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DOSIA
THE TAMING OF A GIRL.
BY HENRY CRhYILLE.
Translated from the French, 'or the
“Sunny South,”
BY rBOF. OHA9. F. CAILMARD.
“A8
little.
This time I did not
I was moved by her
it would have been
had in it between her
Lncrece continued to sleep, I coughed a
She opened her eyes, turned round and
saw, on my bed, the black face of Pluto looking at
her lolling out his tongue. You see, the poor an
imal was too hot under that shawl. Didn’t she
scream, then !
‘•I laughed so much that Clementine turned
sad and said piteously :
‘“Yes, it is very funny; but Lucrece called for
mother, who came and wanted to whip Pluto. He
jumped on his feet, tore up my night-dress, growl
ed and showed his teeth. Then mother gave
order for his removal to the farm, fifty miles from
here. What shall I do ? What will become of
me ? They whip Bayard, they exile my deg, and
you leave for the camp.’
“ She began crying again
offer her any handkerchief,
sincere sorrow, although
difficult to tell what part I
horse and her dog.
“ She came down from her rock, holding her
dress above the ground for fear of the frogs.
Her tiny feet encased in guilded gaiters were
shining on the dark ground.
“ ‘Take me along with you,’ she said, ‘I dont
want to stay here !’
“ ‘But, darling—’
“ ‘Take me along, she repeated imperatively,
striking the ground with her foot.
“ ‘I cannot—’
“ ‘Take me along. Young men elope with young
girls in romances, and they marry. You will lead
me to your parents. They know me; your father
loves me well. Take me along!’
“ ‘Listen to reason, dear; I—’
•'“You refuse? Then you do not love me.
What a bad man you are ! You have told me a
lie. Wellone thing is certain; I shall not go
back into this house, where some one i3 quar
relling all day long, where nobody loves me. I
shall go—’
“ ‘Where ?’ I asked.
“ Her anger was amusing and touching at the
same time. All at ouce, it seemed to me that she
had grown taller, her eyes had a flash, a real
woman’s look this time, not a child’s.
“ ‘There! she answered, pointing to the river
running a few steps from us.
‘* ‘No, darling,’ said I, caressing her hand—
very timidly though—no, you shall not go there !’
“ ‘Take me along, then,’ she repeated, looking
at me with her eyes full of tears.
“ ‘Yes, yes,’ said I, half distracted.
“ Her caressing tone, her eyes full of prayer
had carried me away.
“•Thank you,’she uttered, jumping for joy.
‘To-night then.’
“‘Yes, to-night, at eight o’clock.’
“ ‘I shall wait for you at the turn by the small
gate. Leave the house as usual, and when you
will get to the place stop your barouche; I will
join you there.’
“ Clementine’s home is not far from Saint
Petersburg. My plan was to accompany her to
the clt y U ~ M~y'falewas"seafect, I should marry mj-
“She gladly pressed my hands and bent her
head, listening attentively. The dinner bell was
ringing. She kissed her hand to me from the tip
of her rosy fingers and disappeared, still hold
ing up her dress for fear of the frogs-
.. .1 must have had a strange countenance dur
ing dinner. I did not dare to look at my aunt,
who was loading me with attentions and choice
morsels. She had the kindness to order » chicken
to be put in my barouche. The thought that I
would clandestinely divide that chicken with her
rtniKThter. made me ashamed of myself, and 1
“ I did not make any remark. We were travel
ing very slow; our horses were evidently tired.
Was it not a strange elopement ? A girl who
brought all her baggage wrapped up in a cambric
handkerchief, and horses that had been over
worked.
“ ‘Go faster.’ said I to my driver, pushing him
a little to wake him up
“ ‘Can’t do it, your Honor !’ he answered, half
asleep, ‘the horse on the left has lost a shoe, and
the mare on the right has been lame for the last
two years. Poor stock! I tell your Honor; caa’t
help it.’
“Since we couldn’t help it, I kept quiet, but
vexed. Clementine was cheerful.
