Newspaper Page Text
SMIL THE LILT MUD;
—OR—
A Woman’s Sin and its Pun
ishment.
BY M.UiT E. BBT AN.
‘Stop a moment till I give yon a flower. There
is a spell in flowers gathered in moonlight and
d< Mre. B atrice Huntley stepped from the side
of the young man who was bidding her good
night at the door, and glided down the stone
steps of her stately honse into the beautifully
planted flower yard where roses and jessamines
were scenting the night air with their breath.
‘Shall it be this splencid Gloire de DijonV she
asked, with her hand upon the stem of a superb
r °‘Nn, if you please, let it be that flower of
loveliness and mystery—the Nile lilly yonder
anioDg its large leaves. It typifies for me the
purity, the sweet reserve of a—of some deep-
souled, sweet-hearted girl, whose nature has
grown up in seclusion and the shaiow of
woods.’ .
I'he woman changed color even in the moon
light, and her black eyes glanced sharply into
the clear-cat, beautiful, but somewhat cola face
of her companion. There was an under-cur-
rent of anxiety in her voice when she spoke.
‘Some young girl, you say? Your manner
implies some particular one; is it so ?
‘And if it were, is it not time I should find
my ideal? Would you not rejoice with me?’
‘Rejoice! oh, of course.’ She stepped back
into the shadow of the vine-clasped pillar out
of the tell-tale moonlight In spite of her self-
control, her tones, usually so Bweet, had a dis
cord. T am very glad, who is she, Hartridge ?
S le must be lovely to resemble to you your fa
vorite flower.’
‘She is lovely,’ he said, impulsively—‘a flow
er unladed by the glare of society—a wild, pure
n*tnre, like the breath in this deop-throated
lily.’
.d her name?’
He looked confused and hesitated. He laugh
ed at last.
•Sue is an eidolon, of course—a witch of the
woods—or mountains.’
Evidently to Bertna Huntly he did not care
to reveal to her the flo-.ver he had found. In spite
of his friendship for this beautiful woman with
her grace and tact and culture, some instinct
ive feeling made him shrink from bringing her
in contact with this lily-souled girl he had found
in his summer rambles among the mountains.
More than once he had been on the point of
confiding his new s weet experience to this friend,
to whom it had become a habit to tell his thoughts
though, because of his reserve of nature and ut
ter want of egotism, he had seldom spoken of
his feelings, and had given even her keen eyes
but partial glimpses into his heart She knew
his mind though aid gloried in its streagth,
and tried to incite it to ambitious grasping. He
sought her society often: it was a mental stimu
lus, he admired her beauty, enjoyed her esth
etic surroundings, turned in indignant incre
dulity from the whispere i scandal concerning
her past, and visited her almost daily, and yet
he 8brank from telling her that he bad met a
creature that had stirred the hitherto utterly
untroubled, hardly beiieved-in spring of love
in hie soul. He knew she would not approve of
his choice. She had told him he needed a wo-
•awa sfioWftRigfTdf iiife"k®4f{f fielp to^c‘ear paths
for him. She meant herself, and a man with
any vanity and knowledge of the world would
have known it, but Hartridge Worthington, with
all his brilliant theories of political economy
and his knowledge of law and science, was a
child in some respects. It was an instinct that
he followed as a child might, which forbade him
to tell Bertha about Sylvia Fane. There was
indeed not much to tell, except that he had met
a woman—a girl rather, scarce on the threshold
of womanhood—whose face seemed to him like
his dream of Iphigenia.and in whose frank, clear
mind he caught glimpses of depths that made
him wonder. He marveled too at her grace and
refinement till he found, though living in the
mountains among rough aad boorish people,
she had been, until three years ago, in a convent
and had received her training from the gentle
Sisters.
He had met her and fallen deeply in love
at once, as men of his grave, reserved calibre
oftenest do, but he had not told her so. He was
shy with all women, even with B»a‘rice Huntley
and the society belles, who spread their silken
nets for the handsome young son of the Gover
nor, voted him a 'scholastic iceberg, and de
clared that however brilliant bis public speech
es might be,his private ones were too stupid for
anything. There were some, however, who
knew how tender and loyal his nature was, and
Bertha at least guessed that there might be a
core of fire to this iceberg. She not only deter
mined to marry him for his family and position
and the heights she knew he could attain, with
her to help him, but she loved him for his pure
Greek face and commanding shape, and his bine
eyes, calm, strong and clear, though with un-
fa‘bomed depths, like the spirit that looked
throngh them.
