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VOL. VII
J. H. & W. B. SEALS} proprietors.
ATLANTA, GA., SEPTEMBER 24, 1881.
Terms in Advance; {
NO. 319
A Vnnithcd Hope.
BY CLARA G. STEELE,
She came with the snowdrops of springtime,
With June’s sweet roses she went,
Like a bud in its opening down-wafted,
Like a leaflet the breezes had rent.
She brought us a “well-spring” of pleasure,
She left us. a desert of years,
A dream with the saddest awakening,
A hope whose fulfilmentwas—tears.
Oh ! dreams now so mournfully vanished—
Oh ! hope’s tender vision now fled—
Oh ! Memory forever recalling
The few little words that she said.
Christ, born of a woman ! Thou knowest
The pitifuljtears that were shed
O’er the casket bereft of its jewel.
The form of our beautiful dead.
One thought comes oftimes mid earth’s grievings,
One gleam, shining even through tears,
And lights the dim pathway before us,
The wearisome journey of years—
That away in the dim misty sweetness
Of a country supcrnally fair
The hopes that missed earthly fulfilment
Will find sweetest fruition there.
Atlanta, Ga.
POOR JACK;
-OR,-
A FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE,
L
What is the picture Lady Geraldine’s gray
eyes are gazing at so earnestly?
She sees a long, rambling, untidy garden,
bathed in the soft light of a summer evening,
and filled with a hundred subtle scents.
Two figures are wandering up and down
the paths—two figures well worth looking at.
A fair girl with a beautiful patrician face
and a form exquisite in its girlish grace and
roundness. Her companion is a young man
who would have formed a fitting model for
Hercules. Added to the superb proportions
of his figure he possesses a manly, honest
face, inspiring confidence and trust. After
making the tour of the garden in silence, the
gifl raises her eyes to her companion’s face
and says quickly: .... ,
‘T wonder if you will ever think of me af-
Aer I rnturn home to-morrow ?”
Tne young man’s face becomes suddenly
dyed with crimson, and then as suddenly
yon? The _
than death to me.
“Oh, Jack!” she exclaims involuntarily,
catching her breath.
They have come to a halt under the old,
wide-spreading oak at the end of the garden,
and Ladv Geraldine Is looking down, unable
to meet Jack Parkburst’s reproachful eye.
He lays his hand gently upon her arm.
“Look up, dear; 1 do not want to frighten
or pain you. There is no need to tell you
how I love you; you must know it. I love
you with a love that will last my life; a love
that is as true as it is hopeless. Oh, Geral
dine, my darling, if only our fates had been
moulded differently! mine higher, or yours
lower! Tell me,” he continues passionately,
“if our positions had been reversed, do you—
could you have loved me!’’
Low, but distinctly, comes the answer.
“I love you now.’’
For one moment a great joy illumines the
young fellow’s handsome face.
“1 can bear all now,” he says, eagerly.
"But Geraldine”—more slowly—“do you
think—is it possible there can be any hope for
us?”
“Ah! no,” she answers quickly, with a sob
in her voice. “It you knew my mother you
would not dream of such a thing. My fate
is already carved out for me.”
The happy light is gone out of his eyes as
quickly as it c«ne.
“I might have known,” he says sadly, it
was an idle question. Our paths will separ
ate to-morrow never to cross again. Who
can limit the endurance of the human heart?
1 know- that to-morrow the light of my life
will be gone from me, and yet, in all proba
bility, that life will last thirty or forty years.
I should not mind if it came to an end to
night.” . ,
“Oh, Jack! do not say that; think of your
mother and sisters. You know how they
love you.”
“Yes, I know. And they are very dear to
me. But every affection pales beside the
love 1 bear for you; and I must pray for
strength to live it down, to try and forget
your fair, sweet face. But it is getting
chilly; we must go in.”
