Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

Sundown. BT SHALER G. HILLYER, Jb. Author of foe Prize Story Mardble Family in foe Savannah Xewt. (Copy right reserved.) CHAPTER VII. LEVI FLAP?. I was near Wratbway Bridge. Again, as I passed through the deep runlet which flowed not far from the foot of the bridge, and observed its gloomy surroundings, the black, sluggish Stream, and the dense biake on either hand, the same thought that occurred to me when passing it the first time, came to me again, and made me shudder, Juet as I left the bridge, a sound, which had become quite familiar in the last twenty-four hours, greeted my ears; it was the wheezing cough of the white dog I had seen in iront of the store the evening before. Not yet a day had elapsed since my passing through Sundown, but it seemed a week had gone by, so full were the hours of events, and of new thoughts born of a new work. And it seemed, too, that I had heard at intervals, through all these eighteen hours, the wheezing bark of the croupy dog, the sound that had come low and regular, and as if from a great distance. It was a trick of the imagination, I have no doubt,for I continued to hear it, at times, for some days after I left the neighborhood. When I drove up to the store, there was the dog in about the same place, and the same po sition, as when I saw him for the first time. And there was the humpback, standing in the same place in the doorway, and looking as if he had never moved from it since the time I had first seen him there the day before. ‘Ho ! that’s right, stop and get out,’ he cried aloud, when he saw that that was my intention. H^s tones, I noticed, wereshrill and harsh. ‘Yes, yes,’ he went on, in a friendly way, ‘comein and be scoiable. A little grog, now, this oool morn ing, will not be amiss? Hoo ! what, not take any ? Come, now, just one glass. It shan’t cost you anything ?’ ‘No, sir, I answered bluntly, ‘I did not stop to get a glass of grog. I have some business with you.’ ‘Business, hi ? But a glass before business always. I’m too dry to talk business. Come in,’ he said, leading the way within; ‘if you won’t drink with me, I'll drink by myself—my self, oh ! hoo-oo!' ^ Drawing forth a jug from some secret plicebe- ind the oo.unter as he spoke, he filled to the rim a medium sized tumbler with its contenls, which he immediately drank off. •That's pretty fair rye whiskey,’ he said, wip ing, with his coat sleeve, his grey mustache, which, coming forth in bunches, bore a strange resemblance to tufts of feathers, and but half concealed his ill-shaped mouth. ‘I keep that for myser, and a few friends, but they are a few I tell you —a very few. That,’ pointing to som6 half dozen straggling decanters on a shelf—‘I keep them for regular customers. Ho, hoo-oo!' He had a way of ending almost every sen tence with a succession of exclamations, the last one being quite a good imitation of the hoot of an owl; which hooting, aided by his general ap pearance, kept me constantly reminded of that ill-omened bird. ‘And who are your regular customers?' I asked. ‘Hi, hi! but they are not a few, I tell yon ! Hi, man, everybody likes a glass o’grog, and nearly all drink it; as for the blacks, ho, hi! all the men and women will spend their last nickel for it.’ ‘But these poor people, half the year, you may say, have no nickels to spend, how then do they pay you?' ‘Pay me ?’he shouted, and then a sudden change came over his evil facs; a look of suspic ion crept into his black eyes, as they glanoed at me furtively, and his voice fell to a low tone, that had in it both distrust and threatening. ‘Pay me?’ he repeated, ‘what is that to you? is that your butiuess with me?’ ‘Well, sir,’ I answered, putting on a bold face, ‘I suppose it is my business, to find out, in a le- f itimate way, all I can about yours. I suppose, Ir. Flapp, with the extensive business you are doing here, it will not trouble you to take up the note you made to Mr. Greenleaf about three years ago, and whioh I now have with me. The principal, I believe, is two hundred and fifty dollars.' ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars!’ he almost soreamed, and bending over the oounter, be opened his ugly jaws with such a grimaoe, as to make me think he must have been suddenly seized with an attack of the oolio. ‘Two hun dred and fifty dollars,’ he repeated; ‘is the man orazy ? What does he want?