“ ‘Oh ! how amusing 1’ she said several times.
“ Now, my friends, remember night had not
come yet, and we constantly met with peasants
returning from the fields. They were saluting
us, and many slopped gaping at us from the road
side. Clementine, who knew them all, smiled and
returned their salutations.
“ ‘My dear cousin,’ said I, ‘if you act that way
your mother will soon send some one after us.’
“ ‘No danger,’ she said. ‘What makes you
believe that these people will tell that they have
truly say that she is a child.’ Saying this, I im
mediately left, my heart as light as a feather, and
fell asleep, to wake up only when I arrived in
Saint Petersburg.
“You have asked me what I had done with my
cousin after running away with her; now you
know it. If Plato thinks it proper to blame me,
I am ready to listen to his reproaches ”
Plat* was Count Sourof, whom the other officers
used to tease with that given name, so well in
keeping with his wisdom and mild philosophy.
“Plato has no remark to make,” he said, “but
your story is excellent and has amused us very
mueh. I propose that we present you with a pen
of honor.”
“That’s enough talking; let us play cards,” put
in one of those who had been sleeping.
Cards and refreshments were brought, and the
balance of the night passed as was usual at the
horde-guards camp.
The Promise Kept.
BY STEPHEN BRENT.
VI.
The next day was Sunday. Pierre was yet
enjoying the sweetness of abed not exceedingly
daughter, made — . - ,
could hardly eat anything. Seeing this, aunt
added a large piece of cake to the chicken.
“ My cousin’s eyes followed joyously that piece
of cake, and-such audacity-she winked at me.
That girl had no idea of my torments. At last
eight o’clock came. My barouche, drawn by
three horses, came by the porch. Aunt gave me
her blessing; all my cousins bade me good speed,
and I started after having raised the leather top—
to the astonishment of every one present, for the
nieht was beautiful.
“ This is the way I left the friendly house where
1 had received such kind hospitality, and toward
which I was so ungrateful.”
Pierre Mourief made a pause and looked around
him Two or three officers, overpowered by the
quantity of Champaign absorbed, were sleeping
placidly- the others were waiting for the end of
the story. Count Sourof, extremely grave now,
was looking attentively at the speaker.
“Do I weary you?” asked Pierre Mourief,
No^keep on, answered Sourof, calmly.
“ Ah’' 1 catch you at it. Gentlemen, my friends,
vou aie witnesses that Sourof wants me to con
tinue. 1 had told you so, remember.
“ Yes, yes,” answered the audience.
The young Captain smiled and said kindly :
“ I tell you again to keep on, Mourief.”
“ Pierre made a military salute and resumed his
narration, after having turned his chair so as to
6it “ I turned the corner of the garden, as it was
agreed, and stopped my barouche. Nobody there.
For a moment 1 imagined that this offer of elope
ment was nothing but a mystification from my
charming cousin, and I cannot say that I was
"he more sorry for that. But I was not doing
iustice to Clementine. I soon perceived her rum
J ning through the main walk with a small bundle
“n her hand. She opened the little side-gate, and
jumped at one leap into the barouche.
J “‘Whip your horses,’ 1 ordered the driver—a
phlegmatic Finnois, who had fallen asleep during
our short stay. You know Finnois always sleep.
This one shook himself, gathered the lines, uttered
a prolonged whistle, and we were gone.
‘Put this somewhere,’ said my cousin handing
m “ # ‘What is it ? I asked, feeling through the en
velope, which was a cambric handkerchief tied by
lh “ "These are provisions for the road,’ she said.
“I untied the hankerchief to see what sort of
pr .S. »h« h.d brought, .ui found .loug
slice of graham bread cut in two and folded. Afew
erains of Liverpool salt were between the two
f-ieces and two oranges on the to P- .® ut tbe "{**1
{ion was such a serious one that I did not laugh at
BU “ h .I sloleThyoranges from the goTerness,’ said
Clementine, and the bread from ‘he kitchen. I
wanted to take some sweetmeat, but had nothing
t0 .“It wouid havi been unhandy to carry, and
teid?. rlSU »• b.ker.b™.ddo-ut
“ »Oh 1 sweetmeats are nice without bread.
seen me taking a ride with you? And ad.
mitiing that they do; mother will say that it is one
of my pranks.’
