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DELAMERE;
—OR—
Gorinne the Sphynx.
BY PAUL C. LE BIJETJB.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A broad and silent street in a bustling, pop®*
Ions city ; long rows of elms with leathery foli
age, shadowing, after the fierce, hot hnsh of the
short, September evening, a line of stately
buildings ; the hour of mystic twilight Such
were the time, the circumstances and the place.
The dramatis persoca; were there—two yonng
girls—fair blossoms of twelve and fourteen
years, and another somewhat older perhaps
eighteen or twenty. The latter, with her calm,
sweet, patient face, and sad grey eyes, was Miss
Devon , the former, her chargee.
They walked along leisurely up the quiet
avenue, conversing in low tone of voice. The
deportment of the two younger girls toward
Miss Devon was familiar and affectionate, and
she made no endeavor to repel, or awe them.
‘O, Miss Devon,’ said the elder of the two, ‘I
havn’t told you yet what happened to me yes
terday. It was fine. I told sister here about it
last night, but she didn’t appreciate it. She is
not old enough I aifi sure, or else she would have
been delighted with it.’
‘What was it, Annie ?’ enquired Miss Devon
in a voice in which kindness wai mingled with
indifference.
'I caught a new heau !'
Miss Devon smiled faintly, and so repiied.
'Is there anything fine in that simple fact ?'
‘No, I suppose not; but there is romance in
the manner in which it happened. He told me
his name, but I can't think of it just now. It
was a very pretty name too Ah, Wilmot, it
was—I remember now.’
Sweet Annie, what was there in that simple
appellation that caused tby listener to start as
if in fear ? But Miss Devon made no reply. It
has been eighteen weary months since l»st she
had heard mention of that name—a long, dreary
period, fail of care and heart-ache. So she
turned away her head in silence, and she whom
she had designated Annie continued.
‘It happened in this way. I was down at
Green’s, the confectioner's, and had bought sev
eral bundles. I Knew the carriage was to come
by for me, so I waited until late, thinking to
ride home with my bundles. When I came out
to look for the carriage, it was gone. The driver
bad called and inquired for me just too doors
below. My bundles were heavy, and it was
growing dark, and I was afraid to walk the
long, lonely way home by myself. So I sat
down against a window, and—I guess I cried a
little, though I took care to hide my face so that
no one could see what I was doing.
‘I had about concluded to go . and spend the
night at Sallie Mac’s, when some one stepped
up to me and said in one of the gentlest voioes
you ever heard—so gentle, and soft, and kind
that I knew he was not a bad man—
I didn't much like being called ‘little girl,’
but I Knew he could not tell in the darkness,
for when I stood up be called me Miss. I told
him that I had been left, and that I was afraid
to walk home by myself. He then asked me if
he could walk home with me, and I told him
yes. So he took my bundles, and we started. I
knew it was imprudent, but I did not think of
it then, he seemed so kind. When we had
walked a long way. and I had become tired, he
asked me to take his arm, and I did so—I
could‘nt help it. I was so tired. I told him all
about where I lived, and about you, Miss De
von—bow good and sweet you were. He seemed
to be very much interested, and never to get
tired of asking questions abouff you. I thought
T I fim wuwttggtfen tell
urier he toln me bis. I have
his card somewhere. I hope he will know me
when we meet again. When we got home, he
stopped at the gate. I asked him if he would
not come in. He did not say a word, but it was
not too dark for me to see that he looked down
wards, and seemed to be thinking about it. So
I asked him again, and he said quickly.
‘No, no ; thank you. Good night’
And then he walked away so fast I scarcely
had time to say good bye.
‘Ob, he is so handsome. I saw; his face once in
the gas light. Why do you suppose he enquired
so particularly about you, Miss Devon ?’
‘I do not know, Annie.’
I had caught a beau, and when I told him who
it was, he laughed and said I had better hold
on to him then, for Mr. Wilmot was one of the
steadiest, and most business-like young men in
town. ‘
‘How does he know ? asked Miss Devon in a
voice that trembled in spite of her, and betray
ing an interest which she sought to conceal.
‘He said Mr. Wilmot had been in business
here now for two months. I heard him tell
mother so. He likes him very much.’