She loved him as such fervid woman as she
love sometimes—usually after the freshness of
yonth has passed. She had loved before—once
at least more passionately, but hardly with such
strength; and never had she hong such hopes
upon a purpose as upon this one of marrying
this man,who could lift her life out of its cloud
and storm into a clear and restful atmosphere,
where she might not only be a happier but a
. better woman. She gloried in the knowledge
that he not only admired her but believed in
her. His respectful homage was most dear to
her, therefore there was a double pang in his
wrds tonight. He had acknowledged that he
had found his ideal, bad described her a* being
as different from herself as night from morning,
and had refused to tell her the name of the
girl.
‘He is afraid I should contaminate her,’ she
said to herself bitterly as she s'ood alone, pinch
ing savagely the petals of the Gloire de Dijon.
‘Bnt I will find out who and where she is. I
think he has given me a clue. ‘Witch of the woods
— or mountain' he said and there was a stress I
thick on the monntain. It was seme one he
found on that mountain tramp he took last
month. Well, the monntainsare only twenty
milts away and he must go the greater part of
the distance by rail, so I will find when he visits
his mountain nymph: I will follow him and see
her. Like a Nile lilly ? I shall hate lilies for
ever after. I hate her. She has eome between
me and happiness—goodness* I could be good
if I were that man’s wife. And I would have
been his wife. He was fast learning to love me,
and if be had but pledged himself to me, father
nor friends could have made him break his
promise. Bat for weeks I have known there
was an obstacle that onoe did not exist, for
weeks I have felt there was a change; that the
heart 1 had tried to reach bad been touched, but
not by me: I was no longer the one woman in
the world to him as I have gloried in being.
But I have not lost all my power: I mast re
double my efforts. But first I must see what I
have to fear. I must see this girl, my rival.’
While these thoughts passed through her
heated brain, 1 she had re-entered the house.
and stood in the drawingroom in front of a
broad mirror that gave back a queenly shape, a
head set grandly upon a white neek and wear
ing a crown of dark hair. Nature meant this
woman to be noble, something had warped a fine
nature—a cruel wrong perhaps or a fjlse step—
or a fierce tern ptation. The accusations against
her were indefinite. Same said she had been
des irted by her husband, for reasons that were
vaguely hinted: others that she had been an
actress and her marriage, |to a foreigner of
wealth had been followed by the discovery that
he had already a wife. She had money now—
invested it was thought in metropolitan prop
erty. She had bought her a beautiful little
house, set in grounds worthy of such a gem—
and lived there among luxurious surroundings,
independent of society of women. Men came:
men will always gather where they can feast
upon.beauty and elegance and be entertained
and amused by a wit so bright, a knowledge so
varied as belonged to Bertha Huntly. She was
a fine musician too, a rare conversationalist, and
a sympathetic listener. And there was another
oharm in her home—a freedom from petty con
ventionalism, a liberty of opinion and action,
that yet never degenerated into license or im
pertinence—a kind of unoonstraint that men
especially enjoy. But her only constant visitor
was one whom intellectual sympathy had drawn
to her—Hartridge Worthington—the pride of a
distinguished father, and of a large circle of
relatives and family friends, yet probably, by
reason of his shy, retired nature his utter inca
pacity lor small talk and his distaste for general
society, the most isolated and solitary of men.
He had never inquired into Bertha’s past. He
found her refined in person, that was enough;
there was a reckless defiance in her manner
now and then, and a bitter boldness in her talk
that jarred npon him, but not so much as it
would on a man with more knowledge of society
and social restraints. And such slips were rare
wun Bertha. Sue took pains not to lower her-
soil In the eyes of one whose esteem was infin
itely grateful to her bruised self respect.
