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MB SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA. QA„ SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3,1887.
TIM AUTHO»'S ADTAKCE PBOOF8HEXT8—SECURED
EXPRESSLY FOR THE ii BVHMT SOUTH.’ 3
THE IXJ CHESS.
gf the Autbitf of “PhViUs,” 1 “Molly "Saw,” “Mrs.
frey,” “Lady Branksmere,” Etc., Etc.
CHAPTER VIL
«‘Ob, the lit’le more, and bow n ocb it ud ’
Ooi-ide the world i8 ec “ el y ir In 8 be Ton
^ssssssa
U T“m^r iuaet* bis theory, however when
on glancb a iownward. at bis cousin, be finds
wS“'»tle vexed lausb
hnag'nBgrea*things would come of such a
“ov^; but I warn you it will not do a bn. of
^ wonder wby you have so determinedly se t
yourTr« JEZ earning to us," says he, a Lt,
“Of all those strangers. “
beinc alone there—without dad—I feel—ob i
—la/ing her hand upon her bosom— dread-
you wouldn’t be alone. I shall be
there,” says Delaney, the very slightest bus-
nicion of a {grievance in his tone.
“Why, so you would,” says she slowly, as
if suddenly awakening to Hther.0 forgottou
fact. 1 1 never thought of that, but still you
“t“ acse'st - *"r“ k ' a
has lakfii up an unassailable position. Ac-
k” wledfeL g ihis fact, Dtlaoey gives up ar«u-
m ^Tr t w.jii’t listen to another objection,” cries
he gaily. “Not one. I insist on cirrj ing you
off bodily and introducing you to the lot of
them, wfie bar you will or not. I have “J
heart on t>m doing of thtB, and I kll0W
will not l ave the heart to thwart me. M hall
Do you think I would really relinquish the
triumph of showing you off to them—of exhib
iting my captive? My very own discovery,
*°He is thinking of the sensation her beauty
will create e .-en amongst the throng of pr t y
women with whom his mother ever delights to
surround herself. What one of that gay
crown could dare to compare with her ■' Al
ready, in his fond fancy he can see her danc
ing through the grand old rooms at Ventry, or
walking seda-ely through its gardener, the
sweetest flower amongst all those myriad bios
"°Tae charm of this vision, however, it being
a mere mental vagary, being naturally with
held from the Duchess, it so happens that his
words fail with a meauieg little intended upon
her ears. Far from seeing anything compi-
mentary in them she sees something fatally
the reverse. Conld so lovely a thmg as her
face be ever guilty of showing wrath undis
guised, now is the time.
“Show me off! ’ she repeats, in a voice that
positively electrifies th"e ill-fated Denis. Ex
hibit imi Ami then a South Sea Islander?
Am 1 to und< inland that I really dff.r so en
tirely fiom the rest of your acquaintances?
“A* light fiom darkness,” replies be, with
promptitude, though considerably pnzzled by
her tone and < xpression
“On!” says the Duchess.
Great meaning may be thrown into this ap
parent harmless monosyllable. Miss Delaney
makes it so eloquent that her cousin turns
sharply to look at her. What can be the mat
ter with her? For an instant their eyes meet;
time long enough to let him see that teats are
•landing thicklv in hers.
“Nor,.I>! what is it?” he exclaims, stopping
short -Does th 8 visit to my mother make
you ready so unhappy? If I thought so ’
“It has nothing to do with it, and you know
It,” returns she, resolutely. This time the
P are are very plain to him, as she lifts two
indignant eyes to bis. LaTge and brilliant
they hang upou her lashes, trembling to their
fall. “Bui to be toll that one is ‘different !’
.aOf course,” with a baleful glance at him, “I
■Know am noiws those otiers—lb#aa laefciona-
^WeTrietd* of yours, wjio have been every-
w 1*6re and Keen everything, and heard all there
I. to hekr— imV, I dare toy.”—with tearful
contempt—“a good deal more! I know I am
not like ibem, and,” passionately, ‘‘I don’t
wont to be, either. But one may be d fferent
from people without liking to hear it said. One
may oe absurd and old-fash’oned without
wanting to hear it put into words!”
This terrible speech is ponied forth with a
startling fluency that reduces Denis to a state
bordering on coma. Recovering himself by an
effort
“Norablis it possible you could so misjudge
me?” he save, flashing hotly. “My dar ir
h’m ” st eking wildly for a compromise.
“My dearest girl! can it be that you don’t see
what I really meant, where the true difference
lies? That you are the light—the rest of them
the darkness. Oh! Norah, look at me! Say
you believe m I”
«I won’ll I don’t!” keeping her gate stu
diously averted; and now the two largt tears
detach themselves at last from the lashes and'
r, l! s’.owly, pitifully down her cheeks. “I am
sure you are saying all that just to please and
comfort me.” A little sob breaks from her.
It is by a mighty i Sort alone that DelaDey
contr is the eager louring that now almost
overpowers him to catch ner in his arms and
press that sad, angry little face against his
own. Was ever thi .g created fairer than this
child? Oa! that he were free to woo—per
chance to win her! Oh! that he had never
■•■en her!—an l yet—not that! He could not
with that. With what a strange suddenness
sue bad faileu into his life (and alas! how much
too late!), killing for him the serenity in which
he bad beii- ved he shonld live and die. not
knowing then the greatest good of all—uor
having tasted of love’s draught—that bitter
•weetl Now, all that is over; serenity is dead,
and peace has flown; and here a galling chain
binds lrm m cure, and there stands love, nn-
crowned, waiting, it‘might have been, for biml
A lovo so sweet, an eager gracious thing; care
less as yet, wih songs on her lips and laugh
ter in her eyes, and no knowledge (as it seems
to him) of the cruel fret and fever of the pain
that men call passion.
All this, or a vague sense of it, runs through
hun as he stands th'-rc looking on her tears,
but when he speaks, his voice, though low, is
ciim.
4 Not 1,” he says. “I’ll swear it to you if you
will, though ray word i« as good as my bond.
Why, you silly baby, do you think if I did
•u’criam tu:b a heresy that I should have the
pluck to say it?”
This appears to be an excellent bit of rea
soning and very convincing. The Duchess
smdes and earth grows bright again! She
even draws a little nearer to him, as if about
to speak, and then, as if overcome by a little
access of shyness, slops short, and taking hold
of one «f tbo buttons of his coat between a
-d-r finger and thumb, twists it round and
vi and round again without any apparent
‘Well?”- questions D nls, stifling a sigh:
It ig vnry bard for any one, under an Anchor
ite, to have the chosen of his heart so very
clo<e to him and feel that be musu’t encourage
her to rome closer still. “Well?”