Miss Devon was silent, and the young girl,
thinking that the subject had grown tiresome to
her, said no more. They now turned off,
passed through a heavy iron gale, and entered a
large two storied house. This was Miss Devon’s
home, and had been for over a year. Here she
was kindly, nay, affectionately treated, and
lived in luxury, but why, at times, did a feel
ing, as of desolateness, come over her ? Why
did the heart of the poor girl oftentimes feel
like a lonely, imprisoned bird beating against
the bars of its cage to be free ?
Whtn she had entered the house, she pro
ceeded to her room which was upon the second
floor. But. as the apartment seemed close and
oppressive, she stepped out upon an adjoining
balcony. The heat and dust of the day had
vanished. The night was calm. Not a breeze
rustled amid the waving elms. Through the
distance and the darkness twinkled the lights
of countless lamps, and the varied sounds of
the great and busy city swelled grandly up,
like a me filed roar, upon the burdened air.
But for her the tour had no attractions. Her
sonl was full of sadness and of strange regrets,
and wild thoughts, not unmingled with hope,
had sprung up within her suddenly.
‘Might it not have been better* she asked her
self accusingly ‘if I had not been so firm ? God
knows. I only know what I have Buffered, and
that I thought I was acting for the best for us
both. ‘
She heard the bell ring tor supper, but she
took no note of it. Finally a servant came for
her. She arose in baste, and went below. Be
fore she entered the dining room she thought
she heard within an unusual, yet Btrangely
familiar voice. She hesitated a moment, feeling
a fear of something sh6 knew not what, or why.
Then she went in. She saw a handsomer, and
a manlier form and face than she had ever seen
there yet.
‘Miss Devon, Mr. Wilmot. ‘
Each bowed bat neither spoke, for neither
had expected it Miss Devon took her seat op
posite him, knowing that her face turned sud
denly pale. Each wore an air of reserve. The
host and hostess observed, and wondered at the
silence of their guest, a few moments ago so
sociable, and they endeavored by increased at
tentions to atone lor and overcome it'. Miss
Devon did not—dared not raise her eyes, and
did not speak to him during the entire time she
remained in the room. Neither did he at all
address her.
Once inadvertently their eyes met, and they
s etmed unable for a short time to withdraw
t hem from each other. What meant the steady,
f aecinated and fascinating gaze of the other
neither of them knew. Indeed they wondered,
with strange emotion, if it meant anything.
When they parted it was the parting of two
strangers. They bowed, spoke not, and went
their separate ways.
* • * * *
‘Dear Eryc, ‘ wrote Mr. Wilmot, in the quiet
of his room to which he retired immediately af-
leavingMis Devon's presence;‘I have found her
and seen her at last. She did not speak though
I sat within a few feet of her; but once I caught
her eye. Oh, my friend. I may be fickle in all
things else, but in love to her I cannot change.
Hope will not die out. ‘
When this short epistle reached Eryc he sat
alone at Delamere. He sighed as he read it—
not deeply, but gently, *ts if, though but a little
sad, it were not very mournful. He then arose,
and went into Mrs. Dalamere's room, and show
ed it to her and to his uncle wbo happened to
be on band, thinking news from Miss Devon
might somewhat interest them.
The first wild burst of their grief had passed
away, and bad been succeeded by an apathetic
calm. Even yet they shed tears ofien, and of
ten went to the gTave of Gorinne, for she slept
there quietly at Delamere, under the sod still
verdant as in spring. A simple monument, tell
ing where ‘Corinne, only child of Jasper and
Catherine Delamere reposed' stood over it and
marked the place which had been selected for
the burial ground of the Delamere’s.
Since the day she hid been solemnly laid
jhere the months had flown heavily by to Eryc,
though so far as prosperty could go to make
him happy, he bad much cause for self-congrat
ulation. For it was now well known that he
was heir prospective to his uncle‘s property.
He was no longer a position hunter, and Mr.
Ethmer called him fortune-hunter no more.
This prudent and sagacious old gentleman
openly patronized him, and invited him often
to his house—though heaven knows, he was
there often enongh without any invitation, for
in defference to the feelings of his aunt and un
cle, although all parties concerned had given
consent to his marriage with Diana, yet had he
delayed it many months. But they had deter
mined that it should be put off no longer, and
only three weeks intervened now between the
present day and that auspicious, glad occasion.
