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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^^