< Dinis, tell m» riia,” with the sweetst blush
imaginable. “Really, now mind—honestly,
do voa think me pretty f’’
.“It ig too poor a word!” says the miserable
Denis, so Ur forgetting the stem role allotted
to him ai to take the little slim fingers from the
long-stiff iring button and press them to his lips.
“If you will svy ‘lovely’ I can answer you.”
4 O ■! n >w," with a little pleased laugh, “that
is going too far. They tell me my mother was
beau 1 if ul, but that I do not resemble her much;
th u I a n like dad’s people. Like,” thought
fully, ‘ vr.ur people—you, perhaps. How
strange ibat would be! Am I like you?”
“I dare any 1 have frequently flattered my-
ael ," says Deni-, laughing. 44 We all do it; but
I -bi"k I can hmestiyaay never to that ex-
tent”
■ Well.” persists the Duchess positively,
•‘vow that it has occurred to me, I am sure I
r.wndeJ hi rself of somebody this morning
w en I was d -ing my hair before the glass. It
must have been you. Come over here,” slip-
pi -i her uand into his and drawing him to
-here a it-ep po d ii-a basking drowsily in the
su .shine, encompassed by ferns and mosses.
Ore.-this site bends, scrutinizing the faint,
‘in^erieit r. fl ctioo of her charms it throws up
t ner Delicate, v:,goe, unsatisfactory it is,
yet swe ‘ ' i'i.ai. D-uis. stauding behind her
and gazing o' r her shoulder, can see the quiv
ering imasro that so maligns her purrfand per
fect beauty, and turns with impatience to the
li t ing original beside him. She is still absorbed
in tracing a likettf s that does not exist, and a
sudden desire to play upon her an old school
boy trick, and so disturb her thoughts, takes
possession of him.
Passing his hands round her waist, from the
back, he pushes her well over the brink of the
pool, holding her tbu« for an instant and then
drawing her back to terrafirma,
44 Therel—only for me you would have been
in,” he says vaingloriously.
“Oh! Dtnisl” cries she, genuinely startled.
Then she laughs, and, with his arms still encir
cling her, looks back at him over her shoulder
with parted lips and brightened eyes. Her at
titude brings her head almost to his shoulder.
She was never yet so near to bis heart. Was
she ever yet so lovely ? His pulses are begin
ning to beat madly; his eyes grow warm. The
laugh is still fresh upon her lips.
,4 My love, whose lips aie softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are.
And sweeter than the violet."
But the smile has died from his There is a
quick, irrepressible movement He bends over
ner—nearer—nearer stil; and then he loosens
his hold of her and stands back, a frown upon
his brow, his face a little pale.
“Are you frightened?” asks she, lightly.
“Did .von think I was really .going to fall in?
Ha! Did punishment then overtake you? But
you Bhould know that I am sure-footed as a
goat; that I Beldom catch myself tripping.”
She is evidently puzzled a good deal by the
change in his manner, which has gone from
“grave to gay, from lively to severe” without
a second’s warning, and would perhaps have
subjected him to a rather embarrassing cross
examination. But at this moment the ap
pearance of a woman at the lower end of the
path attracts both their attention.
CHAPTER VIIL
“To mortal men great loads allotted be,
But of all packs, no pack like poverty.”
She is a woman, withered, and slightly bent,
and wretched.y t reused, as are all poor Irish
peasants. Her petticoat, made of a thick blue
flannel, is short and patched liberally here and
there. No stockii-gs cover her legs, no boots
her feet, which, though wonderfully small, are
hard as the path itself and roughened by work
and exposure. An old jacket, worn at the el
bows, and very much the worse for wear, cov
ers her body, and over her shoulders a dingy
little red and black shawl is thrown.
Clothing enough certainly for a hot day in
July, but alas! terribly insufficient for the
frosts and snows of winter; and when they
come there will be nothing extra to cover that
poor, frail body. Poverty has no diversity of
costumes wherewith to meet the exigencies of
each coming season.
Seeing Norah, the woman quickens her foot
steps, already marvelously agile for a woman
well past fifty.
“Abl Biddv, is that you?” says Norah, ask
ing the superfluous but kindly question with a
friendly smile.
“Good morrow, your honor, my lady,” re
turns the woman, this being a very usual greet
ing in the South of Ireland to those known to
bt of “daceut blood.” There is no such ardent
admirer of aristocracy as the Irish peasant.
“Are ye in a hurry, Miss? Might I have a
word wid ye, Miss Norah?”
“What is it now, Biddy?” asks the Duchess
anxiously. '‘Nothing wrong with 1 ttle Larry ?”
“No, Miss. Glory be to God, he’s betther
an’ betther every day. But tell me, aianna,
’tis the mastber I want to see. Is he up
above?” meaning Baliyhinch, not Heaven.
“I left him there about half an hour ago.”
It is impossible for Denis, who is standing by,
not to uecome conscious that she has indeed
found time in his society run wonderfully swift.
“What do you want from him now, Biddy?”
“Faix, Miss, a bit of a sthick, no more. I
thought as how he’d give me wan out of the
wood beyant to keep up the house, if he only
knew how badiy ’twas in waut of i‘. The raf-
thers is givin’ way like, bnt if I could get some
thin’ to prop ’em up wid they'd bould together
if only lor a year itself. One o' thim young
threes, Miss, out o’ the plantation wouid do.
The mastber (God hi ess him!) is good to all;
an’ if re,think,.M^^eiUii!(at—„ ..
“I know he will. Hurry up, Biddy, because
he may be going'oiit, Bye-the-bye,” detaining
her, '‘hour's Dsn? When did yon' hear from
him?”
“Snre that was partly what waa Fringin’ me
up to the house. Bat,” shyly, “when I saw
ye wid the gintleman,” with a sly glance at
Deuis. “Anyhow, Miss, ’twas this moron’ a
letther came. I’ve got it here wid me,” pulling
it out of her bosom. “Maybe ye’d like to read
it”
“Of course I shonld,” says the Duchess
heartily.. “Dear me! what a good boy he al
ways was!”
“Ihrue for ye. Miss,” intensely gratified.
“God bless ye! Ye have the good word always
for rich an’ poor. D’ ye see, aianna,” pointing
to the letter with ungovernable pride, 44 'tis all
the Way from Cbayny it has come. Glory he
to the Blessed Mother! Bat isn't it a sight of
the world he is seein’—an’ him the biggest
blagguard whin he was at home! Isn’t it won-
dherful, Miss Norah, now? A spalpeen that I
was for ever leatherin’, he was sieh a divil all
out, wid bis pranks an’ his thricks, savin’ your
presence, Miss. Even Father Jerry himself
wasn't safe trom him; an’ there he is now as
grand as the best of ’em, servin’ aboard a man-
o’-war.”