So Time fiew by on the wings of light and
darkness, and two weeks from the day on which
he received the first, Eryc received a second
and a longer letter from Harry Wilmot.
‘Dear friend,* this time Harry wrote—‘I am
the happiest and the most hurried of men. Since
writing my last letter I have seen her several
times, but never before la-t night did we speak,
and then, O, Eryc, led on by happy accident,
or force of fortunate circumstances which I
have not time here to explain, but will lay be
fore you when next we meet, she made me the
sweetest promise ever made by woman nnto
man.'
One week from this date there was a small
gathering at Mr. Ethmer’s* and Eryc Delamere
and Diana Ethmer, Harry Wilmot and Vasta
Devon were solemnly united In the sight of God
and mao, in these bonds which must continue,
through weal or woe, until dissolved by death.
To the other characters who have figured in
this narrative Fate was less propitious.
Colonel Fenton was pursued more actively
and successfully this time than before, was cap
tured, thrown into jail, tried for the murder of
Geofirey Glenville, convicted and sentenced to
be hung. But one morning, when the jailer
went to his cell he did not answer to the call of
his name. He had anticipated death by pois
oning—was found lying upon his couch dead.
His restless, roving, dissatisfied spirit bad
passed upward to a higher tribunal than that
earthly one, at which, a short time before he
had been doomed. 1
_jtfnwRnndalbIflr-j»w?ns-‘!»Any yexA,
Penitentiary, whioh, affew yedrs ago,premature
ly old and broken in spirit and in health, be
left for freedom again, sinoe which he has led a
better life.
Eryc and Diana lived to make the aged couple
at Delamere lose, by kindness, care and love,
the grief which they felt for the memory of Cor
inne.
Mr. Wilmot is a prosperous merchant and
possesses ail his former joviality tempered by
experience.
The End.
BRA$$ilTTY PRESTON.
HOMELY HINTS.
TJncle John on the Church Openings.
It pleases me to see that the churches are open
ing for the fall and winter season of religious wor
ship.
Last Sunday several of our pastors preached their
first sermons since the closing of the churches early
in July, and their congregations were quite fairly
represented in the pews.
It is so comforting to know that Satan no longer
ha£ things all his own way. I tell you it is enough
to make one nervous, during the dog days, to think
that Satan is prowling around unmuzzled, while
the valiant ministers of religion are trout fishing in
the sylvan streams. .
As I looked over the congregation in our church
last Sundav, I was forcibly struck by the calm re
ligious faith that all the members seemed to bear.
It reminded me of the well- worn story about the
little boy on the wave-tossed vessel, when asked if
he was not afraid: ‘’Oh, no,” said the youngster,
“father's at the wheel.”
Thus it is with our average church member. He
says to himself, “I am not afraid of Satan. We
pay a minister six thousand dollars a year to fight
the old boy, and we let him attend to the whole
business. ”
You see the average church-goer doesn’t have
much time to look out for Satan. During week
days there are so many worldly things to attend to,
that of course there is no time to think about the
old boy. And on Sunday, in church, it takes about
all the time to see and note what other people are
wearing.
Last Sunday I douldn’t help noticing the manner
in which the two Misses Flapdoodle, who sat in a
pew in front of me, did their worshiping. They
may have cast an occasional glance at the minister,
but I doubt it. Their eyes were rolling around
constantly over the congregation, evidently taking
an inventory of the millinery ware in the church;
and I’ll beta hymn book that they knew, at the end
of t he service, just what every other woman in the
church wore.
It is sorrowful to know, however, that man)’ a
zealous Christian woman is at this season of the
year debarred from the privileges of the sanctuary
by the absence of the needful to buy a fall hat.
Yes, the thought is as saddening as the thought that
there are thousands of heathens, in far off lands,
who have never even seen those interesting and in
structive tracts published by the American Tract
Society.
And how bright and comfortable the churches
are now. During the summer many of them were
repainted, recarpeted, and the pews recushioned.
And the happy worshipper can now lie back in his
comfortable seat—and sleep as blissfully as if he
were in his own bed at home.