“ This was true. My excellent aunt had such
confidence in me, that should she have been
told I was running away on the road to Saint
Petersburg with her daughter, she would have
hardly paid any attention to the report. This
thought gave me a twinge of self contempt. The
sun was setting when we entered a forest extend
ing each side of the road. No more peasants ceuld
be seen, and nightingales were heard all around
us. The driver being soundly asleep I became a
little bolder and resolved to take advantage of the
situation.
‘“Dear Clementine,’ said I, nearing her cau
tiously—
“ At this moment I saw that she was inspecting
all her pockets with an evident anxiety. I inter
rupted my exordium and asked :
“ ‘What is the matter?’
“‘I have forgotten my pocket-book •’ she pit
eously answered.
“ ‘It is of little importance. IIow much was in
it?’
“ ‘Seventy-five cents !’ she answered, in a lam
entable tone.
“ ‘That is not a fortune. My mother will give
you another pocket-book,’ I added to console her.
“ ‘Say, Pierre! will not mother be astonished !’
she exclaimed. ‘What a surprise for her ! Iam
fond of surprises.’
“ My own mother wae fond of surprises too, but
I doubted that the one in store for her would please
her much.
“ To get rid of all the thoughts that assailed my
mind, I got nearer and nearer Clementine, and
softly and slowly I passed my arm behind her.
As she sat straight upon her seat, she did not
notice my movement. I then took her left hand,
and she did not oppose when she saw that I was
looking—seemingly with great attention— at her
rings.
“ 'Dear little wife,’ said I, ‘how happv we shall
be.’
“ ‘Very happy, you shall ask mother for Bayard
and Piuto; she will not refuse them to you !’
“I knew she would not, and that was precisely
what I was sorry of. Those so well trained beasts
would be redoubtable rivals for me in my cousin’s
heart. Still, I did not object.
‘- ‘We will always be together, we shall never
part. Dont you love me, Clementine?'
“ ‘Well! yes,’ she answered pitifully. ‘This is
the second time you asked me that question. How
many more times do you want me to answer it ?’
“ Evidently my cousin and I had nothing in
common, but the cushion on which we sat; we
we ™i SU n t o tw r 0 «s^ ei i$t
arm around her waist I drew her to me and kissed
her hair above her forehtead; but at the very mo
ment my lips touched Mr hRir, her right hand fell
upon my face with such vigor that the Fmnoi^
started up by the sound, jerked the lines on the
back of the horses. . , . , ... .
“ ‘Clementine !’ 1 exclaimed in anger, this is
the second—’ , , „.
“ ‘And it shall be so every time, she answered,
as fierce as a young rooster already accustomed to
fig ‘ h ‘ t ‘But,’ I retorted, ‘why then are we going to
marry? She who will not permit her lover to
kiss her ought not to ask him to run away with
^"“Clementine turned crimson—through shame
or anger I cannot tell—I was greatly excited and
looked at her with anything but tenderness.
“ ‘Ah ' I should not ask to run away ! Ah ! you
took me along in order to kiss me ! Wait a mo
ment; I shall soon settle that.’
“She had opened the barouche and was ready
to jump out, at the risk of crippling or killing
herself. I prevented that by holding her tight l
my arms—only to protect her, I assure you. She
defended herself like a lioness, and her'
left many imprints on my hands. At last sne
fell almost exhausted upon the seat.
•< ‘I deserve it,’ she said, ‘but a gentleman does
not act that way.’ . ,,
“ I took my handkerchief, wiped the smal
drops of blood that were oozing from the scratches
on my hands, and then looking at her I pointed
to the little red spots on the cambric.