“Well, why shouldn't he?” says Norah.
Where’s the sailor that’s better than an Irish
sailor?”
“Fags, an’ that’s thrue, too,” acknowledges
the gratified mother. “He sint me a three-
pound note, Mi s, along wid the letther.
There’s for ye now! Faix, yes! He’d never
forget his old mammy, he says. D’ ye know,
Miss Norah, I’m dead sorry now as ever I bate
that boy? ’
“Don’t,” says Norah, laughing. “Perhaps
it was those beatings that has made him the
burning, shining light he now is.”
“ ’ Tisn’t, darlin’; I don’t believe in batins
nohow. When ye’re married, Mias Norah,
never bate your own gossoons."
The Dachess laughs again.
“i’ll remember,” she says, moving on a step
or two with a friendly nod as farewell
“Will yonr father give that tree?” asks
Denis, curiously, when they are oat of hearing.
“Why, yds. Of coarse.”
“Bat 1 thought, from what he said, that he
was rather indignant with the people round
here; rather inclined to be hard on them, and
—and that.”
The Dachess tarns upon him a glance filled
with fine contempt.
“And have you lived with dad for four days
and don’t know him yet?” she says. “Ton
haven’t found him out Why he can’t say
‘No’ to one of them. He is as good as a father
to them. He abases both the tenants and la
borers from morning till night like a pickpock
et, bnt he treats them like a friend. Of course
she’ll get that tree; and if tfce men are all em
ployed he will in all probability go oat and cat
it down for her himself"
“l see,” says Danis, thoughtfully: Then:—
“Whst did she want her ’stick' for?”
“Did not yon hear? To prop up her roof,
which is falling in. She does not demand the
restoration of the roof, as yon may notice, but
simply begs a prop for it. Dad will see to the
proper mending of it before the winter, no
doubt, if—if he has the money; bnt there are
so many roofs, and all out of repair.”
She sighs.
“How yon take things to heart!” says he,
looking st her with some speculation in his
gaze.
“Oh! these poor creatures, what they suf
fer!” cries she suddenly, with a little tonch of
passion in her tone. “No one knows it, save
those who live amongst them, and they not al
ways. Why should I not take it to heart?
Am I not flesh and blood as they are? Most
I not feel for them? And every day, every
hour, one is compelled to take them to heart.
Why only last winter a man came to dad—a
laborer—begging for work: and he told ns that
the cabin in which he Uvea had such holes in
the roof that the rain came in on
them even when they were in bed, he and his
wife and three little children. Often, be told
dad, when he had to get np at six o’clock on
a winter’s morning to go to his work, he was
so frozen in bed that it was a relief to him to
get out of it.”
“Good heavens, what a melancholy story!”
says Delaney, perhaps only half believing.
He spent little of his time in his native land.
“ Why, that is nothing. Hear the rest of it.
First one little child died. Then it was he
came to dad, Beseeching him to give him any
cabin he conld, and work, on Baliyhinch. We
are wretchedly poor ourselves,” says the
Duchess, tears rising to her eyes, “but we
managed the cabin for him; a miserable
hole, comfortless enough, but at all events __
rain could not come into it. Ho came and' she-would theory at all
took possession, bnt a week afterwards his
wife died—died from exposure and cold in that
other dreadfnljhqaagl ’ . , •
Bnt thrMbet oTtfjajyniiwfS'MgM-wk^,
? Did he ekcapescotHr” btCTDenis,
naively. “She’s a very poor creature, in my
estimation. I don’t believe in the ‘conld-an’-
withfl(g£e indignation? “wnat right has any
Ord to give his laborer such a miserable
hot to live in? Call such a fellow as that a
gentleman?”
"I didn’t,” reasons the Duchess, mildly.
“I didn’t ca:l him anything; and it wasn’t a
1 indlord either—it wasn’t a gentleman—it was
a farmer. The farmers are always the worst.
No landlord would have treated a laborer so,
at least not one that I know of. Ton think
this a solitary instance; but indeed they are
always so poor and so patient that my heart
bleeds for them; and nothing is done for them
—nothing. If I was Qoeen Victoria—”
“What a little rebel yon are.”
“I am n it, indeed. Ton mistake me. I
quite hate and detest all those wicked men
who incite the people to rebellion, and to mur
der. 1 heartily -condemn all those Leagues
and this iniquitous ‘Plan of Campaign,’ which
will help only to pauperise the already money
less nation. Indeed," looking at him with
large earnest eyes, “I think of no'hing, I dwell
on nothing, but only how best to improve the
miserable condition of the laborers and their
wives ”
“They do seem in want of help, I most say;
but—’’
“Was there ever so mild, so cheerful, so
gracious a people? Always a smile for one
and a civil word! A gentle, loving, domestica
ted people, who want so little—so little—so
little to make them happy Day after day
they toil; and what are tne wages? One shill
ing and sixpence a day; nine shillings a week.
And ont of that they most clothe and feed
wife and children, sometimes so many chil
dren. And rent besidts; because those labor
ers who get a house and a qn-trier of an acre
of ground free, only get six shillings a weekl
To me it is a marvelous thing how all this is
done. Nine shillings a week! What a little
sum; and yet all yon English people (Ah!
Denis, I am afraid yon are only hatf a Paddy!)
accuse these poor creatures of being thriftless,
careless, extravagant! Extravagant on nine
shillings a week!”
‘•I don’t believe I ever said it,” says D-la-
ney, pensively; “and I must protest against
being Anglicised in this sort of way.”
But she will not listen to him
“They never save, yon cry. Save! with
scarcely enough pennies to keep body and
son! together; and yet they do, poor sonls.
They scrape together ooin after coin until they
have enough to buy their pig, and then it, too,
must be fed.”
“I wish yon wouldn’t look at me like that,”
says Dams. “I feel as if I shonld like to cry.
It’s rather mean of you, I think, to bring me
to this lonely spot, where I am beyond succor,
and then illtreat me as yon are domg ”
“Oh! I am not thinking of yon,” says she
scornfully. “I am only thinking of the
poor around me, and I want to make you and
everyone think of them. In spite of all that
can be laid to their charge, I believe them to
be the most endnring, the most long-suffering
race on earth. Do yon kuow that they (I am
talking of the poorer class, the laborers, a
Urge class, remember) never taste meat! It is
not that they don’t have it often, that they
have it only perhaps, on bigb-daya and holi
days—it is that they have it neoer! From
j ear’s end to year’s end they never see it.