How much smoother the road to heaven is now
than when you and I were young. Gracious! when
I was a boy I dreaded Sunday as if it were some
thing akin to the yellow fever or small pox. To
church at ten o’clock in the morning and a two
hour and a half wrestle with the service. Prayer
as long as a President’s message, while the bones in
my knees ground into the bard boards of the floor
and ruined my new trousers. A sermon that seemed
endless from the text about a grain of faith remov
ing a mountain of mustard seed. Sabbath-school in
the afternoon, with a terror-inspiring catechism,
and in the evening a repretition of the church
service.
But now a-days we seem to slide along on the
road to heaven as smoothly as a boy scuds down
hill on his sled in the wint-r-tirae. 1 only hope
that we may not, when we get to the bottom of the
hill, fetch up against a fence as I have sometimes
seen boys do.—N. Y. Ex.
i H. MARIA GEORGE.
>Am
Lady Catb**» ^Preston, ‘little Lady Kitty’
her friends ^-ftfomestics called her, lived in a
proud old itf among the dells of Lancashire,
England, two hundred years ago. She
was a livepdd i-^creature, whose merry, joyous
ways mad* 8 toJi’d sunshine to the stately rooms
of the sterB^rk eastle she called her home.
The grim t *b*uts on the wall softened when
the young'd %ent singing by; her graceful
figure refer the massive statues in their
niches, antto ** light step sent cheerful eohoes
thrilling tf l the ghostly halls. Oaly a wee
bit of a gii*y> $Lady Kitty, but in that little
nine year 8te P?afl wns all the courage and lofty
pride whit®' *4c?t,ome down through the Pres
ton line frt^ r ?»e valliant warrior wbo had won
broad land(? a 5i & baronet's title in the wars of
the Third J“*:3id,
Those wel? ‘msettled, gloomy times iD which
she lived. ** *ir the sea, in our own country,
the smoke first witcli-burning was dark
ening the t- TtJfvet the roofs of Salem, and all
along the hrSutier the Indian werhoop filled
the settlers! earls with fear.
A bloody /at was raging between Germany
and France acci desolated provinces ware smok
ing with ruin/ In England a new king had just
como to the throne after hard fighting, and just
over the channel ir Green Island a battle had
been fought which settled the fate of James Stu
art forever. So while the exiled king dreamed
cf his lost kingdom amid tha vain splendors of
St. Germains is Franca, his daughter Mary and
her royal huskiind, William of Orange, together
wore the crown that had once been his.
But there were soma nob'.e gentlemen who
still thought--that the old king had a better right
to the throne than the now one, and they made
up their minds to do what they could to restore
him. Lord Preston, Kitty’s father, was one of
these. Deep gratitude to King James for spe
cial favors conferred upon him in fermer days,
perhaps, more than the conviction that he was
the rightful king, persuaded the baronet to this
course. Whatever his feelings might be, how
ever, they could not restore to king James his
vanquished crown. The conspiracy was discov
ered before jibbing was effected, and Lord
Preston anohis friends were convictad of high
treason and sentenced to death.
To Lady Kitty in her northern castle was
brought the tidings of her father's imprison
ment and the doom that awaited him.
All tne courage and heroism that had till then
slumbered in her childish breast awoke at once
to activity. On the instant the girl became a
woman, brave and acute as any of ner sex who
had won kingdoms and commanded armies at
the inspiration of a less worthy cause.
‘Mv papa shall not die!’ she cried, stamping
her little foot and looking as fierce and deter
mined as one of the stern, mailed fignres of the
Preston knights in the great corridor. ‘What
has he done that he must never come home
again? I will save him.*
‘But child, what can you do?’ interposed her
nurse, Dame Amy Gradwell, who, since
Lady Pre6ton‘s death on Kitty's seventh birth
day,* had been invested with the oversight of the
motherless girl.
‘I will plead to the queen on my knees but
what 1 will save him, and he shall rule once
more at Preston Hail,’ said Lady Kitty. Nurse,
you must prepare to go with me to London, and
vou must order the coach at once, for papa will
want to see me.*
There were no railroads in those days, but all
the great nobles and the wealthy kept a large
coach which wasjased when they wished to go a
long disj'ince a '' t was in such a carriage, heavy^
jtRTPftfi hasAL4 long way Vom the distan
northe? /i a 14 yv to the Engliar capital. Many
a girl c .'ulfthew; have gone in that style, but the
liitie figure tuftica sat inside dressed in the rich
fur eloak, the soarlet trimmings, and the white
plumed hat, would have gone to her father all
the same though she had been obliged to go on
foot, and wearing rags instead of jewels and cost
ly satins.