“ ‘Do yon suppose,’ said 1, ‘that a well-raised
young lady behaves that way
“ ‘I am perfectly right,’ sh«
it again every day.’
“ ‘Every day ?’ ,
“ ‘Every time that you will act so.
“ ‘Then, my dear, we needj not marry; we
can Quarrel as well without.’
Just what I think. Good bye ! I am going,
and wish you a happy journey.’ ,,
“She prepared again to jump, but I cooled her
down with one word: ... ,
« ‘Drive back home, I have forgotten somethin,,,
said I to my Finnois. He murmured a little, but
• p ie “»' ihal i
she said, ‘and I shall do
soft, when Count Plato entered his cabin and
seated himself near MourieFs pillow. The young
lieutenant gaped two or three times, stretched out
his limbs to their full leugth and shook hands
with his friend.
“ My head is heavy, this morning,’ he said, ‘I
think I overslept myself.”
“ No,” said Sourof, smiling, “you drank too
much.”
“ I ! Can you so slander a poor officer as inno
cent as our mother Eve ?”
“ After her sin ?”
“ Before !”
“ Well! If you did not drink too much you
spoke too much.”
“ What ?” asked Pierre, sitting on his bed, “you
say that I spoke too much ! What have I said?
Any nonsense?”
“Not exactly. You related a certain story
which, if true—”
“Ah!” interrupted Pierre, “I spoke of my
cousin Dosia!"
“You spoke of a cousin Clementine; you had
sense enough not to tell her true name, but, my
dear friend, you made a portrait so original and
so striking that anybody may recognize her.”
Mourief, his face buried in his hands, could but
utter a few exclamations.
“ Stupid animal 1 triple dunce that I am ! What
have I said ?”
Pluto outlined briefly what he had heard the
day before.
“Ah !” said Mourief, with a relieving sigh, “ I
am glad I did not add anything to the real facts;
1 said but the exact truth. In vino veritas. Why
did you not stop me, you so wise ?”
“IIow can I stop the tongue of an half-intoxic-
ated man who tries to amuse others ? Your story
was a success.”
The clouds on Mourief’s forehead seemed to
vanish. One is always satisfied to hear that
he hod a success, even if he does not remember it,
even if he owes his success to lightly reprehen
sible means.
“You must now counteract that evil,” said the
Count, perceiving the good effect of his words.
“Yes, but how to do it?”
Since they agreed upon the end, the two young
men had soon fonnd a way to attain that end, and
they parted after fifteen minutes.
On the same day, after dinner, when some were
ready to leave„the mess, Plato ordered the servants
to bring a bowl of punch. The proportions of
this could not compare with thos6 of the one they
had enjoyed the day before.
“What does this mean?” asked some officers.
“It means,” answered Platy, assuur-ng an abash
ed countenance, “that I have lost my wager, and
1, now pay for it.”
eottWke tittle Story, as . nnu«i«
writer I pretended he co-'”-a not; hence our
wager! Last night, Mourief has amused and de
ceived us with his story of elopement; I have lost,
and to-day I comply with my contract.”
“ Oh ! deceived ! deceived !” repeated a young
man, bringing his chair nearer to the table, “ 1
dont know that you have really lost, as for my
part I did not believe a word of it.’
“Neither 1,” said another officer.
“It was too nice to be true,” added a third one.
This last remark was like salve on Mourief s
pride which began to be sore. .
•t After all,” continued another, “where is the
man so modest as to relate a story in which he had
so poor a showing. When one speaks of himselt it
is in a different way.”
Pierre and Sourof smiled, looking at each other.
The conversation once turned in that direction
they soon abandoned that subject, and the punch
disappeared among the general gayety.
The two young friends left the tent together.
The atmosphere was loaded with the fragrance of
poplar buds newly opened, and a beautiful June
night inviting to reverie they kept silent until
they arrived at their barracks. As Sourof was
about to enter his he asked his friend:
“ Is your cousin Dosia really so badly educ-
a ted ?**
“ Yes, my friend. I dont know whjit I have
said, but she is no better than I may have depict
ed her. It would take a twenty-four hour speech
to give you a correct idea of that whimsical young
“She may be whimsical,” said Plato, smiling,
but she is very original, and certainly very vir
tuous, notwithstanding that prank. Good night,
he added, extending his hand.