Lady Geraldine is crying quietly, but the
tears are bitter and scalding, and give no re-
lief. ,
She allows herself to be led down the dusky
path. The shadows are gathering fast. The
fair beauty of the summer evening has given
place to a subdued, ominous calm—sure her
ald of a storm. Lady Geraldine’s long
white dress sweeping round her tall form
gives her an unearthly look in the peculiar
light. She hastens her steps as a roll of dis
tant thunder is heard, preceded by a flash of
lightning.
Once safe in the house she heaves a sigh,
her heart beating with suppressed excite-
meut. . .
Jack looks anxiously into her white, fright
ened face. With a sudden movement for
which he is not prepared she lays her head
against his shoulder. Instantly his strong
arms are around her, his warm lips pressed
to her trembling ones.
“Oh, my darling, how shall I ever let you
go?'
For one minute they stand thus, the girl's
slender form held in a close, warm embrace;
but at last she frees herself, and, without
word or look, hurries away.
Lady Geraldine’s face loses something that
night which it never afterward regains.
The second dressing-bell rings loud and
clear. Lady Geraldine Treherne gathers up
her fan and scent-bottle and goes to her room,
where her maid is waiting in wondering im
patience. ^
When Miss Parkhurst, a young, loved
friend of Geraldine’s, who was to be her
brides-maid, daintily attired in pale blue,
enters the drawing-room, she finds the Coun
tess in conversation with a tall, dark man (
whom she rightly guesses to be the Earl of :
Windholm. Lady Strathmere greets her j
affably, and introduces her to Geraldine’s j
fiance. . I
Annie thinks Lord Windholm decidedly j
good looking, though his expression is far j
from pleasaut, and his eyes are cold and :
piercing. He makes a few commonplace re- j
marks to her, in the middle of which Lord
Annie does so, and reveals, not a portrait,
as she expected, but a tiny spray of withered
flowers.
“Annie,” says the weak voice again, “bend
lower. Will you take the locket and send it
to Jack, and tell him with my dying breath I
send my love?”
Annie starts and trembles, but promises to
carry out Lady Windholm’s wishes.
“Then kiss me dear, and let the others come
in; I am getting weaker every minute. Poor
Jack!”
Those are her last words.
The beautiful Countess of Windholm Is at
rest. Her weary heart will never ache
again.
The Diamond Graze.
Large Purchases for the Amer
ican market— American. La
dies’. Possessions.
ON THE RHINE,
Strathmere enters, followed shortly by the
butler, announcing dinner. The Earl of
Strathmere is the very opposite of his state
ly wife,being a portly*good-tempered-looking
man, with honest blue eyes and a weak irreso
lute mouth.
Where is Geraldine?” he
ing his son-in-law elect; ‘
'. «VI Koojir -»C . P** .
“I think she is quite well, 1
answers, coolly. “Geraldine
herself in warm weather.”
, Lord Windholm smiles disagreeably and
mutters something about teaching her punc
tuality. At that moment she enters, with a
few words of apology for being late, and
they repair to the dining room. Another of
Geraldine’s habits in warm weather is to eat
about sufficient to feed a canary, so that it is
with a little sigh of relief she rises from the
dessert table to follow her mother to the
drawing room. The long, low windows are
open to admit every breath of air, but the
heat is still oppressive. “Annie,” says Lady
Geraldine, lookmg intently at the sky, “is
not that a little cloud over there?” Surely,
there is promise of rain at last.”
“Yes, it will rain soon,” replies Miss Park-
hurst. “See, the curtains are moving. It is
the first sign of a breeze we have had to
day.”
The girls stand perfectly still, watching
the clouds gathering. The heat becomes in
tense, the sky is black: then a great drop of
rain falls, followed quickly by another and
another. In less than a minute a deluge is
coming down. Lady Geraldine stands per
fectly still, heedless that the rain is splash
ing on her from the plants and ferns in the
window. Aunie has wisely retired.
“Are you taking a shower-bath under
novel circumstances?” asks Lord Windholm,
coming up to his lady-love unnoticed by
her.