-—Money ?—Who said I have money ? I have no money—to come to me for money ! oh, hi, ho-oo, ho-oo !’ ‘But you have some merchandise here, and you own this house, I daresay,’ I said oalmly, failing to be impressed by his little play of fren zy. ‘My iLstructions are to sue the note at once, if you do not pay it’ •Yes, yes, he will sue it ! he continued in an excited manner; ‘he will sell my whiskies, sell my bouse, sell the shirt from off my back, to get his two hundred and fifty dollars ! Oh, my! Yes, sue it; go along quick, and sue it Oh, hoo-hoo-ooo !’ Having thus delivered himself, he again filled the glass from the jug, and drank it off. After this second potation, he grew calmer. ‘You will make nothing by sueingLevi Flapp,’ he said, speaking in a quiet tone, but with a malicious twinkle in his small eyes. ‘I have nothing, not a dollar, not a foot of land, nothing but this liquor I am drinking. The little stock of goods you see, and the house belong to an other. O’* ! they are safe ! They are in hands that will hold ’em. Whose hands, do you say?’ Just then I thought I heard a sound in the small back room of the store, very similar to that a man makes when clearing his throat. •Yes, yes,’ continued the humpback, ‘you want to know whose whiskey this is, whose house this is, and who my silent partner in this little business is ? And why shouldn’t you know it?’ Again oame the same sound from the back room, a little louder than before. It had no vis ible effect, however, on old L9vi. ‘Oh ! / e's a smart one,’ hb went on, stepping from side to side, as he spoke, with a quick mo tion. ‘Oh, he.s a sharp one ! he can make mon ey where nobody else can. But he doesn t want it; he throws it away; he’s such a good man, such a tender-hearted man he gives it all away. He builds churches with it, gives it to the preacher, feeds and clothes the widow and the orphan with it.’ ‘And the name of this benevolent individual is ?' I asked, as the man paused for breath. Before he could answer, the figure of a stout man nearly filled the small door-way between the two apartments. He came on into the room with a quick, energetic step, and with a confi dent air. His face was red, but whether this was natural, or was caused by the circumstances of his appearing, suggesting, as they did, that he had been a hidden listener to a conversation not intended for his ears, I could not at first know. But on his coming near, I observed that his face was mottled with large, greenish spots, which called to mind Georgia's description of Stephen Swetwell. I then knew who it was stood me, and also that the redness of his coun tenance was due to the peculiar circumstances of his appearing. ‘Stephen Swetwell is my name,’ he said, in troducing himself, ‘and you are Mr. Lockwood, from Cuthbert, I presume ?’ Upon my answering in the affirmative, he went on: ‘I have just come from Mrs. Goldie’s where I learned that yon were in the neigborhood, and also the particulars of your loss last night. I was surprised, yes shocked, sir, when informed i of this daring robbery. Our neighborhood has ^ hitherto borne an excellent character, sir; noth- j ing of this kind has happened in the Sundown district since I have known it. I thought I must as a good citizen, make some effort to apprehend ; this bold ro 6 ue. With this qbject in view, I rode over to make inquiries • f Mr. Flapp there. A stranger could hardly come into the neighbor hood and he not knew it.’ Then turning towards the old man, he ac quainted him with the main facts of the robbery and concluded by asking if he had seen, within the last day or two. such a person as the one I had discovered peering at me through the win dow. The owlish figure of the hump-back was stand ing with one side towards us, while Swetwell was speaking, but on his concluding, hehoppjd around and fixed his round eyes on mine. ‘Robber was he ? hoo! hoo !’ he exclaimed, with somi thing of exu.tition, I thought in his hoot.’ ‘Does he sleep hard now? and does he carry a pistol ? Oh, my eyes ! to let a man walk into his room, and carry off his money and his watch ! oh, hoo, hoo, hoc-oo !’ and the old re probate evidentiy chuckled as well as hooted over it. ‘But what does old Levi know about it? he continued. ‘D'ye think he knows everything? D'ye think he goes prowling about o’ nights, seeing what he can see?’ I certainly thought that he might be thus en gaged at night, as well as othet owls, but I kept silent, waiting to hear what he would say far ther. ‘Yes, yes,’ he went on, lowering his voice, and speaking as if he were communicating some thing of importance, ‘I saw him-a short man with a big beard—saw him on the morning .of yesterday, about sunr.se.’ ‘Where wa3 he going ?' asked Swetwell, as if he were on hot trail of the rogue. ‘I don’t know, as I knew.’ ‘Of course not. Did you speak to him ?’ ‘No, I never.’ ‘Have you heard anything of him since ?’ ‘Not a word; no, no, not a word. But he did it—the man with the shaggy beard. He’s got your watch and your money. Oh, hoo ! It’s too bad, now, isn’t it, too bad ?’ It seemed to me, while listening to him, that the villian, in contideration of my presence, substituted ‘bad’ for ‘good,’ and that heseoretly thought I had been lightly served. Was it pos sible that these two innocents were making fun of me, I asked myself. ‘Where were you, Mr. Flapp, last night, at one o’clock?’I asked, turning upon him sud denly, and looking straight into his black orbs, which, however, did not quail before my gaze. ‘Where was I ?’ he repeated in his shrillest tone; ‘where was old Levi at one o’clock last night? Where should he be but in his bed, taking his rest after an honest day’s work ? But where were you, Levi, say Flapp, where? Oh, my eyes ! Oh, my hoo-hoo ! that’s another good one! where was I?’ Just then Swetwell walked towards the front door, and beckoned me to follow him, which 1 did, not that I expected any revelation or sug gestion from him which would be of service to me, but because I had lingered there long enough. We walked on out of the house to my buggy. ‘Do you suspect old Flapp ?’ he asked in a whisper, when outside of the door. ‘Your ques tion to him just now implies that you do.’ •Yes, I do suspect him,’ I answered bluntly. ‘Ah ! I am surprised to hear you say so. Old Flapp is an odd character, very odd, but I have always regarded him as perfectly honest. In fact, he has always been above suspicion in the neighborhood. It was because I know him to be both an honest and a shrewd man, that I came to oonsult with him this morning about this thing. Oh no ! his oddity has made you misjudge him, Mr. Lockwood. Flapp is as in- nooent in this matter as I am myself.’ I thought that very likely, for I felt sure, from what had occurred in the store, that he was the old man's silent partner. But I kept silent, knowing that the facts upon which my suspic ion were based, were insufficient to veiify them. ‘I intend to follow up this business,’ contin ued Swetwell, in a friendly way. ‘Yes, if the rogue oan be tracked and found, I intend to find him. For the honor of our neighborhood, I in tend to do it. It was a great outrage, sir, a great outrage. But I shall ferret it out. I shall rest neither day nor night until this unknown sooundrel has been brought to justice, and your property restored to you.’ I bad taken my S9at in the buggy, and had gathered up the reins while he was yet talking. As a further exhibition of his friendliness, he held out his hand at parting. I took it because I could not well do otherwise. It was, as I ex pected, cold and clammy. As I dropped his hand I was startled at hearing a whirring rattle, the frightful warning of the rattle-snake. My hoisa heard it, and backing his ears—for the sound was behind us—started off. I looked baok and there in the doorway, was the owlish figure of the hump-back, with his pipe in his moath, and standing in the same position as when I first saw him—but the mysterious rattle had ceased. Arriving at the creek a few minutes lat9r, I got down and washed the hand that Swetwell's had touched. This was the Pataula, through which Kate Goldie had guided me the evening before. It had fallen several feet, and, though, still with out its bank, I had no difficulty in passing through it. My business carried me far from Sundown, but, during the remainder of that trip, the last of my collecting tours for Mr. Greenleaf, my mind was constantly recurring to the personages I had met there, and to the strange events of the night I had passed at Mrs. Goldie’s. And there was one who came to me at