Yet how small has been their complaining To
ine it all seems dreadful. I do not wonder at
this hatefnl agitation. I am only surprised
that they have borne with their poverty so long
without open expression of discontent. Why,
one good gown that a woman would buy for
a ball would keep an entire family comfortable
for a year.”
“My dear child, if you were to go Into thatl
Why what a terrible little Communist you
are.”
“Don’t call me names,” says she, langhiDg,
though tears are not far from her. “And, in
deed, my views are not so sweeping as you
would make them ont to be. I know quite
well that the ball dresses most be bought, and
that the poor we most have always with ns.
Bnt it suggests itself to me that they, the poor,
cannot see the necessity for it, and that the in
justice of it, alone, most strike them. Why
should not they be the ones to bay ball dresses,
and we to starve and endure, if only for a
while. Tnm about, would seem to them, I
daretay, only the most meagre fair play.”
“They are not so miserable as yon picture
them. You forget they are a happy-go-lucky
lot, if they are anything; and that they never
think. ’’
So you -believe. Ii don’t And nt all
ve. Il don’
tog mhdr to
i whoaTegoin,
demagogues wnoafe going
their evil paasioM 1 am.
I read the anecA about oar
a papers. Crimas, Indeed, are
committed, heinous, unpardonable crimes; tmt
let them rest on the heads of those who have
incited these foolish, wild, impetuous, "pas
sionate creatures to the performance of them.”
“They are, at all events, happy in having
found an advocate as impetuous and as pas
sionate as themselves. May I say as, dis
loyal?” asks Denis.
“Disloyal! Oh! yon do not nndentmd
them if yon call them that.”
“I confess I do—and therefore I dqp*t—
which thing is an enigma.”
“I have always said, I always will sa/.'^that
they are at heart a very loyal race; a people
who would glory in rallying round their Sov
ereign—if jnst a little civility was shown them.
If their Queen ”
“Ob! come, now, Norah ” a
• WtU, I won’t, then,” smiling faintly. “I
don’t wish to be disloyal in any way, bat it
does seem sach a pity that so little courtesy is
ever shown to Ireland. Every now and thtn
a hand might be held ont to it; bnt England is
favored, and Scotland is rich in its Sovereign’s
love, and Ireland is left ont in the cold. .It
would be such a little thing to bnmor them
now and again. It might be managed at so
small a cost, and it would, I firmly believe,
have prevented all this present misery. Be
sides,” throwing np h« r pretty head with a
little proud gesture. “If I were a qu en, I
shonld think it my duty to be good to ail my
subjects, and I should remember, too, how
many splendid soldiers, how many illustrious
statesmen had given me their hearts, and
arms, and brains, ont of this despised land!”
“Well, yon most confess they have; given
room for contempt, of late.”
“They are an impressionable people, and,
alasl too easily led; but if the right people had
led them, how then? Well, never mind! Out
of every great evil some good arises, and per
haps, who knows, the very poor will at last
gain some benefit from this agitation.”
“It will not help their canae to aarist in
maim-ng inm cent cattle, and beating or throw
ing tar over defenseless girls,” aaya Denis,
with a frown.
“Everything is wrong now, I know,’’ sadly.
“But yon condemn all because of the few.
These neople round hero, how patient, how
cheerful they are, and how deplorably poor.
Oh! if dad and I were rich we would do some
thing for them; bnt,” with a melancholy little
nod. “we haven't a penny between ua.”
“Yet this aeems a good property” aaya
Denis, looking round him.
“I dare say; bnt there is nothing to work it
It enables ns to live, no more.” Here ehe
laughs involuntarily. “I’m hardly a cheerful
companion, am I?” she says, with a swift
sweet glance fall of apology.
“The best I know, at all events,” returns
Denis, earnestly.
Her late fervor has heen a revelation to him.
The esger, upturned face, the impaaelcned
tone, the sparkling eye, have given him a new
insight into the infinite variety of her nature.
“Tell me, Norah,” says he, presently, moved
by some impulse he conld not have explained,
“were you ever—that is—did anyone ever ask
yon to marry him?”
To some, this would have been an embar
rassing question; to others, a rather imperti
nent one. To the Duchess it is a question
pore and simple, nothing more.
4 Never!” ehe responds, promptly. “And
I'm just nineteen. Isn’t it diagraoeful?”
There is, perhaps, a teach of indignation in
her tone. Why shonld she have been thus
slighted above her fellows? “Arid there’s
Lily French, she is younger than I am, yet
there she is in India now,” throwing ont her
hand as though India lies in the recesses of the
near bit of woed, “with a haaMpd a year
old!”
Delaney laughs.
“A youthful groom,” aaya be.
“Oh!” airily, “yon know what I mean Bnt
as for me! Perhaps, after nil,” regarding him
anxiously, “I’m not that aort of giri, Mi?”
“What sort of giri!”
“Attractive, for example. Do yon think it
likely—I mean—that some rime or other some
one will ask me to marry him?” -
“I toink it probable,” drily. ' *
“ Well,” dejectedly, “unless it ia the hatcher
or the baker, or the candlestick-maker, I don’t
sae who else it can be down here.”
4 Do yon want to he married?” asks he,
shat ply, a most nnwarran .able feeling uf an
ger against her rising in his breast. *
“I certainly don’t want to he an old maid!”
An old maid, to my
mind, is a person whom nobody wanted 1 l
shouldn’t like tp feel soal jaot »a that. Dad
says I needn’p^be.frighteDeO: Iiecauee it isn t
pyhe hlood/andvLmpL,,
t*e|wa4*n old maid id the ,. „
and ne can remember-down to his great aunts,
e a whole tribe of cousins, from a first to a
ly-first.”
“That gives a man experience. I must say,
and must be a great support to you ”
“Yes,” with donbt; ‘ bnt still it isn’t con
vincing. Every crime must have a beginning,
ai d I feel as if I were goinr to commit riiia
dne; as if I were going to be the old maid of the
lFlanej s. It’s a real grievance in my case, as
I shan’t ever have the traditional nephews and
nieces upon whom to lavish my rejected afire
tiem. That’s unfair, isn’t it? I think if I am
tribe thus degraded, Nature shonld have sup
plied me with marrying brothers and sisters ”
j&t this they both Hugh, though Delaney’s
mirth >s decidedly half-hearted.
‘•At Ventry,” says he, slowly, as if impelled
to it against his will.. ‘ yon will see others be
side the butcher and'baker. Yon can there
male your choice.”
“Yes; when I go,” doubtfully.
“And you will, Norah?” detaining her on
the hall door steps as they are now about to
n ot ter the house.
“Oh! I don’t know. I must think about it,”
says she, petulantly, rnm-iag away from him.
CHAPTER IX.
“The frankYoons smile.