The journey was a long and tedious one, and
it was a very impatient little girl who descend
ed from the carriage when it halted under the
grim shadow of the great Tower, within whose
gloomy dungeons her father was confined. The
messenger who had brought to Preston Hall the
tidings of its lord's imprisonment, had also be-.n
the bearer ot a passport to the Tower, which the
royal clemency had granted. It was therefore
6Asy enough to secure admission to her father's
cell.
Kitty had thought that she should be very
brave; but when she locked up at the frowning
ramparts of the ancient feudal fortress, with
whose history were interwoven many sad stories
of royal crime which her nurse had related to
her on the way to London, and saw the stern
soldiers on guard, with their crossed halberds
before the huge portal, she trembled and drew
back under the protecting folds of Dame Grad-
well’s cloak. Within the tower her fears still
followed her. Her childish imagination tortured
her with a thousand fautasies, and she looked
every moment to see the scowling visage of the
crook-backed Bichard, who had murdered his
innocent youDg nephews in one of those cham
bers, staring at her from 3ome dark corner; or
tb6 ghost of the saintly Lady Jane Grey stalk
ing in rustling white through the shadowy gloom
and she was very thankful when she stood at
last before her father, in his lonely room.
It was a mournful meeting. Tears stood in
Kitty’s eyes when she noticed how grave and
worn he was—he who had once been so gay and
handsome, and who loved her so well.
‘Beit so, then, Kitty/ said Lord Preston at
last. You aie brave and thoughtful beyond
your years. Go and see what you can do, and
may God indeed be with you.’
There was much weeping at the parting, but
when Kitty left the Tower it was with a lighter
heart than when she entered it. She was going
to Bave her father, and her young heart was full
of hope.
Queen Mary was ooming from chapel at Hamp
ton Court, attended by a bevy of fair maids, all
splendidly dressed in crimson snd gold, and
chatting gaily, with never a thought of the men
who were to die on the morrow, men whose
blood was as noble as any iD England’s broad
realm. In the long gallery of the palace they
came face to face with little Kitty Preston. The
dark portraits on the walls looked strangely
out of place contrasted either with the queen’s
royal suit or tbe pathetic beauty of the noble
man's child who was there to plead her father’s
cause, The pretty, innocent eyes of Lady Kit-
tv grew eloquent as they rested on the queen
I. — I nti 111 A 10.\ I0XS r/v*ci OCl O Y» 11 1 f.'XTP 11 fl Am!
Anecdotes and Incidents.
No Hip pocket Needed.
Ex-Governor Throckmorton, in his speech de
fending Ed. Bomar, at Gainesville, after having
spoken an hour, said: ‘Gentlemen of the jury
—It is said by the prosecution that because the
deceased was in his shirt sleeves when killed,
he had no pistol. 1
Here Mr. Throckmorton pulled off his coat
and stood before the jury in his shirt sleeves.
‘You would say, ‘ continued Mr. Throckmor
ton, that I am not armed because I am iq my
shirt sleeves. Look! Do you see my arms ?‘
cried ho, holding up his hands.
No signs of arms conld be seen.
Mr, Throckmorton then drew a pistol from
under his left arm, another from under his right
arm, one from each boot, and a huge bow: 3
knife from the back of his neck, placing them
upon the table.
L . „„ ^ , , 'You see. gentleemn, though in my shirt
who, pleased with the rare grace and loveliness j s ^®* v ? 6 > ^ could be well armed. 1
? • _ -L « T!*1H WilR ft plinplipr anrl ihs»ai
of the young girl, inquired who she was.
‘I am the daughter of Lord Preston, whom (
you have condemned to death,’ answered Kitty, oution,
boldly, ‘and I am here to ask you to save him.* [
The queen’s faoe flushed, and a frown for a |
moment darkened that brow which had all the 1
This was a clincher and it carried the point,
entirely destroying the argument of the prose-
A Brave Woman.