She starts slightly. “Is it not refreshing ?
But how wet I am ! I was so absorbed in
watching the welcome shower that I did not
feel the effects on myself.”
“When you have finished raiu-gaz'ng per-
hups you will kindly favor us with a little
music,” continues Lord Windholm.
“I shall be delighted, when I have had my
dress changed." And she is turning away,
when her hand is seized by her lover.
“What have you been doing during my ab
sence. Geraldine?”
1 ‘About the same as usual. Driving, rid
ing, walking, reading and sleeping. Have
you any particular reason for asking?”
“No, except that you are pale and preoc
cupied. it vexes me to see you looking white
and thin.”
“That is a pity, as I certainly have a pre
disposition that way it is a comfort to think
one can always resort to art if nature proves
fickle. By such assistance I may be able yet
to maintain your dignity. Guy.”
“Do not be sarcastic: I am quite satisfied
with you,” returned Lord Windnolm. "There
are only one or two little things I should
like to alter.”
L idy Geraldine makes a little mocking bow
ofpretended humility, and quits the room.
The church of St. Nicholas is thronged
from the pulpit to the door as early as ten on
the morning of the marriage of Lady Geral
dine Treherne to the Earl of Windholm.
Very pale, very beautiful, perfectly col
lected, is the fair bride. She does not be
tray the least nervousness through the
crowds of people, leaning on her husband’s
arm, with the strains of the “Wedding
March’’ rolling through the church, she ac
knowledges the raised hats of men by a slight
bow and smile. Many a fair girl follows her
with admiring envious eyes. What more
could earth hold for her? Young, rich, beau
tiful: married to a man of fashion and and an
Earl; surely she had all that heart could de
sire. Who would not envy her bright fate?
Ah. who indeed!
The breakfast is over: the last health has
been drank, and Lady Geraldine rises to go
and change her dress. In half an hour she
and her husband will leave the house. They
are going to spend the honeymoon in York
shire, where Lord Windholm has an estate.
In her dressing-room L idy Geraldine finds
her maid.
“Annette,” she says, quietly, “go out and
leave me quite alone for five minutes, then
you may return. Do not allow an> one to
disturb me—not even the Countess.”
“Very well, my lady,” replies the well-
trained servant.”
At the end of five minutes she returns and
sees Lady Geraldine lying in a heap by her
Davenport, which is open. For a moment
Annette is paralyzed with terror, but being a
sensible girl, she does not rush out of the
•>ora and scream, but quietly raises the life
less form. Her own face blanches when she
-ees a tiny stream of crimson on the rich
satin dress. Has Lady Geraldine broken a
ol‘>od-vessel? She chafes the cold hands, and
applies strong scent to the marble forehead.
Or "*
bet'er, nay lad:
"Yes, what is it? Did) I falntr and the
young Indy tries to rise. Then, catching
sight of the blood on her dress, she says:
“Ah, I remember; I went to my desk for
something, when I felt dizzy and fell.”
“But the blood, my lady?”
“Yes. I ruptured a tiny vessel a few years
ago, and if I am oyer-excited or fatigued the
blood comes from my mouth.”
“You will not be able to go out,” says the
girl.
“N msense, Annette; you must dress me at
once But first I must have some wine; I feel
so weak. Go and get some, and mind you tell
no one of this.”
“But my lady—” the girl expostulates.
“Annette, I wish it. I ask you as a partic
ular favor not to mention my faintness; I
don’t wish to alarm them unnecessarily.
Fetch the wine and them come aud dress me
quickly.”
Annette obeys unwillingly. When she re
turns the Davenport is closed and Lady Ger
aldine divested of her dress. The wine and
the exertion of a hurried toilet bring back a
little life into the bride’s white face. As she
makes her adieu with calm, smiling ease, no
one guesses how the sight of a withered flower
has well nigh robbed her of life.