“ Good night," answered Mourief walking to
his door. .
Plato looked at him fora moment, then entered
his isba and went to sleep without thinking any
more of his friend’s story.
(to be continued.)
punishment,
There was a brilliant gathering at Sir John
Kenneth’s. All the aristocricy of Estmoorseem
ed to have turned out. It was the last ball giv
en in honor of the 4th. In two more days they
would bid farewell to English soil and sail for
India, there, possibly, to lay down their lives
and sleep the dreamless sleep of death, in graves
unmarked by stick or stone.
Mr. Milford, the good old rector of Estmoor,
and his friend, Colonel Cheney, sat on the bal
cony talking. On a low cushioned seat at the
rector's side, sat his only child.
Little crippled Bethel, the old man’s darling,
placed in his arms by the gentle mother who
gave up her life for her child. It was an unu
sual thing to see the gray-haired rector at such
a scene of gaiety, but Bethel wanted to come,
She would never walk without a crutch, but that
did not keep her from delighting in the free,
graceful movements of others. A tall figure pass
ed them.
‘Did you notice that man ?’ said Colonel Che
ney to the rector.
•Yes, why?’
‘He is a good illustration of the subject we
were discussing the other day about boys being
turned out on the world without any body to
care for them.’
‘Who is he ?'
‘Maxwell Stuart, and one of the most reck
less men I ever saw. He came of good family,
but had little money,and his mother was a cold,
heartless woman, witnout any true womanhood
about her. Maxwell is the last of his race, and
he seems bent on dragging down the proud old
name so honorably borne by his ancestors.’
‘It is a sad thing to see a young man goiDg
down to ruin,’ said the rector, gravely.
‘Yes, and I never saw one go as fast as Stuart.
Only to-day he insulted Colonel L—and as the
Colonel is very strict, I cannot tell where it will
end.’
Till now, Bethel had been silent, but lifting
her head from her father’s knee, she said:
‘Couldn’t you save him from
Colonel Cheney?’
‘Yes, possibly, but what is the use child, he
will do the same thing over again, if he gets an
gry enough.’
‘Perhaps not; he might do better if he had a
good true friend. I feel so sorry for him, alone
and with no body to love or care for him. Please
help him, won’t you ?’ clasping her small hands
and looking up entreatingly.
‘Well, perhaps you are right, little woman, I
will try.’
The next afternoon, Bethel took her crutch,
and went down into the garden. She was a slight
girl of fourteen, but her thoughts and ideas were
those of a woman. Th« fair child-like face was
almost saint-like in its purity and sweetness,
and such a look of perfect patience, surely few
human faces ever wear. There was a touch ot
sadness in the clear gray eyes and about the
soft cut,childish mouth, but sometimes it would
fade away in a look of intense peace.
The rectory garden was a wilderness of bloom
and sweetness Roses, honeysuckles and jessa- i
mines gave their fragrance to the summer air,
and over all shone the afternoon sun.
To Bethel, this garden looked like a spot from
Bunyan’s Laud of Beulah, it was so calm, so
peaceful, and unworld-like in its dreamy still
ness.
Bethel sat down on a low rustic seat and fell
to dreaming one of her vague dreams of the
world and the many throbbing hearts in it, and
longing, in her tender, womanly way, to help
them.
A step on the walk aroused her. Glancing up
she saw a tall soldierly figure and dark face,
‘few mCrtbJiAtf.— i’-nn.ynt-,*, -e— : — — 1 —
for saving me from disgrace. .
Bethel blushed deeply. It was Maxwell Stuart.
‘Indeed I would rather you wouldn’t.
•How can I help it, when they were the first
kind words spoken of me since I was a child.
You were right in saying I had no one to care
for me; if I did, I would not be the God-forsak
en fellow I am to-day.