She knew he thought her beautiful, and so
she was. Bat her face, though fair, was not
fresh. Her age, like a'l else about her was in
definite. Yet there were faint lines on the mag
nolia white lorchee.d, aad when a passion wrung
her as it did at this moment, tUe lines deepen
ed. Nov her brow contracted in farrows that
told of pain aad keen disappointment, while
her close-pressed lips attested to her resolution
to break in upon Hartridge’s romantic fancy—
to find out who her rival was and do her best to
put her out of her path.
Withm three days she had ocaasion to carry out
a part of her purpose. One evening a package of
books came from Hartridge with a note, saying
that he would leave on the early morning train
to be gone a day or two.
‘He is going to see that mountain girl,’ Ber
tha said bitterly, ‘and I will follow him. I must
and wiil see the face of this rustic miss that has
come between me aDd my will.’
Disguised in a loose gray wrap and a thick
veil, she was at the train in the gray of the earl^
morning. Always absent-minded he neither
noticed tier then, nor when she alighted, as he
did, at the little village near the mountains.
There, after he nad breakfasted, she saw
him ride away in the direction of the mountains
whose rugged shapes stood against the sky, bro
ken and rocky, but clothed to the summit with
ask, oak and chestnut, mingled with the darker
green of pine and cedar. Procuring a convey
ance, she followed him, the horses that drew the
hack in which she was seated, laboring up the
winding ascent in occasional sight of him as he
rode up tho steep mountain! side. But had he
aostvimr it Bin miu'* pieabure par
ties. The summit, several miles in breadth, had
a respectable sized boarding house upon it, and
a number of rustic cottages scattered here and
there,at considerable distances among the scrub
by pines and cedars and mossy boulders of this
broken and picturesque area.
Before one of these Louses stood the horse Hart
ridge had ridden,and behind the grape-vine trel
lis of the porch she saw him standing beside a
slender girl.
‘I must see her face at once,’ Bertha said. She
was walking, having left her carriage at the
Mountain House, and secure in her disguise, she
went to the gate of the cottage aad attracted the
attention of the girl, who caught up a sunbon-
net and came out to her, walking with that
springing step that toils of a buoyant and bright
spirit. Bertha asked for a flower of the yellow
jessamine vine whose sprays,dotted with autumn
clusters swung trom a small oak near the gate.
As the girl stood on tip-toe to reach the flower,
the light grace of her poise and the picturesque
look of her simple dress struck Bertha uncom-
f r f ably. The flower was pulled, but the girl’s
suubonnet had fallen to the ground and a mass
of brown hair, in natural waves and half curls
shone in the sun. As she turned back bare
headed with the flower in her hand, Bertha
Huntley grew livid behind her veil. It was
truly the loveliest face she had ever seen; no
pink and white prettiness; no rustic comeliness;
a piquant, changeful, soulful face, brown liquid
eyes, lull of lively fancy and sensitive feeling,
long lashes, and cheeks in which color perpetu
ally fluctuated, and a mobile mouth, whose lips
rested so iightly against each other that words
or smiles eeemed always realv to escape.
Bertha Huntley stammered her thanks. The
face came near striking her dumb for the mo
ment. Not only bee rose of its loveliness, but for
another reason that she could not explain to her
■elf.
*1 must have seen that face in some warning
dream,’ she murmured at last, as she turned
away. ‘It is the face of my evil genius no doubt,’
She went back to the village and stayed at the
hotel there, until Hartridge left it next day.
Then she returned to the monntain and the cot
tage where she had seen the girl. Bat only a
common-faced middle-aged woman and two oth
ers, her youthful counterparts, sat there around
a quilt frame. In answer to Mrs. HuDtley’s
question, if she had not another daughter, the
woman said:
‘Yen, Sylvia; she teaches school down yonder,
pointing to a tiny cabin nestled among the pines
ftDd roakfl. *S«hnnl\a aVinnfr nnt nk-'ii 1
But here she chanced to look down and caught
sight of Mrs. Huntly regarding her from her
situation on the outer side of the rock. She
stopped suddenly, and blushing red as the sun
set, pulled on the sunbonnet and vacated her
rostrum. . .
•Why did you not finish? I was only waiting
to say bravo,’ Bertha said coming up to her
with her most winning manner. ‘Your selec
tion was appropriate and your voice! it seems
a pity to restrict its delicious echoes to these
rocks. I have heard nothing like it on the stage
even. Will you repeat something else—some
bit from Tennyson, since you seem to like him.