And the red young mouth, and the Hairs young
sold ”
Whether she does or not is another matter I
One would say ‘not’ for choice, taking note of
the extremely insouciant expression that
marks her face. Bnt if she has disdained to
give the matter thought, not so the Squire.
Long and deep have been hia brood in gs, and as
a result of them be pounces upon her towards
the evening, and drawing her into the dining
room proct eds to unburden his mind.
“Nodolekins, I’ve been thinking,” begins
he, solemnly, seatiug himself gingerly on the
arm of an exceedingly ancient chair.
“No!” exclaims his daughter, with irrever
ent meaning.
“1 have—about this visit, and I think yon
ought to go. I do inoeed, my dear,” seeing
disapprobation in her glance. “It is only right
we should consider yonr future, and cease to
be selfish. I know it will be a tug tor ns both
to part; but your aunt's an influential woman,
ana she can bring you out and show you off a
bit; and I dare say marry you well. Denis
seems to think,” slowly,' “that yon ought to
marry a rich man ”
“Does he indeed?” says the D icheas, with a
tilt of her lovely chin, expreesive of anger.
“I wonler you would let aim speak like that,
dad! And—and I shan’t go either. I can’t
bear strangers.”
“Tu.! You would get used them in no
time.”
* T dare say;by the time I was half dead from
studying them. Their vrayB would not be my
ways, and if I thought them tiresome they
would probably think me odd; and—and if I
were to find anyone laughing at me”—tears
rising to her eyes—“I shonld kill them.”
“And quite right, top,” says the Squire,
pugnaciously, giving her the warmest support.
“I’d like to see the one that would dare do it.
Jus-, send him to me, that’s all!”
‘‘It wouldn’t be a he,” says the Duchess,
with a prophetic sigb. “It would bs a she.”
“Nonsense, my sweetheart. I'd back you
against the lot of ’em. Don’t you be down
hearted, Norah,” turning to her with sadden
anxiety, “can you dance?”
“Like an angel!” oeclares the Duchess, mod-
es ]y springing to her feet. “Do you think there
will be dancing there, dad? I’m all right, so
far, because Othoused to waltz with me all last
winter. 6very afternoon that was wet, in the
big ball; don’t you remember? Yes I can
dance, I kuow!”
“You inherit it ” says the Squire, standing
np himself and beaming with pleasurable re
membrance. “I was a beautiful dancer my
self in my own time There wasn’t one in the
county could hold a candle to me. Not a ball
or a rout I wasn’t at, this side of Cork, to say
nothing of a run up to Dublin now and then,
to show myself at the levees and that. Some
times I’d be up every night for a whole month
at a stretch, dancing dll morning peeped in at
us; and after that came the drive home with
one’s favorite partner through the lovely dawn.
And ’hen up again betimes, and away with the
bonndB may be, and back w th a rush to dress
once more to meet the Macgillicuddy girls at a
ball somewhere. Such laughing, such tearing
as therafwas, and now and again a duel thrown
>p give a filHii/te it. i Qb! ’tis those
-devil's riwnxSnesl” lAasthb Squire,
hoisting with joyLover bJB recollections,
And altogether fcfeeuTB ot his "manners. The
Dachess is evidently bent on encouraging him,
to quite a shameful extant.
“Oa! dad, fie!” says she, shaking a slender
forefinger at him. “I doubt yon were a regu
lar Mohawk in yonr day; a right down rollick
ing Made!”
.‘Only for a year or two, my love, no more—
no more, I assure you,” says the Squire, im
pressively. “Then I met your m >ther at a
bail at the McKenzies, and fell in love with
her. and we wen married in a fortnight Ah!
’twas she was the lovely womanl”
“That goes without saying,” remarks her
Grace, saucily, holding out her skirts with
both hands, and dancing up to an old-fashion
ed mirror, that laughs back at her in answer
to he- own glance. “ V la I'effet,” she says,
asking a charming little move at her own im
age, whilst slowly tripping it to and fro, before
the glass.
“Come, dad,” she cries, casting a glance
back at him, “yon can’t have forgotten it all
yet. Let’s have np the middle and down again,
if onlv to warm our blood.”
She placed her ar us akimbo, and skips np to
him, a most entrancing invita'ion in her eyes.
The Squire is not proof against it He instant
ly takes fire, and in another moment he, too,
is footing it gallantly, with might and main, up
and down the well waxed floor. Indeed, both
father nad daughter are in the middle of a
very finished performance, when Denis opens
the do >r and walks in, to find Norah flashed,
panting, laughing, altogether lovely, and the
Sqoire as the boy he really is, at heart.
-‘Wait a moment, my dear fellow, we have
jnst one figure more,” cries he, unwilling to
cat short his dance. “Oa, Norah, yon rogue,
how fast yen trip it; you’ll be the dea'h of
your dad. Now for a wind np. There! There's
for yocl Did yon ever see anything that conld
beat that, D -nis? How does Bhe dance, eb?”
Pointing to Norah with fatherly pride. “Will
that do for madam, eh?”
“Nonsense, dad,” laughing. “Bnt I can as-
snre yon sir,” dropping a gay lit le curtsey to
Denis, “that I can dance yon something better
than a country dance. A waltz, now, an’ you
wish it; or even a quardrille, at a pinch,
though I confess 1 care n at for such foolish
measures."
“You will come to Ventry, then?” cries the
yonng man, heedless of all save that hope.
“Yon have made np yonr mind to come back
with me."
“Oh! not so fast as that,” says she, shrug
ging her shoulders “I must get There
are things that must be seen to before I can go;
if”—with a hesitation cruelly prolonged—“go
I do.”
“Do not throw another donbt on it. Come,
now, give me your word you will accept my
mother’s invitation.”
4 Well, I suppose so." sighing.
“And when? Now,” turning to his uncle,
“that 1 have obtained her consent, I think I
had better ran ho ue and li-t the mother ont of
her Slough of Despond. Then I can come
beck again for Nontb. When, Norah?
week?”
“Three weeks Not a minute sooner.’
“That will take ns well into August. So be
it, then. Let us say on the fifteenth 1 shall re
turn here for yon, and you will be ready then
to start with me for Ventry on the following
day.”
"As you will,” says the Duchess, in resigned
tone. “If yon both think it necessary that I
shonld see the world, I succumb to superior
force. Thongh bow," looking with growing
melancholy at her father, “yon are ever going
to get on without me, is a dark mystery.”
“I shan’t get on, my love,” says the Squire,
prophetically. ’ Don’t hope for it. I shall re
main where I am—stock still—until yon come
back to me!”
fro bb coirrnsoED.]