The role of comforter came naturally to .beth
el There was not one of the poor in her fata-
er’s parish, that couldn’t testify to her powers
for helping others. The pain and despair in
S uart’s dark, frank face made her heart ache.
‘We are nbne of us God-forsaken, she said
gently, ‘and why should you waste your life t
‘Because, if I were to die to-morrow, there is
not one to care, or mourn my loss.
‘God would care, he does not want any of us
lost. I had a brother once, a strong, noble bro
ther, but he is gone now. I cannot g^e you
his place in my heart, but, speaking timidly, 1
you will promise not to be reckless any more,
vou can be my second brother.’
3 ‘Oh child ! you do not know—you cannot un-
srstand how unworthy I am, but I promise
It was a cruel blow to the loving girl, who
had clung to her father with an intense passion
ate l°ve. She was utterly alone now, and for
a time the thought was almost more than she
could bear.
T j® new rector and his wife were old and
childless, and they begged the sad lonely girl
to stay with them, and Bethel, loving the old
place better than any_otheron earth, consented.
Bethel was twenty-five. It had been four
years since her father’s death, and the first keen
bitterness of her grief had worn off. She stood
by the window watching the purple shadows
creep up the hill sides, while the crimson sun
set glow still lingered in the west. A servant
entered, and said there was a gentleman in the
drawing room to see Miss Milford.
Bethel passed down the stairs, and walked
slowly across the hall, her soft white draperies
trailing over the carpet and her sott loose hair
looking like a nimbus of gold round the head
ot a saint. She had just reached the door, when
U opened and she came face to face with M ix-
well Stuart. She did not scream or faint, but
by the sudden stream of brightness, that seemed
to shine over all her life, she knew what her
woman s heart had been waiting for. Their
greetings were quiet, and soon they were talk
ing in a calm natural manner.
Eleven years had wraught a great change in
Maxwe.l, now Colonel Stuart. He was thinner
and darker; the old hard recklessness was gone,
and silver threads gleamed among the dark
waving hair.
That was not Colonel Stuart’s last visit to the
old rectory. He came again, and again, and
one evening down in the beautiful old garden
he showed Bethel the rose lying withered, and
dead in a tiny sandel wood case. In a grave
earnest voice he said:
‘It has gone with me through all the long
years, the sweetest memory of my life clinginS
around it. Bethel my darling I have kept my
promise, and will you trust me now? Dearest
I love you, I have loved you ever since that even
ing eleven years ago, when you, with your sweet
face full of tender compassion, allowed me to
call you sister. Give me a dearer right; Bethel
be my wife.’
And Bethel, wishing for no higher earthly gift
than the love of Maxwell Smart, turned and for
once dropped her crutch, and laid her hands in
his.
‘I think I have always loved you Maxwell,’
she said simply.
He drew her to his heart, kissing the wide
white brow and sweet quivering lips softly and
tenderly.
Through all the peaceful after years, Bethel
learned each day how truly the promise had
been kept.
Bright and Sparkling.
French Grown Jewels at the Exposition.-A
Fifty thousand Dollar Feather in
Prince Albert Edward's Crown.
never to do a deed that will ^cause you shame
The CheerfnI Voice-
e ive wings to the lame mare, and we rode towards
aunt’s house, both of us peevish, and sitting in two
different corners. I stopped the barouche at the
place where Clementine had joined me, for 1
intended to let her alight there, but
»« ‘What do you mean?’ she said, ‘what would
they think of me? You must bring me right by
the porch.’
“ ‘But they will ask me some questions I
“ ‘Answer what you please; the truth if you
want t0 ‘’ . . ,
“ Strange to say 1 we were no more betrothed,
and still we kept talking as friendly and familiar
ly as before, using the thee and thou, from an old
habit which we would not give up. One is not a
cousin for nothing. The barouche stopped at the
porch, to the wonder of the guests, who had come
on the piazza at the hearing of our horses. Aunt s
face first appeared to me, towering above the fam
ily, asking anxiously
“‘For heavens’ sake, Pierre, what has happen
ed ?’