‘I have never read Tennyson. I saw the Eegie
in an old sarap book.’
‘ What never read L°cksley Hall, nor
“Elaine—the lily maid ?” By the way, there is
one who calls you the Lily Maid to me. Ah those
tell-tale blushes ! So you have never even read
Lady C are. Let me see if I have forgotten
Lady Clare.’
And with the rosy sunset on her vivid face,
and the perfect modulation and changing tones
and expressions of a trained elocutionist, Bertha
recited Lady Clare. The eyes of the monntain
girl opened wide in delight and wonder.. Then
she looked at Bertha curiously, haif distrust-
fuliy. „ , .,
•Why you must be an actress ! she said.
Bertha detecied the shade of distrust.
‘And if I were, wpijld/ou not like me? Is it
not a grand tliiETg u/BSwu actor—to put life and
color into the conceptions of great minds, with
music to help you and stately scenery and sur
roundings ?’
The girl’s eyes shone.
‘It would be glorious !' she cried involuntarily.
Then with a rapid change of face, ’ ‘But it is
not right—for a woman.'
‘Who told you so ?’
‘The Sisters at the convent, and and—.
‘Who else?’
•Oh Saint Paul himself wrote against it; you
remember what he said about women speaking
m public?’ ._ ,,
‘A fig for St. Paul and the Si3ters Bertha was
about to say, but she checked herself. Sue
must not shock this girl. She must gain her
confidence, her love. A plan was already dawn
ing in her mind.
‘The Sisters are mistaken I think,and St. I
taught when times were quite different. The
Leautiful and the true caDnot degrade. Shake-
peare is the great reproducer of nature s truth
and beautv, aad whoever interprets him worthi
ly, although a woman, does nobly, rises almost
iiito kinship with the poet.’
Sylvia's eyes flashed acquiescence though she
remained silent, standing against the grey rock
buck-ground with her slender hands clasped
before her, and her eager eyes looking up at
this marvelously winning woman whose voice
woke strange yearnings in her breast.
‘To think I have never seen a play, never
even read Shakespeare,’ she said at lash
‘Impossible child !’
‘Yes, I sent for Shakespeare by—a friend, but
he brought me other boobs instead that he said
he thought I would like better.}
‘What were they ?'
‘Evangeline so beautifully illustrated, and
Jean Ingelow, and Mrs. Roman’s poems, and
Scott's Lady of the Lake.’
‘Oh ho Mr. Hartridge Worthington. I see
through you,’ thought Bertha. ‘You are de
termined to keep your lily in the sheath. The
naked passions invoked by Shakespare even
must not appear to her. They might brush ofl
the bloom. No Juliet, bfat an Evangeline—pale
blooded phantom ! We*K she shall read Shake-
that is in her. I will easily enough do away with
the prejudice that St. Pdul and the Sisters may
have instilled, and make the stage altogether
lovely in her eyes, I will show nothing of its
dark side, though none knows it better than ~
do. That straight-laced young philosopher—
Hartridge Wo>thi gton holds the stage in horror,
thinks it a hot bed of vice, since a girl of his*
proud family went astray upon it, I suppose.
Well; his lily maid shall be mad over it if
can make her so. She has it in her to be, I can
see. She is just romautic, and high strung
and foolish enough to prefer art and work and
freedom to marriage and house-keeping.’
‘And so you are an actress,’ Sylvia said,break
ing in upon the lady’s thoughts. This time
there was no distrust in her tones.
‘I? no child. I could be nothing so groat.
I am only Airs. Huntley—the friend of your
friend Hartridge Worthington. He has told me
of yon. I was prepared to like yon for his sake,
I am sure I will love you for your own, if you
will let me.'
and rocks, ‘School’s about out and she’ll be here
in no time.’
School was out. As Bertha approached the
rough little building half a dozen small boys and
girls bounded through the door. Presently the
young teacher came out. Mrs. Huntly stepped
behind a great rock directly beside the path
along which Silvia Fane wonld come. It was
near suDset, tha air was balmy and the spot se
cluded. The girl bared her head to the breeze
and came on. now stopping to watch the flight
of a bird, or to note the color of a cloud, now
stooping to pick a fern leaf and now carolling
the fragment of a song. When she reached the
rock, she looked up at it saying aloud:
‘I must have my view ’
Sbo sprang to the top of the great pulpit
shaped boulder like a chamois, and looked
away at he grand view below her, bathed in the
mellow gold of the October sunset.