A brave woman is Mrs. W. H. Hyde, of Des
beauty of her ra.es, but when she saw the hot 1 Moines, Iowa. List week in the middle of th9
tears start from the eyes of the childish petition- j night, her husband away, she was awakened
er, she felt a throb of pity at heart.
‘It is beyond my power, child, to do aught
for him whose life ysu value so much, 1 she
said, gently. ‘He has broken the laws of his
country, and he must die.*
‘Oh, mercy, mercy, royal ladv,‘ cried the
child, in her emotion forgetting the persuasive
speech she had meant to say, and casting herself
at the queen’s feet, she said, ‘Oh, do spare my
father. ‘
The queen’s heart was touched at the distress
of her little visitor, but as she believed the death
of Lord Preston to be a necessary political
measure she felt that she could not grant the re
quest.
‘And you will kill my father, who is so good
and kind that every one loves him,’ said the
pleader reproachfully. ‘How can you be so
cruel ? Is there no mercy in your heart ?’
‘You must remember that you are a very little
girl, and that you must not attempt to instruct
me in my duty,* observed Queen Mary, gravely.
‘You are a very dutiful and loving child, and it
is not your fault that Lord Preston dies tomor
row. ‘
The streaming eyes of the young girl glanced
from the queen’s face to a portrait which graced
the wall above their heads. Both knew the
features of that royal fac9 right well. It was tbe
portrait of the dethroned monarch, whose
friends that monarch’s daughter had condemned
to death, and the deep, solemn eyes seemed to
gaze rebukingly upon her.
‘Why do you regard that picture so earnestly,
my child ?’ inquired the queen, as she observed
the fascinated interest with which she fastened
her eyes upon the portrait.
‘My gracious lady, I was thinking/ answered
Kitty, sobbing out afresh, ‘how straDge it was
that you should wish to kill my father only be
cause he loves yours so faithfully. ‘
King James’s political errors had been grave
ones, but the queen thought not of them in that
moment of sacred emotion. She only remem
bered the tender father he had been, and how
that then he was an exile in a foreign land
through her own and her husband’s plottiDgs.
The contrast presented to her mind by Kitty
Preston’s artless reproof, of her conduct as a
daughter as compared with the filial love of the
girl before her whom she was about to make au
orphan, smote her heart. Placing her hands on
the flaxen curls of the little heroine, she said,
into her own eyes:— .
Dear child,j thou hast prevailed. Riwj and
, a® mv pnrdoK 1° thy nui<ci, Illy ulittl iu\jB W
f.aved him.‘
And so little Kitty Preston’s bold pleading
saved her father's life and restored him to his
honors, Her nine little years had done more
than an army, and indeed they accomplished
more than perhaps Lord Preston could have
wished, for they made him a faithful subject to
Qneen Mary’s government, In after years Kitty
herself went to court as one of the maids of hon
or to the queen, and at the age of eighteen she
was Lady Kitty Preston do longer, but Lady
Widringtbn.
‘Oh, father,’ she cried, ‘are they going to kill
you, j ust as the wicked King James did good
Sir Walter Ralegh? Tell me, what have yon
done?’ and she clang to him violently.
My dear child be composed,’ said Lord Pres
ton. ‘You remember going with me onc9 when
your dear mother was alive to see our second
King James at Whitehall, and have you forgot
ten how kindly he spoke to you, and told you
how much you resembled his daughter, the
Princess of Orange, when she was of your age?*
‘Yes, papa,I recollect it all aud how I thought
what a noble gentleman the King was, but why
do you speak of this?’
‘Because it is for my very attachment to this
very king that his daughter, now Queen of Eng
land, has condemned me to death. Kitty, yonr
father is an attainted traitor, Bimply because his
heart dung to the deposed monarch more than
to William of Orange, who sits on the throne
with the daughter ot the royal Stuart. Bat I
am content save for yon, darling. It will be
hard to part wiih you.*
‘I think Queen Mary is real wicked, and I am
sorry I ever looked like her,* cried Kitty, impul
sively, *and I wish —‘
‘HnBh ! hush ! child, you must not talk so,'
said her father. ‘She is onr queen. ‘
‘Then she must pardon yon, papa; for I shall
never like her one bit if you have to die.'