all hours, and in all circumstances. She had come into my life, and must henceforth remain in it. Before I knew Kate Goldie my life had been single, it was now emphatically dual. All the operations of my mind, all the impulses of my heart, had come to be, in some incomprehensible way, closely connected with the lark-eyed girl at Sundown. CHAPTER VIII. AFTER MANY SUNSETS. Nearly two years have passed, and I am trav eling, for the second time, towards Sundown. These years have been very long to me, because of my looking forward to this same visit. In a few days after my return to Cuthbert from the collecting jaunt described in the last chapter, I received a letter which compelled me to go to a distant state. The letter was from a sister re cently widowed. Her husband had left quite a large estate, but it was found to be somewhat encumbered. I consented, at my sister’s earn est solicitation, to administer the estate. Ow ing to the unmethodical manner in which my deceased brother-in-law had kept his papers, and t-o some litigation which arose in the settle ment of his affairs, I was detained fully a year longer than I expected to be when I first enter ed upon these duties. Through all these weary months my thoughts were constantly reourring to Sundown—to her who h».d brought a new hope into my life, and had given it a lresh impulse, and a new direc tion. In my dreams, and in my horns of reverie I again looked upon her fair faoe, and listened again to the sweet tones of her voice as she talk ed to me, or sang for me some old seng that car ried me back to childdood's days. And then I would look into the depths of her dark eyes, to see again the earnest expression I had marked in them, as if she were puzzled with some in tricate problem. I would think of her next as engaged in her new work. Does she keep to it bravely ? or have the difficulties proved too much for her? And what of Stephen Swetwell, whose friendly atten tions and advice, together with his affectation of piety, had gained the heart of her mother ? Has he continued his friendly offioes, especially that one of advancing their money, until they are so deeply in debt to him that there is no hope of re lief except by uniting the fortunes of the two houses ? This was his scheme two years ago, I well believed; what progress has he made in ac complishing it ? he may have increased their indebtedness to him, I thought, but that he could make any progress in winning the aff-c- tions of the young lady I could not believe. Yet wonderful changes sometimes, and sad as they are wonderful, I reflected, can be wrought in the space of two years. Wbat these changes were, whether sad or pleasant, whether they were to fill me with sorrow and disappointment, or would lead me to still cherish the fond hope which had blessed me through so many other wise dreary months, would presently be reveal ed, for I was now nearing the Pataula. On reaching the creek, my eyes turned to wards the spot where I first beheld Katie Goldie. Ju‘t then the rumbling of thunder overhead made me look upward, when I discovered that a heavy cloud had gathered, and was threatening an immediate shower. Ha! I could not but ask myself, is this ominous of evil? But I in stantly banished the suggestion as an unworthy yielding to superstition. Another peal of thun der, nearer than before, and a few drops of rain, warned me to quicken my pace, if I would reach a place of shelter before the shower came on. Patting my horse into a canter—I had come out on horse-back—I soon came in sight of the old mill house, j ust beyond which was Sundown. As the rain was begianing to come down in earnest, I turned aside to the deserted mill where I found shelter for my horse as well as for myself, in an open shed built against that side of the building next to the creek. I had dismounted, and was holding my horse by the bridle, when I heard through the clatter of the rain on the roof, a familiar sound; it was the croupy bark of a dog. The croup is not fatal to dogs I thought, reflecting on the time tnat had elapsed since hearing that wheezy bark for the first time. As I listened the sound seem ed to draw nearer, then I heard a sharp voice speak to the dog, after which the barking seemed to recede. From where I stood I had a view of a part of the main apartment of the ruin