In a
A ,t -irUjit i
.Vpr
The Friends (Quakers) recently held their
"yearly meeting” at High Point, North Caro
lina.
Five Hundred Dollars
is the sum Dr. Fierce offtra for the detection
of any caluiuc.1, or other mineral poison or in-
jur-ous drug, in his justly celebrated “Pleasant
Purgative Pellets.” They are a l *>ut the size
of a mustard seed, therefore easily taken, while
their operation is unattended by any griping
pain. Biliousness, sick-hu id ache, bad taste in
the month, and jaundice, yield at ouce before
these “little giants.” Of your druggist.
..Suin nssri
T«E(OlfNTFlY
Philosopher
[Copjrriahted by author. All ri*hta reaarred.]
Nona—Bt «>eeial anancemant with the author o?
tblmsridMa£dtlM» AHwite OwMrihdtoH, for which
paper they are written under a special contract, we
oublieh them in the Stout South under the copy-
ight. No other papers are allowed to publish them.
It ia astonishing what a railroad can do for a
town. Now there is old Monroe, in Walton
county, that was dead for thirty years. It was
not exactly dead, bnt was in what the doctors
call a comatose condition. When the Georgia
railroad was completed to Social Circle, Mon
roe lost her trade and dried up. She had an
old courthouse and a jail and two or three feeble
churches and a school house, and a clean white
sandy street to plaj marbles in, and that was
all. What a grand old place was Monroe half
a century ago, away back when old Governor
Lumpkin lived there in primitive simplicity!
His old log house is there yet, bnt it is weath
er-boarded and ceiled and nobody would sus
pect it was built of logs. The Lumpkins have
been a pewer in the State, and always set a
good example. Howell Cobb used to live in
Monroe, and so did old Judge Hillyer and
Judge James Jackson and Alfred Colquitt, and
ex Governor MiDaniel lives there now. That
makes four Governors who came from that
town, and a chief justice and several judges.
Old Hines Holt, the ancestor of nearly all the
Holts, lived at the Cowpens, three miles from
towo, and there he raised a flick of children
who stood high in the State and held offices of
honor and trust. Old Walter Colquitt lived
there and raised up his noble boys. Hugh A.
Harralson lived there, and I think his daugh
ter, Mrs. General Gordon, was bora there. I
am sure that Mrs. Overby was. I used to visit
Monroe when a youth, for 1 had school mates
there—the Briscoes and S rouds and Hills—
but they are all dead. Every body 1 used to
know there is dead except Dick Walker. Dick
made an impression upon me when I was a
young man. He was the solicitor general and
I was prosecuted for an assault and battery
on a fellow, and I waa sure of being acquitted,
for I felt that I had done right to whip him,
but Dick had a country jury, and I was a
stuck-up town boy, and he told the jury that I
was a very nice young man and my father was
a good citizen, but he thought from the evi
dence that I was getting a little too uppity and
biggety, and that it wou d do me a real benefit
for the jury to set me back a peg or two and
teach me better manners than to frail a coun
tryman with a stick just because he had used
a little bad language to my father. Cincin-
natus Peeples defended me splendidly and
praised me for resenting the insalt, and he said
so many flattering things that I thought I was
quite a hero, but the jury took the starch out ment—ne spra
o? me pretty quick and iound me guiity, and I — “ e walked.
had to stand up and be lectured by Judge ” “
Jackson, and) be fined me- twenty five dollars
T "ut be remitted “ -■**
pretty‘welt
nevtegot
ton to try the negroes that were in jail for riot
and larceny, and burglary, and other offences.
I thought that crime waa on the decrease
among the negroes, for there are not so many
sent to the chamgang, but an officer told me it
was growing worse fnl worse, and the people
were tired-of paoseeuteg them for their little
(thefts. There are thirty now in Carter*ville,
tinder twenty-one years of age, who could be, j
convicted on their own confessions, but the
persons from whom they stole the ctotliing, or
the jewelry, or the goods are content to get the
goods back and 1st the darkey gc—what is to
become of them is the problem. That they
ought to be whipped nobody doubts or denies
and yet our legislature makes no provisions
for it. They hammer away at a reformatory
that is to cost much money and do no goodas
far as the negroes are concerned, but a good
whipping would reform him in thirty minutes.
It us* d to do it in the old times and it would
do it now.
Beside Bethesda’s Pool.
A New Testament Incident Charm
ingly Bendered.
It was a fair Sabbath morning in Jerusalem,
eighteen hundred and more years ago. Many
strangers were in the city, for it was the occa
sion of a great religions festival, and many
must needs visit the far famed pool of Beth-
esda. There the waters poured out with happy
sparkle and murmur, while on the surrounding
porches was a sad crowd of blind, lame, par
alyzed, afflicted pro pie, patiently waiting, each
one hoping to be cared by the miraculous
water. How eagerly they pressed forward at
every sign of that strange stirring of the foun
tain—pushing and crowding with what
strength they had, each anxious to be the one
who should be healed of disease.
Among these “impotent folk” lay one man
who had been helpless for thirty eight years.
Day after day, for weeks, perhaps for months,
he had been brought there and laid down be
side the healing pool. A friend, pjor like
himself, had done this service for him, then
left, hoping that soaSe charitable man would
put him into the water at the right moment.
But among the multitudes who came daily to
receive benefit, for themselves, or to care for
sick friends, there was never one to pity and
help the poor man who could scarcely move
his shrunken limbs and anus.
Often he had looked appealingly at those
who came with new vigor out of the healing
water; but not one, in the joy of restored
health, had thought of the poor cripple. Peo
ple had become accustomed :o the sight of his
helplessness and gave only a careless glance
when he was carried in every morning, and
borne away again in the evening, no better
than before. But he still came, patiently hop
ing that in ibis “house of mercy” some
one would take pity on him, and help him into
the pool. To-day there was a greater throng
than usual about the pool of Bethesda, and the
poor man felt almost hopeless iu his deep sad-
uess—that unspeakable sadness that fibs the
human heart wtien, in a great crowd of people,
one feels utterly alone. Countless faces were
passing and repassiug; but for this poor help
less man not one friendly glance—not even one
kindly word.
Perhaps he had closed his weary eyes to shut
out the sight for a moment, and to send a
pleading prayer to Israel’s God, when a plain
looking man stopped beside his lowl p bed, and
bestowed on him a pitying look. He spoke;—
it was a human voice, and yet, was ever human
voice so sweet?
“Wilt thou be made whole?” ho asked.
The kindness, the tenderness breathed into
the words was like balm of Gilead to the de
spairing heart of the poor cripple. He looked
up only to see a face like all the others around
him, yet touched with a D.viue pity that made
it nnlike any other face on eartu.