“Good-by, Annie," she says, trying not to
see the tears in her friend’s eyes. “I shall,
want you to come and stay with me by-and-
by. Think of me, sometimes, dear, and write
to me when you have time.”
III.
“Who dines with us this evening, Gerald
ine?” asks Lord Windholm, without raising
his eyes from the paper he is reading. His
wife is engaged with her letters, so the ques
tion had to be repeated.”
“No one, for a wonder. Neither have I ar
ranged to go anywhere. It is more than a
month since we have had a thoroughly quiet
evening, I feel sure.”
“And very proper, too. You know I object
to ‘quiet’ evenings, and thoroughly dislike a
tete-a-tete dinner. It was inconsiderate of
you to arrange so badly.”
“I don’t know that I arranged it at all; it
is more an oversight than anything else.
Personally I am rather glad, but I do not
wish you to be victimized: you can dine at
club.”
“Tnank you, but I have no intention of
doing so. I shall dine at home.”
“Very well,” answered Geraldine good-
humoredly, “and if you will not be bored I
will sing you some new songs I have.”
To this Lord Windholm makes no response,
so Geraldine returns to her letters. These
occupy her till breakfast is ended, and then
she goes to prepare for her ride with Lord
Windholm.
They ride together every day, and some-^
times it is the only hour in the twenty-four
Geraldine spends with her husband. He is
very particular about this; whether from
pride in his wife's horsemanship or because it
gratifies him to see the universal admiration
her beauty creates G :raldine does no? seek to
analyze; she is quite indifferent on the point.
Through bows and smiles the Earl and
Countess return to Princess Gate. Lady
VVindholm goes to her room and her husband
to his club. Late in the afternoon the for
mer drives alone, returning only in time to
dress for dinner.
Dinner is over, and Lady Windholm sits in
the drawing-room alone. She holds a book
in her lap, but presently it falls to the flx»r—
she is asleep. The clear, soft light falls on
her upturned face as her head reclines on the
sarin cushion. There is very little difference
from the Geraldine of a year ago, except that
she is slighter, and there are weary little
lines round the lovely mouth. In her sleep
the pretty red lips quiver slightly. She
sleeps quietly on. The great house is per
fectly quiet, and the air of the room sleep-in
ducing with the reaolence of japonica and
white roses.
With a start Lady Windholm awakes pres
ently, Stirling to think in what an unusual
way she has passed a couple of hours. She
wonders where her husband is. Had he come
in while she was asleep and left without dis
turbing her? “Scarcely,” thinks Geraldine,
as she seats herself at the piano.
J After playing one or two things in a
dreamy, sleepy way, she rises and goes to
the dining-room. It is empty. She is about
to return, feeling sure her husband has gone
oat, when she remembers he may be in the
smoking-room. Thither she goes, her silk
train making a slight rustle as it trails along
the broad passages. Her hand is almost on
the dw^qt-en it is opened 'from the inside,
embarrassed face. He tries to ignore Lady
Geraldine’s intention to enter the room
by attempting to close the door after coming
out. but the lady’s soft voice arrests him.
“Stay, Parsons, I am going in. Is Lord
Windholm there?”
“Yes, my lady,” answers the man with
hesitation; “but—he—is not very well. I
think, my lady you might disturb him by go
ing in.”
“Allow me to pass,” is all Lady Geraldine
says, and Parsons draws back immediately.
The Earl of Windholm is lying full length
on a lounge, his face pale and his eyes blood
shot. Ee mutters incorherently as his wife
enters, and then closes his eyes and falls
asleep immediately. No need to ask the
nature of his lordship’s illness. Geraldine
has known all along of the unhappy vice to
which her husband gives way, but it is the
first time she has seen him under its influence.
With a white haggard face she quits the
room, and the sight has done more than shock
her.
IV.