“ ‘Cousin Clementine has accompanied me a
little way and I bring her back.’
« Clementine jumped from the carriage and ran
to her room to avoid her mother’s reproaches.
“ ‘That silly girl has detained you, Pierre, said
my excellent aunt. ‘Forgive her; ahe is so badly
raised and so ohildish.’
“ ‘I have notbiag to forgive her, aunt, but yon
The comfort and happiness of home and
home intercourse depend very much on the
kindly and affectionate training of the voice.
Trouble, and care, and vexation will and must,
of coarse, come; bat let them not creep into
our voiceB. Let only our kindly and happier
feelings be vocal in our homes. Let them be
so, if for no other reason, for the little children s
sake. These sensitive little beings are exceed-
incly susceptible to the tones. They hear so
much that we have forgotten to hear; for as we
advance in years our lives become more interi
or We are abstracted from outward scenes and
sounds. We think, we reflect, we begin grad
ually to deal with the past as we have formerly
vividly lived in the present. Our ears grow
dull to external sounds; they are turned inward
and listen chiefly to the eohoes of past voices.
We catch no more the merry laughter of chil
dren. We hear no more the note of the morning
bird. The brook that need to prattle so gatly
to us rushes by unheeded; we have forgotten to
h££h .king* B..UH1. Child.™ »■«;
ber, sensitively hear them all. Mark how, at
every sound, the young child starts, and turns,
and listens! And thus, with equal sensitive
ness, does it catch the tones of human voices.
How were it possible that the sharp and hasty
word, the fretful and complaining tone, should
not startle and pain, even depress the sensitive
little being whose harp of life is so newly ““
delicately strung, vibrating even to the gentle
breeze, and ever thrilling sensitive to the
tones of such voices as sweep acroes it? Let us
then be kind and eheerful in onr homes.
derstand
He knelt down and took the little soft hands in
hl Vkn > ow you will keep your promise, Mr. Stu
art, and when you are away in India, remember
that there is a little cripple sister at home, who
thinks of you each day.’
•I will remember,’ The fierce, dark eyes are
soft and tender, , , . . .
He kissed the child hands tenderly, reverent-
lv then rose to his feet and broke off a half-op
en white rose, blooming above Bethel s golden
^"qf l die I will send it back to you, little sis
ter. May heaven bless and keep your pure life
to its end,’ and he was gone.
Only once did Maxwell stop and look back,
and through all the after years he remembered
the scene. Many times, lying watching the
brilliant stars of the eastern world, that old En
glish garden rose before him in its peacetul
beauty, and he could see Bethel, with her pure
sweet face and tender eyes. The strange child
woman who bad spoken the kindliest words
that had ever been uttered to him—the recktes3
fellow who had never cared for God or man.
To Estmoor the years brought no changes.
Other companies came and went, and other balls
were given in their honor, but those men fight-
ina on the hot plains of India seemed to have
betn forgotten; only Colonel Cheney wrote long
letters to Mr. Milford, filled with the praises of
Maxwell Stuart.
Bethel Milford, who never thought or hoped
to live long, grew stronger, and the pale child
changed into a self-reliant woman.
Shut in the little valley, away from the world
she lived her beautiful, ohristian life. Some
would have called it dull, and it was. Often in
Bethel’s soul there would rise a great longing
to go out into the world, but she wonld look at
herorutch, then at her white haired father, and
say ’ ‘Thy will, not mine be done.’
No thought of marriage ever entered her mind.
She had offers, but turned from all, thinking to
live her quiet life alone, to its end.
Bethel gave a great many thoughts to her
brother, her soldier as she called Stuart, and
each night and morning she would kneel by the
eastern window and pray earnestly for him.
So the yeaTS slipped quietly away with no
event to break their changeless oalm; untill one
evening as the gray twilight came down, wrap
ping the earth in a misty veil, Bethel went into
her father’s study, and found him sitting in his
easy chair with folded hands, and peace crowned
brow—dead.