‘My loved one, there is no one to plead my
oanse; and even if there were, it is doubtful if
she would listen. Now let ns talk of what con
cerns you, for you will have to leave me soon.’
'But, papa, I am going to see the queen my
self, and I know she will pardon you when she
hears what I shall plead. ‘
‘You, child !' he exclaimed, inoredulously.
‘She would not listen to yonr petition—the
daughter of a traitor.'
‘But, papa, God will tell me what to say, and
I shall be so earnest, she oannot go awsy,’ she
said, her eyes flashing with the Preston fire.
Crooked Ways of the Course of True Love.
They were husband and wife, and they look
ed tenderly at eaoh other as they stood sida by
side:
A man may smash the stove and things,
And black a fond wire’s eye:
And she may pound him with a club,
But true love canuot die.
'It was all a mistake, explained Mary,as a be
ginning.
‘I can make oath it was,’ added John.
Tt might have been,' said his Honor, ‘butthe
officer says you were havipg a terrible row.’
‘Iiow, your Honor?’ said Mary; ‘why, we are
the peacefulest two folks on Division street!’
I want to see the man who says I’d strike me
darling !' added John, as he put his arm around
her.
'Didn’t you, sir, take au axe and smash the
stove ?’
‘I—I did, your Honor, but why did I do it?
Because, sir, the stove smoked, aud I was giv
ing it ventilation.’
‘And you smashed the table and chairs ?’
‘Yes, I did, but they were old furniture, sir—
awful old. I’d been trying to give them away,
but nobody would have them.’
‘Well, how did your wife get that black eye?’
‘How, sir ? Why—’
‘A sliver flew and hit me, of conrse,’ she put
in.
‘Yes, sir, a sliver flew and hit her, and I was
about to run for the drug store when this po
liceman came in.’
‘Well, I am glad you love each other so dear
ly,' he continued the court, as he picked up a
benumbed house-fly on the point of his peD.
‘Mary can go home and pick up the chair-legs
and splinters and broken crockery, and you can
go to the work-house for thirty days. ‘
‘Great guns, sir !' but I shall die if I have to
leave Mary that long. ‘
‘And I can never, never live thirty days with
out seeing John 1‘
'Well, we‘11 take the chances, ‘ remarked the
court, and John was towed into the corridor to
wait for the wagon. Mary shed a few tears, but
after getting out doors she quickly recovered
her composure, and said:
‘When I come to think it all over, I guess it's
best, for poor John is extravagantly fond of see
ing my eyes in monrning.'
WHERE ALL CAN READ.
There is only one country in the world in
whioh there is no illiterate people ; it is the
Sandwich Islands. The population of the is
lands is 58,000. They have eleven high edu
cational institntions, 169 middle pnblio schools,
and forty-three private sohools. The public
instruction is under the supervision of a com
mittee appointed by the King, and composed of
five members, who serve without remuneration;
the oommittee appoint a general inspector and
a number of sub-inspectors. The Government
takes care that every person shall be able at
least to read and write, and pursues energeti
cally all parents who neglect to send their chil
dren to schooL
from a sound sleep by a noise at one of the win
dows of her room. She got up and in the moon
light could see a man trying to cut away the
shutters of the blind. Immediately she went to
look for a hatchet, but could find none, and
obtained instead two beer bottles, one of which
was full of beer. Oa reaching her room again
she found the man in the act cf climbing into
the window. With the empty bottle she struck
him on the head—but not hard enough to pre
vent him from renewing the eft'orc to enter, A
second blow followed with the other and heav
ier bottle. By a greater force it descended up
on his head, so that be was glad to use all his
hands and legs in a hasty retreat down the lad
der. In the morning blood stains which ho
had made were found on the ladder ond on the
grass.
Lidy E. Duncan was an heiress, and Sir W.
Duncan was her physician during a severe ill
ness. One day she told him she had made up
her mind to marry, and upon asking the name
of the fortunate chosen one she bade him go
home and open the Bible, giving him chapter
and verse, and he would find it out. He did so,
and read what Nathan said unto David, ‘Thou
art the man.*
A dispatch from Calcutta says the reports
from Cashmere are very gioomy. All the Euro
pean eye-witnesses agree that great corruption
prevails among the officials. The Mahrajah
and ministers show a want of energy in reliev
ing the distress of the poor people. A ghastly
stcry is going the round of the papers that a
boat load of famine-stricken people were taken
out in a lake and drowned.