•Oh! to be some winged thing,’ Shecried, ‘that
‘I might cleave that hazy, yellow world melting
yonder into the horizon. I am so tired of the
sameness here.’
The next moment she was repeating Tenny
son’s Eagle in a voice clear as silver Angelas
bells.
‘ ‘He clasped the crag with hooked hands
Close to the sun in lonely lands
Ringed with the azure world he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls,
She laid her beautiful hand with its one flash
ing diamond on the girl’s brown hair and
smiled, oh, so winningly as she stooped and
kissed the warm, red mouth that returned the
pressure of her lips with trembling fervor.
Did no instinct warn the girl as she received
this kiss from lips that had vowed to hate her
and to work her ill?’ But strangely enough
Bertha felt no hatred towards her at this mo
ment. She could not account for the thrill of
tenderness that passed throngh her as the girl’s
tremulous mouth met hers. She, who was so
bitter towards her sex, felt a sudden yearning to
clasp this girl to her heart and be to her a real
friend and not a tempter. She pat the feeling
angrily away as a weakness. She determined
not to falter in her purpose to break off the con
nection between Sylvia Fane and Hartridge. It
had come into her mind to do it by inoculating
Sylvia with a passion for the Btage and encour
aging her to become an actress—a step that she
knew would effectually destroy all Hartridge’s
illnsioDS about his lily maid.
It was a wild kind of project, but Bertha
Huntley had a Napoleon-like genins for con
ceiving mad projects and for making them
practicable by the strength of will with which
she worked out their acortraplishment. She set
herself to this latest scheme with her usual
subtlety and perseverance. She took lodgings
at the little hotel on the heights. Though the
season for summer boarders was over and but
few visitors remained at the hotel or at the little
white cottages scattered over tha rocky area, yet
the beauty and mildness of the Indian Summer
afforded sufficient excuse for any lover of the
beautiful who might linger here to watch, from
this loity elevation, the sky and the wide land
scape assuming richer and tenderer tints each
day through the softening magic of veiling haze
and slanter sunbeams.
Every afternoon found Mrs. Huntley waiting
at the little school house for the egress of the
young teacher, and every day saw Sylvia's eyes
kindled with keener pleasure as she clasped
the little soft gloved hand that was held out to
her, and holding it in hers, went to stroll over
the rocky knolls, or to stand on some jutting
bad grown up, as Hartridge said, in the shade,
and the more intense emotions were with her
yet in the bnd. Hartridge’s society, his
tender words andj looks had never held to
her lips such an intoxicating cup as she drank
during these sweet Indian Summer days in the
society of her Dew-found friend.
Ah 1 what chains the enchantress wove around
her, with her grace, her splendid talk, her
winning friendliness, her encouraging words
that seemed to the girl the ansver to a voice
that had long cried out within her. At the
very first interview, Bertha knew all Sylvia’s
short history—that she was without father or
mother —the woman in the tiny cottage being
her father’s second wife. When she was only
five years old, her father had put her into a
convent, when the Sisters |had taught her and
been kind to her bnt had not cared for her
greatly. Their mode , of life seemed to have
chilled them, and oh how tame and monotonous
it was and how, as Bertha saw, the art instincts
trod the free, wild spirit of the girl must have
starved in s ich an atmosphere. Two years ago,
word came, that her father, whom she had seen
bat once daring her cenvent life, was dead, and
that he had directed she should go to her step
mother, who lived upon Grand View Monntain.
Of her life here Sylvia spoke but little. Mrs.
Huntley could guess how barren it was, and
what a pleasant break in its narrow sameness
Hartridge’s society must have been. She listened
and analyzed eagerly, while Sylvia told of her
aoquainlaroe with him. She fo md that the girl
was learning to love him, that his fins, noble
lace bad won her admiration, and his gentle
ness, and delicate kindness had impressed
her strongly. At his last visit he had told her
in his grave way that he loved her, and that he
hoped she would, in time care for him. He
seemed to be conscious that the time was not
ripe to ask for her love, and ho did not wish to
iorce it. It was not his way. He understood
the crudity of her emotional nature, and he
wanted that the love he craved should reach
its maturity through sure natural growth. He
had brought her a gnitar to accompany her
lovely voice and he had loft her books —too
many, and too costly she knew to have been
bought with the money she had given him to
purchase thorn. But he had brought no
Shakespeare and he had spoken bl -jhtly of the
stage as a means of culture.