through a small rent in the wall directly in front of me. While looking through this opening I saw a well re membered figure enter the house from the op posite side; it was the owl-like form of Levi Flapp. After closing the door behind him, he came hopping iD, peering around the room as he did so, and even glancing up at the rafters to see that no one vai there to observe him. Sat isfied that he was alone he began to jabber to himself, at the same time gesticulating violently. His jabbering, all of which was unintelligible, was interspersed with his peouliar hoot, and this was always accompanied by a clashing of his hands together and then tearing them apart. While engaged in these antics I saw-omething fall from him to the ground. It came, appar ently, from beneath his long, shabby ooat— the same, I had no doubt, lie had on when I first saw him. The object appeared to be a leath ern bag, and well filled; and it fell upoD the ground with a metallic clink. It had no sconer struck the ground, however, than the owl, catch ing it up in his talons, hurried with it into another apartment, the entrance to which was close by the spot where he had been performing. Some minutes elapsed before I saw or heard any thing more of him; when he re-appeared, he came with a bound, and almost immediately disappeared by the same door through which he had entered. I took a keen interest in what I had just wit nessed, for I believed I now knew the secret place where the old villain stored his ill-gjtten gains, and in this knowledge, I thought, I saw a chance, a meagre one it must be conf ssed, of some day recovering my long lost watch. [to be continued ] BABY MARI©*- Clustering rings of golden hair, Shading temples purely fair, Eyes of liquid, dancing blue. Stars in brightness, heaven in hue Sweet and lovely Marion. Cheeks like morning's freshest rose Lips twin cherries that disclose When they're parted, pearls within Dimples denting cheek and chin, Pure and dainty Marion. Tin,ypinkish, sea-shell ear, Listening mamma’s voice to hear. Taper fingers, dimpled am, Swanlike t&rote, and graceful form, Petite, fairy Marion. Swiftly pattering little feet, Hastening papa's step to greet. Upraised arms, and happy face, Springing to his close embrace, Tripping, flitting Marion. Father kindest, keep from stain This pure lilly; when life's vain Dream is over,on heaven’s plain Let this hud bloom evermore. On the eternal river's shore Let us dwell with Marion. Sojourner Truth. A Woman More than a Hundred Years Old Addressing a New York Audience. Sojourner Truth lectured last evening in the Cooper Institute. Legal records show that she is at least 100 years old and it is said that she is much older. She was dressed in a plain al paca dress, white cape and a white lace cap and old-fashioned bonnet covering her head, from beneath which her gray locks shown. She sat a few minutes on the platform, slowly untying her bonnet strings, inaudibly mumbling to her self. When she began to speak every one was astonished to hear a strong voioe, as loud as that of a man. She said: ‘I used to open my meetings with prayer, and when I couldn't get anybody to do that for me, I did it myself.’ An aged lady stepped in front of the platform and prayed. ‘Now,’ continued Sojourner, ‘did you all hear that God blesses the women ? They are first in everything. Why, was not the mother of Je sus? and that being so, isn’t he going to shower down blessing on their hiais ? I do not mean by that that you men are to be left out in the cold. Oh, no! for what is good for the women is good for the men. Now look at me. Accord ing to all reports, I must be over 100 years old. The fact is, I don’t know when I was born; some times I don’t think I ever was born. But this I do know, that I was born a slave in the State of New York, and at the age of TO I was set free. It’s singular how the Lord takes care of me. I never had any learning. At the age of TO I didn’t know who God wts. White people told me he sat in the sky, and I kept looking up there to see him. But I never found him until he come right into my heait. ‘Now, what I want to tell you to-night is this: There are awful times cornin’. God has given me the foresight to see it. These advent people say that when Jesus comis again, he will be fly ing in the air. The Bible sajs that he is