An Unexpected Guest.
They had a supper in the neighborhood cf
Pawtucket, Pa., conceived and carried out by
the ladies. The conditions of this supper were
these; For every word spoken by the gentle
men at the supper table a forfeit of ten cents
was imposed; but, on the other hand (as duties
are always compensated with rights and restric
tions with privileges,! it was agreed that who
ever could weather the whole supper, submit
ting to all queries, surprises and ingenious
questions without replying, should be entitled
to it gratuitously. Many and frequent were the
artifices and subterfuges resorted to by tbe la
dies in attendance to entrap the unguarded,and
«**•<> aftur unotiiar stout and rliscrQot man went
down before the constant volley of artful inter
rogatories. At last all fell out and paid the
dime penalty save one individual—a queer chap
—whom nobody seemed to know. He attended
strictly to basiness and passed unheeded these
jokes, jibes and challenges. They quizzed him,
but all in vain. He wrestled with the turkey,
and grappled with the goose. He bailed out
the cranberry sauce with an unswerving hand,
and he ate celery as the scriptural vegetarian
ate grass; and finally, when he had finished his
fifth piece of pie. he whipped out a pocket
slate, wiped it with his napkin, and wrote on
it in a large and legible hand: Tam deaf and
dumb.*
The wife of a banished French Communist
was overjoyed at the news of his pardon, and
went to the railroad station with her children at
the proper time to welcome him. But he had
been very ill for years, aud was so much altered
in appearance that she did not recognize him.
She went home in a despondent mood, while
be hunted for her in vain in the crowd. At last
he found her residence ; but she had commit
ted suicide, after writing a despairing letter.
Revenge, Strange and Terrible.
A young pork-packer loved a maiden only
sixteen years of age, and courted her for ten
months, with the nsnai amount of ice cream
and buggy drives, until the girl's mother began
to feel herself already in the first stage of moth
er-in-law. But Hoosiers, even when in love,
are matter-of-fact and bnsiness-like, and do not
understand the mysteries and humors of female
coquetry. Oar Hocsier lover was so certain of
his game that he had eDgaged his groomsmen
and bought a spike-tail coat. He had also fixed
his eye on a pretty house, and was thinking his
wife would look as pretty as a large-sized pork
speculation in it He went to her house in this
mood, and having drawn a short and concise
diagram of his basiness status and prospects,
proceeded to ask the young lady to have him.
She bridled up, and, as a 'Kentuckian would
say, backed her ears, and then said that fair
yonng Hoosier maiden : ‘Did I ever 1 Why, you
are old enough to be my father. Go along. I
never thought of such a thing as marrying you ’
‘But,’ said the lover, surprised and dumb
founded, -did all the buggy rides and ice creams
mean nothing ?’
‘Nothing at all,’replied the girl. ‘You are
old enough to be my father.’ And she skipped
up stairs with many a derisive giggle.
‘All right,’ said the Hoosier lover, ‘we’ll see
about it.
He went home and wrote a note to the girl’s
mother who was a lively widow of only thirty-
8 “ d t<dd *J er that be had suddanl/discov-
than 1 motier-Saw h6r “ “ 8Weetheart
snAi®n? ir W ‘ dOW 8a . w U J daughter was
chfnl Urpr r ed i° bud her recent lover
changed to her stepfather.
tn^V h ? nght W8S fnnn y nntil th « couple re
turned from the wedding tour, and then the
newly-made stepfather said to her .*
‘My daughter, you were too fond of beaux,
nice young men, ice cream and buggy rides are
not proper luxu: ,-s for a little girl like yon. I
am old enongh to be yonr father ; and, what’s
more, I am. Go up stairs, take of that there silk
dress, get ready for sohool and don’t let me hear
beau or buggy, ice cream or nice young man
from you for at leat three years.’
And now that young lady is retired in calico
and study, vainly repenting her rashness, and *
finding ont by dire experience that a lover
scorned can be one’s worst enemy, especial!v
when he becomes a ste pfather. 3
Georg6 Fawcett Rowe is writing a new plav
for Steele Mackay’s Madison Square Theatre.