On hearing this, Bertha, the politic, merely
smiled and contented herself with counteract
ing it by glowing descriptions of stage perform
ances in the old world and incidents illustrative
of the generosity, the fame and magnificence of
distinguished players. She read Shakspeare to
Sylvia these golden afternoons—read Romeo and
Juliet oven, keeping down the upstarting mem
ories of that night when she had played it with
him—the man who had been her bane. She
spoke ol Sarah Bernhardt whom she had known
intimately in Paris; of her success, her delight
in her work, her brilliant, independant, busy
life, until Sylvia, clasping her hands, oriod:
‘Who would not rather be Sarah Bernhardt
than a princess or a queen ?'
Then Bertha would smile well-pleased.
‘ You must see a great actress,’ she said.
Nsiison will play in B. next month; you must
go there expressly to see her.’
‘I?’ Sylvia cried with a little bitter, half-sad
laugh. ‘I, whose school-pay is not twenty dol
lars a month?’
‘I am going to the city to hear her. Yon shall
go with me Sylvia, I will leave the mountains
to-morrow; would it hurt you to part with me ?’
‘Hurt me ! It will be almost like death,’ cried
the impulsive girl throwing her arms around
the waist of her friend, at whose feet she sat,
moment, stooped and kissed her. It was im
possible not to feel drawn towards this girl,
though she strove against the weakness. But
then Sylvia should never be the wife of Hart
ridge. If she had her with her, she could so
order it, she felt sure.
‘Dear child, we will not part so soon. You
must go with me Sylvia. Do not shake your
h-.ad so sadly, I wiil remove all objections.
Inere are two more school months you say, and
your step-mother requires the money of you.
Well, I will give it to her, you can readily find
some one to take your place as teacher. No
demurring; I have more money than I need to
spend on myself. As for your wardrobe: I will
delight in seeing to that. It will be something
like returning to theearlv pleasures of doll-dress
ing. We will stay at my home j ast long enough
to get ready, and then we will go for a month’s
visit to the citv, where we shall see Neilson and
where I will introduce you to the most brilliant
man I ever met. He is now in B. just arrived
from Europe. The letter I had forwarded to me
yesterday was from him. Ah ! how brave and
handsome he is, like a knight of old; and his
history is a romantic, but sad one. It wonld
thrill you if I could tell it to you. Hare I have
his picture—but it is only a poor shadow of the
real man.
‘But it is most beautiful,’Sylvia said, hanging
with admiring eyes over the carte de visile Ber
tha had taken from her j awe! box -the face of a
man with dark, tropical eyes and smiling sen-
suous month and magnificent head and “throat.
^He is a relative of yours ?’
A—a connection—and a friend of early days.’
Bertha answered, and she was not so lost to
truth and honor that her cheeks did not crim-
son as she so characterized one with whom was
linked the darkest memory of her life—one in
whose gay, smiling face she could now see the
hidden panther, heartless, soulless, caring only
lor the gratification of selfish appetites.
Ol course Bertha Huntly had her way. Obsta
cles w»re overcome, and three days afterward
wuea seeing lights and hearing music in her
parlor, Hartridge came in to welcome her after
her absence, she met him with her most radi>
aut smile, saying sweetly.
‘I ran np to Grand View to get a breath of
mountain air and a look at the splendid Indian
hummer, and I found something else-stumbled
qnue accidently upon your mountain flower—a
•lily maid indeed.,I brought her with me, know
ing I should win your thanks for it, as well as
have the pleasure of her comp my.’