One morning toward the middle of July
the postman calls at Bramble Cottage and
leaves« letter for Miss Parkhurst, who is
seated ,n the prettv little morning room at
work. It runs as follow:
My Dear Annie:—I want you to give my
kind regards to Major Parkhurst and ask
him tc. spare you for a few weeks. I should
like you to come at once, if possible, so that
you will have a few days in town before we
leave for Yorkshire. I hope you will not dis
appoint me, for I shall not have another
chance of seeing you for a long time, as 1 am
ordered to winter abroad. I am tired and
jaded, dear, but the sight of your fresh,
bright face will, I feel sure, revive me.
Ever yours affectionately,
Geraldine Windholm.
“Do you think you can spare me, papa?”
asks Annie, eagerly.
“Certainly, my dear,” replies the old gen
tleman. “1 shall be glad for you to have a
change. Go as soon as you like,”
Thus it is settled, and in two days the little
country girl is with her aristocratic friend.
Lady Windholm is very pleased to have her,
and talks more to Miss Parkhurst in an hour
than she does to most of her lady friends in a
week. About herself she says nothing, but
Annie is not blind,and reads aright the beau
tiful weary face._ She sees what a bitter
mistake life has proven to this fair girl, She
sees the lovely face redden and pale whenev
er Lord Windholm’s unsteady step is heard.
She kno as the constraint Geraldine puts up
on herself at times, and her heart is full of
pity for her friend.
“If you please, ma’am, my lady says kind
ly come to her room when you are dressed ?”
" Annie replying in the affirmative the maid
closes the door.
It is the evening of the 21st, and Miss Park
hurst is dressing for dinner, assisted by the
housekeeper’s little maid, who is very deft
and handy. She gives a satisfied glance at
herself as she rises to seek Geraldine. She
wears a dress L tdy Windholm ordered from
her own dressmaker—a delicate silt trimmed
with pale blue. Annie has never yet had any
dress so rich and elegant, and she hardly
knows herself.
She finds the young Countess alone, and
somehow looking more beautiful than she
had ever seen her look before. Her dress
composed entirely of black lace, shows to ad
vantage the dazzling fairness of her skin. The
bodice is cut with a small square, and the
sleeves reach to the elbow, for Lady Gerald
ine Is getting very thin. Only this evening
her maid has been regretting the fact - Round
the white throat is fastened a pendant neck
lace of superb rubies which glisten and flash
with every movement.
“Annie, I want to give yon this row of
pearls. Do you like it ?’’ and Lady Windholm
hands it to her.
“Oh, how lovely! Geraldine, how can I
ever thank you for such a present? or,indeed,
how can I accept anything so costly 2 ”
“Nonsense, child; there are no thanks re
quired. The pearls will look well on your
pretty round neck, and I shall like to know
you have them, I have never worn them
since the time I stayed with ycu. years ago.
1 Now let us go down. Mr. Chillingham will
1 take yon into dinner, remember. Why, An-
" nie, is that a blush? Well, I would rather see
vou blush for him than for any man I know.
He is not particularly rich, but he is good
and noble. I fancied somehow Mr. Chilling-
ham would not find fault with my choice of
a lady far him to teoort. He aoMvaty left
£sj
Counties of Strathmere are among the goeeta. 1
Lady Strathmere is quite satisfied with her
daughter. She smiles inwardly to think
what a perfect hostess she makes—so merry
and thoughtful, and withal as stately as a
young queen. A few minutes before dinner
is announced Geraldine leaves the room in
compliance with a message from her hus
band, who is in his dressing-room.
“I have a racking headache,” is his greet
ing. “Can’t yon give me some salts or some
thing.
“When did it come on?” asks Lady Ger
aldine.
“This afternoon. I met Care w and he told
me something that rather put me out; that is
the reason’”
“Have you tried any remedy?”
“A little brandy,” says the Earl.
Geraldine knows it. Her husband’s habit
is fast becoming stronger than his sense of
decency. Here are twenty people in the
house waiting for dinner, ana the host in a
state quite unfit to receive fhem.