“Sir,” he answered, “I have no man when
the water is troubled to put me into the poo!—”
And he looked up hopefully into the face of
the stranger. “This kind man, perhaps, will
help me,” was his thought.
The unknown Friend spoke again: and
across his face there flished a look, and in His
voice there rang the tone of one who must be
obey’d as He give to the helpless man the
strange command, “Rise, take np thy bed and
Instantly the feeble hands he had been try
ing to reach out to this uew Friend grew strong
—disease fell from his body like a cast off gar
ment—he sprang to his feet—he lifted his bed
says that 1 owe it to him wet, whit interest at
8 per cent, per annum. Well, Dtck was right
about it doing me good to be set back a peg or
two. I never had bnt one fight after that, and
then I was on the defensive. I wish these yonng
pistol totera conld go through the same mill
and pay toll. As for them half grown boys
who are killing themielves smoking cigarettes,
they will pay toll in broke’ down constitutions,
and nobody will give them employment, for
they will be no account. I heard Tom Milner
lecturing the boys in the Presbyterian Snnday-
school last Sunday about smoking, bnt the pa*
rents are to blame more than the boys. I went
by the Methodist chnrch the other night just
before the service taagan, and there were three
boys smoking cigarettes in front of the vesti
bule, and the oldest was about thirteen. No
body has any respect for those boys and not
much for their fathers.
Monroe has a railroad now, and has built a
thirty thousand dollar court house, and has a
first class hotel that is well kept, and new brick
stores have been buili, and the town has waked
np and has a brass band and a military com
pany. Court was in session, and I was enter
tained while listening to the sparring of the
young lawyers. They are very familiar with
the Scriptures, 1 know, for one of them said:
“Gentlemen of the jury, the good book tells us
tha: it is better that ninety and nine guilty per
sons should escape rather than one innocent
man shonld suffer.’’ Another said in reply:
4 'Gentlemen of the jury, there is no sach a doc
trine in the Scrip ares. Yon may examine
them lrom Dan to Beersheba, the first book
and the last, and there is no such doctrine
There is something about the angels rejoiciug
more over one sinner that repented than over
ninety-nine who don’t repent”
Walton connty is wet, so is Gwinnett and
Hall, all in a row, and named after our three
signers of the declaration of independence. I
reckon it most be the “Bpirit of ’76’’ that keeps
these counties wet Those old fellows most
have loved their dram, and are still hovering
over their namesakes. Old Gwinnaett did, 1
know. There was a district in old Gwinnett
that was called “Ben Smith’s,” and it used to
be the wettest place in the county. The boys
did as they pleased in that beat, and ths old
’squire was a higher dignitary than the circuit
judge. He claimed original and final jurisdic
tion over everything, and never condescended
to answer a writ of certiorari. About the first
law case 1 ever bad was tried before him. It
was an action for slander. A feller had sued
another feller for thirty dollars worth of slan
der, and I was employed for the defence.
The jury found that my client was guilty, and
most pay the plaintiff three dollars or take’hack
wnat he said; so I made him take it back.
And then the question of costs game up, and
the jury decided that the lawyers should pay
the cost Old Sewell McClung—I wish 1
c-uli see him once more. Sewell was the gen
eral factotum of the district. He was the
constable and the road commissioner and the
postmaster, and when the magistrate was sick
or absent, Sewell acted for him and judgment!
cated the cases. He settled all the naborhood
quarrels and chnrch fosses. He employed the
lawyers for both sides when lawyers were
wanted. He doctored horses for all sorts of
diseases and helped the preacher at all the
baptizings. The district conld not have gotten
along at all without Sewell, and he still lives
as its aged counselor and friend. Bnt the rail
road from Monroe has slipped in there now
and a new set have come to the front. The
narrow gauge was a wonder to those ancient
people, and when one dared to take a ride and
the conductor asked him his destination. “I’m
gwine to Jng avern, Georgy,” be wonld say.
Beyond that was “terra incognita” to the Ben
Smith people. That little road ia a blessing to
that people. It is called the chicken road and
carries thousands of them to Augusta. Nice
little sandy towns are springing np all aloDg
the line. The road is fifty-three miles long
from the Circle to Gainesville—and it is fifty-
three miles from Atlanta to Gainesville and
fifty-two miles from Atlanta to Social Circle—
an equilaieial triangle. There are but few ne
groes along thrt road after yon pass Monroe,
lt is a white man’s country they say and
abounds in chestnuts, chinkapins and chickens
a,ong the ridges and cotton aufl corn and coons
in the low grounds. Those people don’t like
negroes. 1 was talk.ng to some farmers at
Jefferson, and they said they had but few ne-
gioes in that %onnty and were tired of them;
they want them to leave. This is a growing
feeling among the hard working farmers of up
per Georgia. It took a whole week at Jeffer-
Uu ..
■eu-i v*,. ' “1
Bnt where was the wonderful Stranger?
Gonel Yes, the throng had apparently swal
lowed Him np.
- The poor Man attracted attention now. .None
had seen him; egiter the poor/bnt (all saw 1
as be stood there on his feet, rejoicing in re
stored health and new-fonnd strength. He
could only tell of a Stranger who had com
manded him to rise and walk, and he vainly
asked His name.
But afterwards, when he had gene into the
temple, let ns believe, to give thanks to God,
he saw again that face like no other face band
ing over him, and that sweetest of voices said
to him kindly—yet witk authority— 4 Sin no
more, lest a worse thing come onto thee. *
Rachel.
Asiatic Rebellion Gathering Force.
London, Aug. 28 —It is reported at Quetta
that the Northern Ghilzais have rebelled in the
Kitawaz and Gaudez districts under Sudar Mo
hammed Noor Khan, who escaped from India.
The soldiers at Cabtri are passively mutinous,
and if Ayonb Khan crosses the frontier they
will join him.
The Trade of Japan.
Japan’s foreign trade last year was greater
than ever before, and that with the United
States and Canada was greater than with any
other country. But the balance waa all against
us, for while we export to that country about
$3,000,000 worth of goads, we imported from
there no less than $16,000,000 Great Britain’s
trade with Japan was just the reverse of thin
We bought their tea, rice and siiks and paid
cash, and the cash drifted finally into English
products to pay for cotton and woollen goods.
And yet Japan is on our side and not the Brit
ish side of the globe, and her commerce natu
rally belongs to us, and not in the one-sided
way it is carried oa now either.
O ity a gate
Brat with the weight
O! a youth and a maiden a swinging;
O -ly s word.
yonng hearts a-stoging.
Z pbyrshaveh ard
Yet It set both ihelr
O ily s dad
Dreadfully mad
Whose voice s’srts the maiden a-crylng;
Only a youth,
Lifted fora nth.
