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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.’