“You had better lie down,” she says calmly,
“and I will send Parsons with some soda wa
ter and my salts. Perhaps you will be able
to appear at dessert.” And she quits the
room to make an apology for the host’s non-
appearance.
But Lord Windholm is an obstinate man.
J ust as the butler announces dinner he comes
into the room, and saying he feels considera
bly better, offers his arm to the Duchess of
Braemuir, while the other gentlemen seek
their partners also.
Annie, who is seated where she can plainly
see Lady Windholm, notices that her face is
brightly flushed, and her eyes are sparkling
like stars. But she is very lively, and during
the whole dinner keeps up an animated flow
of conversation. Annie is fascinated, and yet
she cannot think what makes her long to see
Geraldine bnrst into tears. At last the young
Countess rises. Instead of moving to the
door, which young Chillingham hastens to
open, she stands perfectly still, her face be
coming white as marble. AU eyes are fixed
on her. The rubies rise and fall with her
quick breathing, and then she falls, and the
lace dress is covered with a tide of crimson.
There is one mute second of breathless horror
and then she is gently raised and carried to a
sofa. The blood is still flowing, and she is so
motionless that they think she is dead.
But the doctor, coming in an incredibly
short time, assures them that the Countess
still lives, though her hours are numbered.
The Earl of Windholm, with a white,
frightenc d face seeks the doctor.
“Is there any possibility of her living?” he
asks anxiously.
“1 grieve to say there is not the least hope
of her ladyship’s life,” replies the doctor.
“This is not the first time she has ruptured a
blood vessel, and her constitution has never
beeu strong, added to which there is a great
weakness of the heart. But 1 am at a loss to
conjecture what brought on this violent hem
orrhage. Has she been frightened or wor
ried in any way?”
“I think not,” the Earl answers. “But
may I see her?”
“Certainly; but remember, Lord Wind
holm, tnat any excitement will shorten the
few hours that remain to her.”
Lord Strathmere is almost frantic. He
sends for the most eminent physicians, but
they all say the same. Nothing' can be done
for Lady Windholm; she is past help.
Lady Strathmere’s cold face pales at the
words. Might her daughter’s fate have been
different if her life had been happier? What
is the use of wondering what might have
been? One has to do with what is.
It is far into the night before L idy Wind
holm opens her eyes. Looking about and
seeing the number around her Ded, she whis
pers to the doctor, who is holding h s fingers
on her pulse: “Setid them all away; I want
to be alone,” When her wish has been car- I
The passion for diamonds is increasing
Probably at no previous time in the history
of the American world of fashion were so
many of these precious stones worn as now,
nor so large a proportion of them of such ex
cellent quality. Here and there the popular
taste may select the fanciful gem—tourma
line or zircon—but the fire glancing from the
facets of a diamond has a charm for the mul
titude not possessed by any other gem. Most
of the diamonds come from the Cape of Good
Hope, a few from Brazil, and some from Si-
ber.a and Borneo.
Tne discovery of the African diamonds six
or seven years ago upset the market, but it
has since recovered its equilibrium. Mer
chants in this city claim that imitation dia
monds have not materially injured their in
terests. Such stones depend upon the glare
of gaslight to avoid detection, as sunlight
readily exposes their real character. The de
mand for fine stones is increasing and for
stones finer cut than is generally possible to
obtain in Europe.
“I have frequently paid $300 a carat for
something fine,” said a Broadway diamond
merchant recently to a Tribune reporter.
“Diamonds are like horses, there’s no market
value for them. No dealer ever sold a good
gem cheap. In war times you might pick up
a diamond a trifle cheaper than now, but to
day if you want a good diamond you must
pay a good price for it. You may buy a one
carat diamond for $100, but it wiil be noth
ing extra, no gem.”
