.’ j ‘Only because you he never met in person. I know she has writt|^nough of you. Tell him, Sid, you have tbnappy faculty ofevadiDg and putting the best»ce on everything,’ go ing towards Charlie. Both acknowledged e introduction and Sid remarked very pleasant ‘Mr. Ennis, I exactea promise from Miss El oise that I might takfjossession of you wheu you came. As a frienof tier’s may I claim that honored priviledge? ly conveyance is here, will you place yourseln my charge?’ Charles, thinking Siintended driving him to the institute, acceptedis offer, bade Mr. San som adieu and sent soe messages to his wife, with a promise to calli the morning if he pos sibly could. ‘Come and dine withce, Cfiarles.’ Thanks, but I canndeave my sister. I have only a short while to by, and I wish to be all tbe time with her.’ The sun had set; theast lingering rays were reluctantly creeping fm the world. The shad ows of evening fell ton a stricken maD, his full intellectual brow is damp with agony, his white teeth gleamed tfeugh his black mous tache as they crushed is thin lips in his an- guish. ^ , Sid, too, bore traceajf suffering as he told in a low, saddened voe of Eloise’s flight. He did not conceal from Carles how much he loved his sister, as he droveowly along, telling a tale of woe—making one hurt bleed, yet finding in the brother a sympatsing, patient listener Sid told of how the tvu’s people loved her, and how very dear she'as to each member of his family. I Charles questioned ’Xi closely. ‘Tell mo r-teum^er^' 4 • '??***£* -* 11 *Z*5***-±± : - rnnift n.nv onfi plor© you, he said. I ‘I will tell you all I know. The two last days she was here, she spent with Carrie. Saturday at a picnic, and during that day her escort nev er ltft her side—a Mr. Bertram, a banker in town. She acted very strangely, remaining a,t our house that night. The day was doubly my bitterest, for there she told me she could not love me. and I bade her, bade her farewell that night. Eloise's parting was mysterious. She would kiss Carrie and turn again and kiss her repeatedly; all of the family sj oke of it alter she had gone—that was at ten o’clock, I presume. She was fond of Carrie and we let that pass, but early the next morning, we heard she was not to be found.’ ‘Mr. Farman, I do not understand, I—do-- not—understand,’ he broke down here. Sid continued: ‘I and Mr, Sansom did all we conld, Miss Albers, and in fact the whole village; we could gain no clue. 1 wrote to a “•Give me your name, stranger; I am what the | Mend of mine whom I knew would interest him folks around here call a “county ’Squire.” I reckon you know what that is,—or, maybe, you are not versed in these parts,’ •My name is Charles Ennis, from New York City. I know what a 'squire is, but have never met one before, that I know. Am a strange* in this part of the world. I presume my enthusi asm at reaching A has led you to form quite an erroneous opinion of me. I have traveled a great deal, and spent the greater portion of this year in traveling over the West. I have nev<-r been so far South before.’ ‘Drummer, hey ? ‘No sir, not exactly. I am a partner in a mer cantile establishment. Here is my card, you see I am a traveling agent at present. I was i selt'iu answering all he could find out. A day or two alter, 1 received a letter telling me such a lady as I described stopped there one night and lett before daylight, bound for Memphis, that js as far as she paid her fire; now there we were lost: whether she went from that point North or South, we never have heard. I think though, Mr. Ennis, her assistant was some one from this place, and surely of a very secretive turn of mind, for all trace was well covered. It could not have been one from a distance.’ ‘Whom think you it was?’ ‘I have not the most remote idea: there is no one in the whole town who I think could or would have attempted tfich a thing. The fin ger of suspicon rested, for a day or two, on Mr. ooo x axu a nn* uiiu&t ntt'jub as uioovus* x *» ao §, » . . » . , > > . ... not needed at the house, and while out on this ■ Bertram. I told you he was tne last seen with tour, thought I would come to see my sister, who is in A , and a teacher in the Institute at that place.’ ‘Your sister a teacher !’ ‘Yes sir, against my wishes,’ not caring to en ter iulo detail. ‘Step-sister, hey ?’ ‘No sir, my own sister. Have you never heard of her ?’ ‘Yes, I believe I beard my niece, who comes over here often, speak of Miss ’ he thought a moment, rubbed his hands over his head and shook it. ‘Your sister is not married is she ?’ ‘No sir.’ ‘When did you hear from her?’ Just then they reached tbe village, and Char lie never replied. Jastas the sun, heated aDd worn out from his day’s exertion, was drawing around him the gorgeous mantle of bright beams, and upon tbe funeral pyre of tbe past was laid one more day. The ever faithful guardian stood ready to toss aside that day and clasp once more his snn. The stage harried through to the hotel where it always stopped. The driver, a picture of in dolence and laziness, dismounted. How wildly was beating one heart! Nothing could ease its throbbings but the dear word ‘Brother’ from his sister's lips. How often, on his long journey, had he pictnred to himself her surprise, her affectionate greeting. When be stepped from the coach he thought the farmer, who was out and busy shaking hands with old friends, bad told him false, for such a crowd was around the vehicle, but in reality this was the only event of the day that conld enliven the place, more especially after the oppressive weather that bad visited tbe land, now, for a week. But to hear the ‘news’ had bronght them, like a swarm of bees. ‘Ah! there is one of my old friends,’ said Charlie tu himself, as he walked toward tbe ho tel. ‘He has not eeen me; he is talking to some one.’ Just at that moment Mr. 8ansom glanced np and saw Charlie and recognized him. Taming to Sid Farman, he said: Eloise. Miss Albers contends he did not bring her to tbe institute; she was awake and restless and did not hear any noise indicating her re turn.’ Charles Ennis tried to cheer up as they near ed Oakland and when tbey drove up, Sidney turned to Charles and told bim he was welcome. As he opened the door there wa3no light in the hall and Carrie and iterna, who had fiuished tea, heard Sid’s footsteps. Carrie had a lit of ennui and Anna was simularly depressed. The moment Carrie beard Sid’s voice she ran to meet him. Running into the hall she came up to him and kissed him, sating: •Buddie, 1 am so glad to see you.’ before she noticed he was not alone, that a strange, was with him. He kissed his favorite sister then, still holding her around the’waist, intro duced her to Charles Ennis. ‘This is the best fric-ud, I do believe, that Miss Eloise ever had. She has been firm as a rock in tbe belief that Eloise was unwittingly taken from our midst. Bhe is my youngest sister, Carrie Farman.’ Carrie looked at her brother in astonishment wondering what he meant, bnt in a moment un derstood all as Sid continued: This is Mr. Cnarles Eunis.’ Carrie's heart leaped in her month, and has tily looking herself from her brother’s arms, she came gracefully to Charles with both hands outstretched to meet him. ‘How glad 1 am to welcome yon to Oakland, the brother of my very dear friend!’ and fear ing she was exhibiting too much feeling ceased talking and her face turned crimson as she quickly withdrew her hands. He was much effected: ‘Miss Farman,’ he said, ‘I thank yon from my heart for your kind ness to my sister and the regard and affection you gave her. It was fully returued. So often has she spoken of jou ia her letters that you do not seem a stranger. Would to God I had come earlier that I might have known of her Btrange disappearance and used ail the means I shall now employ to find her.’ *Oh, I hope, I pray you may be successful. I am glad indeed that *you have come at last. ney, ‘Mr. Ennis is much fatigued. I want him to have some of mother’s nice tea. Sister Car rie. tell them Mr. Ennis has come with me, and has gone np stairs to get ready for tea.’ Carrie handed her brother the lamp and went to notify her mother, also sending np Mr. En nis’ valise. She went into the dining room and told who was with her brother. ‘What Carrie ?’asked her father in amazement. ‘Oh, what a trial. Poor young man, I pity him,’ exclaimed Mrs. Farman. Anna came sottly in and hearing her mother’s remark knew in a moment to whom the strange voice belonged, and asked: •Carrie, does he know she is not here ?’ ‘Yes, brother must have told him. Anna, he is so handsome, tall and dark, just as Eloise told us; but he has such a very sad face.’ ‘Sister Carrie, I regret it devolved on brother, do you not?’ •Indeed I do,’ putting her arms around Car rie’s waist, and drawing her towards the parlor - They met the gentleman in the hall face to face, so near were they to each other and did not see them. ‘My second sister yon met first, this is Anna, the elder, Mr. Charles Ennis. Anna. He acknowledged the presentation with a low, graceful bow, and the four passed into the dining-room. Mrs. Farman' was very much prepossessed with Mr. Ennis, but even more so was her hus band and they lingered long at the table. Carrie had risen and silently goDe np to her room. She was very sad and her eyes moist with tears. Anna was solemn this evening and poor Sid looked as though he had been doomed. That increased Carrie’s despondeny, and when alone she sat do wn in a chair and cried bitterly. Her tears were a great relief. ‘Oh, Eloise,’ she cried, ‘was it to be deceived I trusted you? But judge not that ye be not judg ed; maybe she will return and tell us a sad tale of abduction and confinement. Oh, why did you not give us a clue? Your brother is in the same room where many times we have listened to your merry voice. Poor Fred isgonetoo—yet,Eloi.-e, I could not desert von after I so sacredly protnis- you I would be your friend. Fred is gone, where I know not. Perhaps where more beautifal wo men will obliterate all thoughts of Carrie. El oise and Fred both left me—’ Carrie could hear the sound of voices from below only subdued, no laughter, no mirth; a sad visit for him, she thought, when his own heart was so happy as he entered the village this afternoon. Carrie felt no inclination to go below. She heard her mother’s soft footfall and arose to see her. ‘Carrie, my dear, don’t give way; another is here, child, whose heart is bleeding far more than your own. Remember, child, we do not have crosses, who cannot bear them.’ Carrie threw both arms around her mother. ‘My mother so noble aDd kind. You are all iu all to me; bear with my weakness. You alone have known every secret I have had from my infancy. You know how I have been tried for months.’ ‘Yes, child, I feel deeply for you. Thiuk you I could see my rosy cheeked, laughing eyed girl, day after day lose her bloom; never smiling, never singing, without causing me a pain; but tny love, we must pray and hope and be strong. Come now, leave your own sorrows, and come into the parlor. Think of your brother Sid, Carrie.’ Carrie was pacing the floor; she stopped sud- denlv: •Yes, mother, what a trial. How he loved looks badly. I believe this is bis last aJf.eiiipt at making love—he will never marry, nowJpioth- er, I know.’ ‘I know Sidney's nature well. Would Scould change him. I pray he may yet be happy. ’ ‘I also, mother; teach me patience to bear my trouble.’ •Most willingly, Carrie; bear your gritfs as though others had some. You alone do not suf fer, and control yourself with this old aphor ism, “tbe darkest hour is just before the dawn.’ Now, come, my love, with me into the parlor. Make yourself presentable.’ •I will, i' amma, but oh, I cannot hely remem bering how Eloise looked forward to her broth er’s coming. Last New Year's night at Susie’s party she told me to look near the door at a gentleman—a late arrival conversing with Su sie. “What a resemblance he bears to my broth er?’ she said. “When be comes next summer we will have a gay time. He is so fond of lif&£ This is the gay summer, mamma.’ Then, as she stood before the mirror, she ‘Mother, let me leave my hair down, my b aches,’as she brushed back the golden brown hair that fell to her waist. She tied a light blue ribbon around it, assheswept it from her brow.’ ‘You look well with it so. Ready ?’ •Yes ma'am.’ ‘You are looking nicely. Were it not for these pale cheeks no one would suspect you of the tears I found you indulging,’ patting them as she spoke. ‘Cheer up, bonnie lassie, I will go with you.’ Carrie walked over to a chair, which Charles held for her nearest him, his looks told what an iffort it was for him to be agreeable, when he knew not where his s ister was. Charles and Carrie joined in conversation. Sidney was telling Anna how well she looked. She was regal —a thin white organdy, with a few pink rose buds and dark green leaves fastened io her gol den hair which was looped carelessly back, for it was not long. Her knot of pink ribbon tied very coqueltishly added color to her face. Her blue eyes to-n ; ght shone like sapphires. Anna was not considered half so pretty as Carrie—one a blonde, the other with large brown eyes, even fairer than Anna. At times, it would prove a study for an artist to decide between the two girls, but to-night Anna shone loveliest. She looked happy. Her heart fluttered as she met the stranger's dark, sad eyes. She watched him furtively from under her fringed lashes and thought a nobler, handsomer, more refined man she had never met. (TO BE CONTINUED.) / 'Sid, that tall gentleman, with very blank ayes . Do not despair, I feel she will be found.’ and hair, is Miss Eloiss’s brother. I mnst go I 'Ws will talk of that after awhile,’ said Sid* Mad all Her Days. By MRS. AMELIA V. PURDY. CHAPTER VIII. It is ten months after Salome’s death, Vale had gone to New York to re-stock her store. She had prospered wonderfully in bnsiness. She never feels the need of mon'ey now, aid of course friends are plentiful enough. She finds them here in New York. Many of her acqiaint- ances are here this fall, and they show I nr ev ery attention. The merchant, from whe k she buys the silks and laces she needs, has i in ted her to his home and she has found his wi ■ and danghters very kind and pleasant, whi k his yonng son raves of the beauty of the ‘ Soqhern Magnolia.’ Yale while appreciating fully the attent <n of her friends has remained at the hotel am pre served her independence, bnt she begins t long for home and is restlessly craving a look b the dear loved faces. Ah* the wickedness oi the restless, discontented women who dwol in pleasant homes whose hearts are filled witlben- timental voids that nothing can fill, bat aiioh adversity would destroy in its first sharer. They are all around us, women who dp not know what they want, whoso *aohing voids ex cite the stormy derision of the stronger women who can define and classify all their needs; who can find in the good things God has given abundant solace and comfort and who having much are too wise to crave all. The desolation and bitterness of being homeless no language can express. Diogenes should have been less cynical and more thankful, for he was not home less—he had a tub, and a tub is better than no shelter at all, and sometimes it occurs to us how much better it would have been had we each and all been born with a roof over us like the perri- winkle and the snail, that no storms of fate could dispossess us of and no sheriff seize. She is sitting at the parlor window when Camber lounges in gracefully aDd lazily as is bis wont, and looking remarkably handsome in his dark suit of navy blue, and says with the blackest of frowns: • What on earth do you mean by staying here so long ? What do you find to interest you in this great Babel ?’ The sweetest speech from any living man would not have pleased her as much as this vis it and exhibition of temper. Her eves brighten and flash like stars and her cheeks flush to rose. She is dressed in black silk, trimmed with fine lace and is looking her loveliest. She offers him her hand and he will not take it. She takes a seat near and says eoaxingly: • Don’t be angry, Mr. Camber. How could I know you did Dot want me to stay so long? Let us shake hands and be friends.’ He looks at her gloomily. • We must be more than friends after this, or nothing. I missed you as much as any little three year old would miss its mother or any wo man miss her husband who was dead a week. I believe I have loved you for years and did not know it. Vale, you must return my wife or else I go to Europe and we separate forever. I’ll give you five minutes to decide.’ She gives him both hands and with down cast eyes and rose red face faiters. ‘I choose to be your wife, oh you blindest of all blind men ! I have loved you since the night of Mrs. Dean's bal masque, years and years ago.’ He draws her down beside him and kisses her, and remarks: ‘ Well if you have, you are a most accomplish ed actress. Your mother has known of my love for you for six months, yon are au awfully par ticular young woman. Your appetite has never failed. You have slept well, and are superior to nervousness. You were never found staring at the woon, or cryiDg down in the cellar or up in the attic as all love stricken damsels do. All signs failed in you, and the only course left was to ask you. It was your mother’s caudid opinion, that you were thinking of a young gentleman in New Orleans, who said ‘those molasses,’ and a Tew flower,' and who had Etruscan gold com plexion, from too much Bayou, but who had found a new liver medicine, that would ‘fetch’ out the chills instanter, though he had a ‘good stand’ of them.’ He opened a small box and his mischief and sparkle is gone, He takes from it ropes of pearls the size of linnet's eggs,and wiudsthem around her neck, puts on the bracelets, ear-rings and pin. and the bandeau across ber hair. ‘ Tbey were Salome’s’ he says softly. ‘I bought them for you, the day she wold them to the jeweler. You loved heraud I determined to give them to you, for a bridal gift, I had no idea whose bride you would be. By the way Horion is married, to that brunette beauty from Key West, who was ou a visit with Mrs. Holmes.’ Yale gathered up a handful of the snowy balls, and said seriously: ‘ I hope they will be happy—<S’/ie hoped that. I will always prize these pearls the more, be* Cangfi you toyed her and she wore them. llry> 1 CamberT"! never could "bear tcTrist"tITe mr>he'y's fe gave me and before 1 left I ordered a tomb stone, for her grave. Horton did not seem to think it necessary.’ Cumber looks at her curiously. ‘ The average woman would have disliked her. Were you never jealous?' ‘Never; you loved her before you ever saw tne. I thought it hard at times but I was not jealous. Mr. Camber, even the smaii piti; nee she earned she shared with the poor to the day she died. Jealous of her? No sir. A man is elevated or degraded in direct proportion to the nobility of the woman he loves. Sho was to women what the tube ros« is to roses, the white hyacinth to the common flewers of the fitdds. You are all the better for loving her.' ‘ What do you propose to do with that shop,’ he asks. She reflets and then answers. ‘I will turn it over to mama and Miss Hawkins. Don’t frown ; mam* wiil not live with us yet awhile. She will prefer to be independent. I know her disposition and she will want to make a home for Bertie, and Miss Hawkins needs pro motion. I should have taken her for a partner in a few months.’ ‘But I will want your mother with us,’ he remonstrates. ‘ She is too old to run the busi ness, and if you will use your influence she will come, and let Miss Hawkins have the entire business. I have purchased a smalle • bouse, I remembered your horror of unoccupied rooms, a distaste you share with Byron. I want to re turn to-night and will make arrangements for us to take the night train.” At ten o’clock they are married and three days latter are at home, the bouse is a perfect bijou, With this natural fondness of all women to inspect bureaus she has opened the drawers, to And them filled with laces, silk and velvets. Diamonds flash their splendors f om white silk cushions, and every thing that the most fastidious ‘curled darling of fortune’ conld desire are there in profusion. She glances up aDd the calender is marked Sept. 10. Memory takes her back six years before to the she night thad sold her services to ber aunt for five dollars to buy wine and fruit for the angel sister. Thinking of her brave siruggle, the heroism she had practiced for dreary jears, the hard work and sacrifices she kuelt down surrounded by the sheen of silk and the rain bow glories of jewels and prayed through hap py tears. A month later Horton with surprised eyes stands before Salome's grave. B-side him stands his bride, one of the dazzling brunettes only to be found now and then in agi-s A pyra mid of Scotch granite is at the head of the grave, Upon the oval is the one word “Salome.” THE END. The New Party la California. The party in an almost incredibly short space of time has risen from nothing to a position which commands, if not the admiration, at least the chief attention of the community. Its lead er, Denis Kearney, whose name appeals promi nently on all occasions, is a native of Oik- mount, county Cork, Ireland, where he was born in 1847. His early years were spent at sea, and he first came to San Francisco, as first officer oi the clipper ship Shooting Star, m 1868. He is a married man, a Catholic by religion and stricly temperate in bis habits. In 1872 he went into the drayage business, in which he made some money, and which he followed un til the withdrawal of the business of down-town merchants consequent upon his course as an a »- itator. He is a ready and forcible speaker, bat his oratory is more remarkable for vigor in an for anything else, and is marred by the fre quent nse of profane language. Tbe influence posaesed by him ovar his followers is apparent ly unbounded, and all other aspirants to lead' •rship of the Workingmen's party have unceremoniously put aside.