A dazzling sight at the Paris Exposition is the
display of the Crown Jewels of France. Old,
isn t it that a Republic should have crown jew
els ? To be sure they are not called that. A sil
ver plate mounted on black velvet announces
that these diamonds and other precious stones
belong to the State. But every French monarch
feels, if he does not say, what Louis XIY. did—
‘I am the State.’
What a strange fascination these lovely gems
have ! Ciowds of people press around the vel
vet-hung pavilion to see them, all day long. A
heavy steel chain keeps them about two feet
away from the case, and gendarmes, sword at
side, constantly pace around through this space.
The display is bewildering in its brilliancy.
Crowns, all of diamonds and turquoises; small
tiaras of the sajne; bracelets, necklaces, girdles,
ries and reverse 1 .''eAU**«. EnttlA «wr>rds.
man, traded wjth this wonderful stone, lhe
first Napoleon ' pawned it to the Batavian gov
ernment It same originally from the Eist,
and, like the Moonstone, was supposed to have
supernatural power. It is a perfect brilliant ot
the finest water, and weighs 139 carats.
The crown jewels have had a continued series
of hair-breadth escapes from robbery, and yet
they always turn up safe. Many French are
superstitious, and believe that so long as the
jewels remain in the country France cannot
completely perish. Daring the Empire they
were kept in the Banque de France, and when
the Commune came into power, the first move
of the lawless mob was to go and demand the
jewels; but they were nowhere to be found. At
the first hint of trouble they had been sent to
Brest, along with other priceless objects, ready
to be shipped to England, in case ot need. It is
said that while they are at the Exposition, at
nightfall they sink through the floor by means
of a trap, and so down into a wonderfully strong
and intricate safe, over which French police
men keep guard all nightlong.
In the same gallery is that extraordinary col
lection of Indian presents belonging to the
prince of Wales. The marvel of this collection
is the wondertul crown. It is one compact
mass of monster diamonds, enlivened by_ the
tints of every other precious stODe you can think
of. The whole arrangement is about as big as
the usual sized soup-tureen, and must be heavy
enough to smash a man’s head right down into
his neek. ,
As Eugenie said when she wore those superd
crowns belonging to the btate, which are now
on exhibition, ‘A crown in the evening, a head
ache all next day.’ „ , , • »
At the apex of the prince of Wales crown is a
very curious feather, or rather a tufc of feathers,
each tip of which is adorned with a gold tasseh
This feather is the only one of
in the world, and is worth about S’” 0 , 0 ””-
It took twenty years to get it, and caused the
death of more than a dozen hunters. The bir
from whose tail the plumes are plucked is called
the feriwah, a sort of creature of toe bird ot par
adise species, but the rarest kind. To obtain
the tail feather in its full beauty it is necessary
to pluck it out from the living bird,“wJeles^
after death the plumage becomes lustreless.
What makes the hunting of the jeriuiah so da,
serous, is that the bird always inhabits the
haunts of tigers, and seems to have some strange
aflinity for these terrible beasts.
Since the exhibition of the prince of Wales
crown and the interest awakened by the sight of
the wonderful feather, some of the more extrav
agant of the Paris fashionables have insisted on
having the Indian bird of Paradise, or feriicak,
as a decoration for bonnets. AH they can get.
however! are the plumes of an inferior sort of
bird, which nevertheless Bell, each separa
quill, at the high price of twenty JoilMS. It
takes at least a dozen to make even the smallest,
tuft.
The late Artemus Ward used to tell
ine storv: While in Boston I returned in the
K c.7 i« ^ lodgings- A gSg
taeles sot near me, and was telling her yo ng
San how he reminded her of a young man she
used to know in Waltham Pooty^soon the
•Yes° < Bhe°Mid,* ‘you do remind me of one man,
but he waa seAtto the penitentiary for stealing
a barrel “ mackerel: lie died there, so I eon-
olood you ain’t him.’