' 'Are there more diamonds worn now than
•Hfcfore-ia-tlsie-eSiir't-iytp’-- ■
should say so, moet decidedly. I have
been in the bittiness over thirty years, and I
never knew such a rage for the atone as ex
ists to-day. Last week I attended a garden
party at the Grand Union Hotel, at Saratoga,
and I saw bushels of them. That is the only
way to describe the number of valuable dia
monds worn there and most of them were
fine stones. Nearly every woman there had
big solcaires in rings or earrings. You see
the finest diamonds are worn solitaire in
studs, rings and earrings, while for bracelets,
and hairpins an inferior stone may be used,
as they are not so conspicuous. I noticed
one thing, however, at the Grand Union;
nine-tenths of the diamonds were not clean.
Dust settles on everything and it is astonish
ing how little care a woman will give to her
diamonds. They carefully inspect their gloves
and shoes before conq 1 ting tneir toilets, but
their diamonds, worth often thousands of
dollars, receive no attention, become dirty
a id sometimes are lost.
A lady customer of mine lost a very valua
ble diamond after possessing it eight years.
If she had been in the habit of giving the
gem any attention she would have noticed
that a setting of eighteen carat gold will wear
out in time and loses its grip on the stone.
The large solitaire diamond is now preferred
to the cluster. Few diamonds are worn by
gentlemen except in the case of young men
anxious for display. Here and there, a gen
tleman will wear solitaires in his shirt bos
om, but if he has good taste he will be care
ful that they are small, or he may be taken
for a gambler.
It is astonishing how much money is some
times represented in the diamonds worn by
ladies on a ‘swell’ occasson. It is a common
thing in New York society to see $io,oooor
$20 000 in diamonds on a lady’s person. Mrs.
John Jacob Astor has been known to wear
$50,000 worth of diamoads at an evening re
ception, and I should say that the diamonds
worn by Mrs. W. H. Vanderbilt at the gar
den party I spoke of were worth fully that
amount of money. Mrs. Mackey, wife of
the ‘Bonanza King,’ once offered to buy the
famous ‘Regent’ diamond, the most valuable
in the world. It is valued at a mere million,
but the French Government woulnn’t sell it.”
“A handy thing to pawn.”
“Not at alt You couldn’t find a dealer in
the city who would advance a dollar on it.
Every one would know it and know that it
belonged to the crown of France. Beside,
the diamond is too big to sell—what coula
you do with it? Certainly not wear it. When
a diamond is over five or s x carats in size it
is not salable.”
The local sensation of the week, says the
Washington World, was the attempt of a
seemingly sane sergeant of the regular army
named Mason, wnile on guard at the jail, to
shoot the unapproachable villain Guiteau.
An irrepressible instinct forces some men to
annihilate wrong and vice anddeprevity.and
it was this, it seems, that induced the veteran
soldier to discharge his rifle at the window at
which the ghastly Guiteau sat within his
prison cell. The sergeant was arrested and
will be tried for the attempt to commit mur
der. Of course this trial will be merely for
mal. There could never be found a jury to
conyict the man who killed, still less one who
only shot at Guiteau, of any crime, ^uiteau
is greatly frightened and begs to have his
windows walled in. How absurd! His life
is not worth the paper on which his detested
name is here inscribed. If the President re
cover, Guiteau cannot live; if the President
die, the assassin will be hanged and quarter
ed. The law may send him to the peniten
tiary in the one case and to the gallows in
the other, but the result to Guiteau, if ex
pressions of popular purpose be worth any
thing, will be the same.
Keep up with the procession of life, young
ried out she asks for Miss Parkhurst, who j man; close up to the hand. If you ever fa : l
comes in immediately. “Annie,’’she whispers, ■ to the rear, where the elephants are, yiu are
“are we quite alone!” apt to get trod on.
“Quite,” answers Annie bravely, stifling her
sobs. Tne s nsations of j >y felt on approaching
“Then take off the locket that is round my the home of a beloved one. are line the twi-
neck There is a tiny knob of gold at the 1 light of morni. g before the sun has become
bottom; press it.” 1 visible.