cornin’ like a thief in the night, an’ you all know that thieves don't fly in the air. I warn you all to be prepared, for he is cornin’ jist as the Bible says, and, honies, what I want to say to you, is have your lamps trimmed an’ burnin’ bright. The awful time is near at han’. ’ Graveyard Poetry. [From the Note Book of a Boston Gravestone Gutter. ] A father: Weep, stranger, for a father spilled From a stage ccach, and thereby killed. His name waa John Sites a maker of sacangers, Slain with three other outside passengers. Our Willie: Our dear little Willie, As fair as a lily; God for him sent, And so we let him went. Jean’s Winter in the City. BY STEPHEN BRENT. CHAPTER VI. Miss Delare’s drawing master was an old Frenchman, with grey hair, sharp, kindly little black eyes, and the politeness that is the birth right of his countrymen. Monsieur Ferrial was not a genius nor even very highly talented; but he was devoted to his art, and by painting and teaching, managed to make enough to live on, and have some to spare. He was delighted with his new pupil, and before she had taken a half dozen lessons, Jaan was his favorite. •You have a fine artistic talent Mademoiselle Jean,’ be sa ; d one afternoon, noting and admir ing her skill, and swiftness in drawing. •Jean looked up, an eager light in her eyes. ‘Do you really think so Monsieur i ’ ‘I really do Mademoiselle. See how delicately you have caught the right expression.’ It was only a baby head in colored crayons; but the innocence, and parity, of the little face, with its laughing eyes, and softly curved mouth, was true to nature. Jean looked thoughtfully at her work. T never would make an artist would I ? ’ ques- tioningly. ‘By close application, yes, you would make a good artist. Mind not a great one. That is re served for genius.’ ‘I suppose you mean, that I would make a good imitator, but not a creator. Is it not so? ’ ‘Yes that is what I mean, but it is something to be that, Mademoiselle Jean, and then you have a vein of originality that would distinguish your work, and make it more thoroughly your own.’ Monsieur Feriial’s studio was in the third story of a large building, on one of the public thoroughfares. Generally Jean came in the car riage which was sent back after her when her lesson was over. In the weeks that had passed since she came to New York, society hadmaie her oaeof its pets. She enjoyed herself thoroughly; but was not spoiled by adulation. She gained a clear insight into human nature, and made a few friends. Chief among them was Mr. and Mrs. Carrol, Lennox Holmes, and Mr. Palmer. Despite his cynical bitterness, and dis trust of women, Palmer was her best friend. Neither of them could hardly tell how it came about. Mr. Palmer seemed to oonsider it his duty to act ihs part of a guardian toward Jean, and she very naturally acoepted him as pro- teotor and friend. They had long, delightful conversations about books and pictures, and Jean told him of her own early life, spent alto gether with artists, wandering from place to place, in Gypsy fashion. It wts a bitter, cold afternoon, gray and sun less; with a few snowflakes floating in the air. Monsieur had but three pupils, a boy, a sour looking woman and Jean. She never failed, but came through storm and sunshine, prevoking Della’s ridicule, by her devotion to study. For awhile Monsieur Ferrial gave undivided attention to his other pupi's, then placed his easel, where he could overlook Jean's work, and commenced talking. ‘A very disagreeable afternoon Mademoiselle. I hardly thought you would come.’ ‘I • ft : e never missed yet, have I Monsieur?’ ‘No, you have always been punctual, and in that you are unlike other young ladies. They forget engagements, such weatheres this, unless it is to a ball, or the theatre, ,and by the by, I saw you at the theatre last evening Mademoiselle Jean.’ ‘Did you?’ ‘Yes, and tell me now, how did you like Madame L’s — acting?’ ‘I liked it very much.’ ‘And yet, she was once a poor little match- seller in Paris.’ Jean dropped her brush in surprise, ‘Were you ever acquainted with her, Monsieur Ferrial?' ‘Yes, would you like to hear her history ?’ •If you do not mind telliDg it.’ •It will be a pleasure to me,’ with a bow. ‘Put in a dark green shade there, where your brush is, and a lighter one lower down.’ Monsieur mixed some cohrs, cleared a slight hoarseness out of his throat and said: ‘Now for the story. One evening, many years ago, as I was walking in the Champe Elysees, a little, ragged girl asked me to buy her matches. She looked so pinched with hunger that my fool ish heart was touched with pity and I bought up her stock and taking her into a cafe gave her sapper. She was grateful and by way of reward, told me h6r brief history. Her father ana mother were peasants and had lived far away from Paris, in a small valley, where the people had flocks and vineyards and sold wool and male wine. The father and mother died and she ran away and came to the great city. The saints alone can tell how the child ever got there, for she had no money. Gold was not ly ing over the streets, as she expected and many times she lay down on her pallet of straw, weep ing for bread. That was all she could tell me, but it was enough to make me record a vow never to lose sight of her again. She was a pretty, soft-eyed little creature, and I painted a picture of the ‘Beggar Girl, ’ and she was my model. I have a copy of it yet.’ Monsieur put down his palate and brushes, and crcssing the room, took down a picture, turned to the wall, and brought it to Jean, •This is it, Mademoiselle.’ Jean looked at it loDg and earnestly. She could trace a resemblance between the pictured child face and that of the lovely actress she bad seen the night before. The soft, large eyes, straight brows, and delicate lips were the same, and the expression of sadness in Madame L—'s face, was in the child's also. ‘Does it favor her as she is now ?' asked Mon sieur Ferral, softly. ‘Yes, she has changed only to grow more lovely.* He sighed, laid the picture on the table and began to paint very absently, putting in a green sky and blue olouds. ‘You are spoiling your picture, Monsieur,’ said Ji an, breaking the silence. ‘So I am. Thank you for telling me and now I will finish my story. I carried my little pro tege to the theatre one evening, and then she was half wild to go on the stage. I was too poor to keep her from work and so did not object when she obtained a situation on the boards. It was a hard life and one fnll of temptations, but the child was brave and the saints guarded her from evil. She worked steadily on, lising gradually until now she holds an enviable position in the dramatic world. We do not meet often. I left Paris after I saw my little friend safely lodged with a kind family who were all strict Chris tians. I traveled over the world and she devot ed herself to her art, and she was a woman when we met agaiD. I shall ever remember Madame L—, the brilliant actress, with pleasure.’ Monsieur oeased speaKing and Jean discov ered that she had been listening instead of work ing, so for a few minutes, she devoted herself to painting foliage with great energy. She saw in tuitively that the old Frenchman had said all he wanted to, so asked no questions, but simply said: ‘Thank you for telling me the story. I shall always look at Madame L— with new interest.’ The boy put up his pencils and left, and the afternoon waned and darkened. Monsieur roused himself from a brown study and glanced out at the window. ‘It is bad on the poor, very bad.’ ‘Do they suffer much ?’ asked Jean, a touch of pity in her clear, sweet voice. ‘Suffer! Mademoiselle, you sheltered from even a touch of the winter winds, can form no idea how cruelly they suffer. They starve—they freeze—and out of his abundance the rich man gives them nothing. ’ Jean was horrified. •Is it possible, that while I have money to spend for trifles, there are people around me, suffering from cold and hunger?’ ‘It is possible. Many children will lio down to-night shivering with cold and crying fer bread. There are a great many lessons to be learned in this world of ours, Mademoiselle Jean, and not the least among them, are faith, patience, charity and resignation. All these may be learned by going among the poor. I know a family of three children, who have a drunken father and no mother. The oldest girl is fourteen, abiave, cheerlul, little woman, who is always at work to keep the wolf from the door. It is not alwajs done. He comes in guant and ugly sometimes, but they do not murmur. Ce- oile is a cripple, a saintly-faced child, with a meek sweetness and patience that would shame worldly pride, and the little brother is nine. I always feel nearer heaven in the bare, back at tic among these Christian children. Their faith in God, their patience under the heavy cross laid on their young shoulders shame my luke warm devotion to the Almighty Creator and strengthen my little faith.’ Jean’s brown eyes were full of tears. Mon sieur Feriial spoke low, but with intense feel ing, dashing paint on his canvas, with reckless indifference as to quantity and color. He seem ed perfectly satisfied with the impression made on Jean and continued: ‘They tell jne of their mother, of her wise and gentle teachings and of the time when she fell asleep never to wake to the light of this world, and Cecile points to the one large star visible from their narrow window and says that is their mother’s spirit that makes it shine so bright and she is looking down on them every night. They have a pitying tenderness for their father, who is really kind to them, and—’ glancing around - ‘Mademoiselle, pardon me, I am detaining you. Mrs. Mao has left and it is growing late.’ Jean silently put her work aside and buttoned her warm fur cloak and put on her gloves. When ready to go she turned to the artist and said: ‘I am anxious to see your little friends. Mon sieur, will you go with me to where they live this evening?’ ‘But, Mademoiselle, see, it is late, and very cold. You should not be exposed.’ ‘I am not afraid of the cold. The carriage waits at the door. Wont you please come ? ’ ‘Certainly, Mademoiselle, if your heart is set on it.’ The astonished coachman sniffed his aristo cratic nose disdainfully when told where to drive. ‘But, Miss Jean, the horses ought not to be kept in the cald so long.’ ‘It will not injure them, we will be out suoh a short time,’ said Jean steadily. The snow was falling thicker and faster, pow dering the streets and houses with soft, feathery flakes. The carriage turned from the public thoroughfares and entering an alley, drew up before a tall, dark, tenement house. Up, up, long flights of broken, rickety stairs, until Jean wondered if they were not among the clouds. Monsieur Ferrial seemed familiar with the place, and stopping on the last landing opened a door and invited Jean to enter. She stepped softly over the threshold and looked curiously around. Rei 1 poverty she knew nothing about, and the pitiful sight of the bare, cold room, with the small figure wrapped in a faded shawl and seat ed in an armchair made her yomng heart ache. Monsieur Ferrial went up to the chair and bend ing down, said: ‘How is my little Cecile to-day?, She lifted her head with a glad_bright, smile. I am better tc-day Monsieur, the pain is not so bad.’ It was such a wan, white face, with large, lu minous eyes, and soft,fair hair clustering round the brow. The patohs of patient waitin g was written on the child brow. She had passed through the refining fire of intense suffering, and the young soul was purified from all the dross of earth. The memory of a picture, seen an old Florentine gallery, flashed over Jean. I have brought a young lady to see you Cecile, Mademoiselle Jean Delare,’ said the artist. The child’s large eyes searched the young girl's face, reading the emotion expressed there. •You are sorry for me,’ she said at last. Jean’s hand touched the fair hair caress ingly. •Yes, more sorry than words can express.’ ‘Please dont be troubled about me. I dont mind being a cripple much. Tnen the pain will soon be over.’ Yes, the frail casket would soon be broken, and the freed spirit would rise above the light of earth, and sing a song of joy and- thanksgiving, in Heaven’s fair, peaceful gar dens. ‘How is it you are alone my child,?’ inquired the old Frenchman. ‘Meg has gone to carry sone work home, and Harry is out selling papers.’ ‘And dont you get very tired and lonely, iDg here by yourself?’asked Jean. •Oh no, I need nothing, and there is no one to harm me.’ Jean soon res9 to go. She took one fragile, childish hand between her own warm, white palms. ‘I am coming again to see you Cecile, and bring you some books and pictures. Do you like to read?’ •Yes ma’am I read every thing that I can get See I have part of the Pilgrim’s Progress.’ She showed part of a book, with a smile of proud ownership. She understood Banyan's dream perfectly, possibly because she was so