She aflecled not to notice the look of pained
surprise and dissatisfaction that came into his
lace, but ushered him at once into the drawing
room where, dressed in fashionable attire and
S- a ivtFano. eay ° ang ^ ° f the town -
He had never seen her so lovely. But he had
no opportunity of a word alone with her that
evening, nor was he more fortunate during the
dajs that intervened before Bertha carried off
Huntley managed'
Either there was other
her and once again he spoke of his shy, r-ver-
ent love-the love of a grave, earnest, scholarly
man imbued with old-fashioned reverence for
women and fearing her girlish {.‘“^/even
ho startled if he spoke all he felt. Ana even
vet he refrained from asking her if his love was
rof-nmed and only begged her not to let it pais
which she would soon be initiated. Perhaps
she did not wholly understand him, and thought
his wooing cold when it was only timid though
bis great respect for her young, unfolded nature,
but R she surely felt the truth and sincenty of
his soul, and she could but admire the clear-cut,
harmonious features, beardless and P^re in out
line as a woman’s, and y etnot -^
strength of the higher and nobler kind. He was
right. In time she would have learned to love
him well. That undeveloped P a * 4 . of b 0r
which would understand him at b^ ^U worth
wonld soon unfold under his mflaence and
accord him a royal recognition. another
and a bolder hand was recklessly to sweep the
chords he hardly dared to touch.
(CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.)
Health Department
By Jno. Stainback Wilson,
Atlanta, Ga.
M. D
Sleep ot Infants—Dangers of Opiates
—Sleeping Dooms tor Children.
Sleep ol Infants.-Infants require more
sleep than older persons because without this
great sedative and restorer, their susceptible
nervous organizations conld not bear without
injury the various excitements to which they
are necessarily exposed in the waking state.
And besides this, while the voluntary organs
rest in sleep. Nature is able to concentrate all
her energies ou the great internal nutritive pro
cesses by which the growth of the body is hast-
tened; for it is so arranged in the wise economy
which regulates the human system, that the vi
tal organs of repair and nutrition are more ac
tive when all the other organs repose in sleep.
It being true, then, that young children need a
great deal of sleep; it follows that restlessness
and sleeples-mess are unnatural and injurious,
indie iticg that something is wrong. The diffi
culty in these cases can generally be traced to
one of the following causes: Improper fe eding,
and especially he ivy suppers, tight clothing,
excessive warmth, or confined air in a close room.
Dangers «l Opiates—When a child is
restless or sleepless, it is a too common practice
to resort to opiates instead of inviting sleep
by those external surroundings, these hygienic
agents which may generally be made effectual,
aad which are natural, healthful and far safer
than stupifying drugs. These may be admissi
ble in some rare cases ol disease, when admin
istered by the advice of a vary prudent physi
cian, butjsuch me ,ns should never be resorted to
without such advic e. Yet it is an every-day
practice in most families, on the first appear
ance of restlessness in a child, to fly at once to
paragoric, Bateman's Drops, Godfrey’s Cordial,
soothing syrups, laudanum and other com
pounds containing opium. And, as incredible
as it may appear, the administration of these
dangerous articles is sometimes committed to
an ignorant and carelesi nurse, who is but too
ready to deal them out freely in order to pre
vent her own repose from being disturbed. And
I have even heard of mothers who, in their de-
lieen^sol^ugYtTessror'so\eartToss aTto^g'ivTa'
large dose of laudanum or some other powerful
narcotic to their babies so that they might sleep
while their mothers were absent! Surely such
mothers as these,and all other)people who resort
to opiates on every trivial occasion, know not
what they do, for I cannot believe that any one
properly informed would pursue such a murder
ous course. Certainly no true mother could or
would so act if she knew the dangers attending
the administration of opiates to children; if she
knew how exceedingly susceptible are their
brains to such impressions, if she knew how
prone those brains are to inflammation and con
gestion, that opiates in ail forms increase this
tendency; that the smallest dose will sometimes
cause fatal depression; and that the frequent use
of such agents will inevitably result in a state of
chronic or habitual engorgement of the vessels
ot the brain, which will from the slightest cause
give rise to fatal convulsions, dropsy of the
brain, or some more obscure but no less fatal
disease.
Yes, all this ia true, and more for opiates
spend their main force on the brain and nerv-
8 ^ t , e “* * hl,h are the mainspring and foun
tain of life the great regulators of the vital ma-
chmery and therefore it is just as impossible for
machine to perform its functions
properly when under the depressing influence
of any kmd of narcotic £S it is for a watch or
cIock to run properly when the main-spring is
deranged ia its action. y °
on ^,, tiie n . s . e ° f opiates the stomach is deranged
action 11 of thfi h >? a thful ? nppli#s are cut off; S the
action of the heart is depressed and thus the
breathing is also made slow and laborious and
i9 hu n 9 ft . he Poisoned and sluggish stream of blood
’ • J^ l LF UT ^ d and vitalized in the
poor
too cleverly for that.
company when Hartridge called, or she would so
fill the scene with her own bright presence, her
point of granite and look at the grand "view sTZnndsingingthat her, 3?*
below and around, or to sit on the moss and not detect the art that mai? dld
i°^os at the foot of some rock-rooted pine and
talk nntil the sunset faded even from this up-
pe 5 world and the stars quivered through the
soft October skies. Sylvia had never heard
witching, wonderful talk. It gave her
thrilling life-like glimpses into that world of
which she had only read. And ehe had never
dreamed of any one so kind and sympathizi jg
as this beautiful woman with her tender eyes,
her captivating smile and her voice that was
nothing but music. Sylvia was just at the age
to form an enthusiastic friendship, an ardent
admiration for one of her own sex. Love in her
was not yet developed. Passion in her breast
had never had a forced hot-bed growth. She
. . , t4ie art tba * kPpt him away from Sylvia
well fitted roh aW h ° W hapPy Bhe Wa8 ‘ aDd flow
L oi!, 1 congenial surroundings
Hnnnl1 St 1< ^ t if lg » t of hls vague distrn 8t of Mrs.’
Huntley and his fear that fashion and flattery
would cast some taint npon the perfect inmv
cence and white candor of this mountain flower
he hoped to win and wear for his own
Once indeed he was alone with her. It was the
ZTnfl hef0te 8 , he wa8 40 8° a *ay. ShHore
one of her simple mountain dresses that even
ing, and looked as he had seen her first—so fair
so noble and childlike in the moonlight that he
caught her;hand as she pulled a sprafof horey-
suckle from the vine on the porch, and put R fo
his lips; then he trembled lest he had offended
‘ T1 *, * w * viuuizeu II
aD / as i a conse< l U6 nce of ali this the
overdosed and narcotized child wastes in flesh
pales m color, becomes bloated and drops ; cal
or shnnks to skin and bones, and thus doVthe
unfortunate victim of follv sir k * , e
under a multiplied trai^of nameless
if not cut off suddenly by° som^tute^d: "S’
Instead of giving opium, the remedies for slaen’
mess in children are light suppers, loose cE
mg pure air and above all, the warm haih Z
bed time This will act like a charm in allay
mg the feverishness and nervous
ness CL W geEerally the cause of the sleepless-
Sleeping Dooms lor Children -The
nursery- room should be large, well aired and
elevated as far as possible from the ground
floor. From this room plants and flowers^hould
he i e a SC f U ^^ aS th6y tend t0 vitiate the air. The
beds of children should be somewhat olevated
S.fe/n aga ,T 8t e tLe impure air which naturX
pett.es near the floor. Still, if the room is S
scrupulously clean, and well ventilated as H
hn? ni b n lmpUre air wil1 fiad Qo place in it
but will be swept away by the free currents cir
«hinM g h v. r ° Ugh i4 ’ The beds of children
should not be put under other beds during the
day bnt should be exposed to the air, so 8 that
Urn impure secretions with which the beading
“ a y b 0 impregnated may be dissipated
trundle bed is used it may be ran „
- „ If a
may be ran under another
Deu, as a matter of convenience bnt\ha vT I
clothing and bed should be exposed as
as possible to the sun as well as to the air
, th »
should not be covered over with a veil
sleep, D g. If any one has any doubl abont
interruption of a free circulation of air Lv !
veil, however thin, those doubts will
moved by placing one of these ooverings^ver
i?r wm nrodn COntaCt The warmftiffling
painful feeling C of VpKsston^oTth? and f even
customed to such things Nothing °hni^ 0t h a °'
and habit cause womfn to wear sniS, hl ° D
ing; and while it may have^ome sH^-ff °° V ® r *
or, g tha e r?friVnVS^^