And sent down the avenn. flying.
O ily a maid.
Grief nnal.'ayed,
Our sympathy’s solace demanding;
O i)y a iwatn.
Doomed to the pain
Jnst now, of partaking lunch standing.
Breaking a Corner.
[From the Wall Street Daily News.] .
In the early days of Michigan, when one
dealer was the source of supply for a large :
territory, a capitalist from the east suddenly
bought up all the tobacco and whisky to be
got hold of in the state. There was no railroad
communication; it was winter and there waa^.
no navigation, and everything promised a big»
profit on the speculation Pr.ces began to creep
up and settlers to inquire and protest, andjthe
capitalist was rubbing his hands and holding*
on, when something happened. He was on
his way to church one Sunday when he was
seized by a band of rough looking pioneers and
carried to the river, where a hole already had
been cat in the ice.
“What is the meaning of this?” he finally
asked.
“It means old prices fnr whisky and terback-
erl” replied the spokesman.
“How?”
Tuey proceeded to enlighten him. Two of
the band gave him a duck into the -vater and,
he was plunged in and hau ed out three times
before he got his breath and said :
“Gentlemtn, tobacco has taken a great
drop!”
“Give him some more!” said the leader and
into the freezing cold water he went again.
When they hauled him oui, blue with cold and
teeth chattering, he observed:
“And whisky is 10 cents a gallon less than
the old price!”
“The money wasted in worse than useless
fireworks in our city,” writes the astute editor,
“would save hundreds of the poor and needy
fiom starvation. Will people ever learn the-
judicious use of money? Here,” he continued,
turning to the office boy, 4 'take that biggest tin
pail there aud go and get it full of beer. Hustle
yourself because I’m dry.”
“Speaking of eccentricities,” said I’ropple-
ton, ‘‘my father is an example. He has no|
cut off his hair since the election of James K.
Polk.” “Indeed ; nis hair must be very long
by this time” “Oh, no, the old gentleman
was bald before Folk was elected.”
What Man Loves.
M in loves the picture fancy paints,
Man loves religion and the saints:
Man loves the beauieous and be fair,
Man loves Ideals everywhere;
Min lov -s the work of na'nre's hand,
Man loves the charm of sea and land;
Man loves the roses on the wall,
Man lovos his dinner most of all
The following may serve to help while away
some long winter evenings:
Can you place a newspaper on the floor h<
BHch a way that two persons can eastly. stanjU
upon it and not be able to tonch one gnothef
with their hands?
Answer .—Yes. By putting the pap
doorway, one-half inside
it, two i
still be bpyond each <
Can you pat one of yonr
other cannot touch it?
Easily; by patting one hand on i
the other arm.
Can yon place a pencil on the floor In Mch a
way that no one can jump over it?
Yes, if I place it cloae enough to the wall of
the room.
Can yon posh a chair through a finger ring?
Yes; by patting a ring on the finger and posh
ing the chair with the finger.
You can pat yourself through a key-hole by
taking a piece of paper with the words “your
self” written upon it and poshing it through
the hole.
Yon can ask a question that no one can an
swer with a “no,” by saying what doe y—o—#
spell?
You can go oat of the room with two legs
and return with six, by bringing along a chair
with yon.
When a man becomes firmly convinced that
he is a genius, it is tnbn that the fringe slowly
begins to form on the bottom of hia trousers’
legs.
“Waiter,” said a gentleman in the dining
car, “have you any gooseberry pie?”
‘•No, sah: hain’t carryin’ any this yeah,
sah.”
“Wby ia that?”
“Well, yon aee, sah, dey’s scace dis seeqm.
and a
Las winter was so oole an<
mighty tough on de
i stormy dak it waa
Latest Foreign Cablegrams Con
densed.
Four fatal accidents to Alpine tourists are
reported from Zurich, making eighteen deaths
iu the Alps within a month.
Wm. O’Brien has been snmmonel’to appear
before a magistrate for making iLflammarory
speeches at Mitchelstown.
The German Government has expelled two
Russian families which resided in the environs
of Berlin.
Viscount Doueraile, of Dublin, who has
been suffering from hydrophobia, resulting
from a fox bite received last January, died a
few days since.
A cattle plague ia ravaging in the south Rus
sian provinces.
Mr. Gladstone, Sir William Vernon Har-
court, Earl Spencer, Mr. Arnold and Mr. John
Morley had a long conference in reference to
the proclamation of the National League.
Seventy-two department councils have elect
ed Republican bureaux and ten have elected
Conservative bureaux in France.
It is said negotiations will shortly be opened
between Germany and France regarding ex
pulsion. France only agrees to negotiate on
the re-opening of the Chambers, reserving,
meanwhile, the right to retaliate for expulsions
from Alsace Lorraine.
The O’Gorman Mahon, Nationalist, has been
elected without oppotition to a seat in the
House of Commons for Carlow, made vacant
by the death of J. A. Blake.
The Soleil aaya England’s opposition to
France’8 annexation of the New Hebrides is
du« to a desire for compensation, which France
could easily grant and quickly terminate the
difficulty.
The International Astronomical Congress
met in Kiel on the 29th, Dr. Anwerapreaiding.
Astronomers were present from America, Aus
tria. Sweden and France.
A sharp earthquake shock, creating great
and wide-spread alarm, was felt in the city of
Mexico on the 29th instant.
A yonng man absent on a trip to Faria,
writes that he has been all through the capital
of France and considerable of hia own.
Much Needed Legislation.
We get a strong picture of what the condi
tion of labor in Holland mnst.be from the in
troduction of a bill in the States-General to pre
vent the employment in factories of children
for unlimited hours, and of women having cnil-
dren less than a month old.
FITS: All Fits stopped free by Dr. Kline’s
Great Nerve Restorer. No Fite after first day’s
use. Marvelous cures. Treatise and 2 00 trial
bottle free to Fit cases. Sand to Dr. Kline,
931 Arch SL Pnila. Pa.
me
Mim : ■ ooant!
“Profeasor,” said a graduate, trying to be
pathetic at parting, “I am indebted to yon '
ail I know.” “Pray don’t mention i
trifle,” was the not very flattering reply.
‘‘George,’’ said the president of a Virginia
railroad to his secretary, “are those pamphlets
descriptive of he scenery along ear route redly
to send ont yet?”
“Yes, sir; all ready.”
“Very well, George. Have the passenger
agents distribute them next week, and the week
alter I’ll change the schedule, so aa to have' all
trains ran through by night.”
fhy dotsbeeutiogaielila brow?
Wny doaa be scowl on ad UHagnjab/l
Why does he set aaln dtapalrr
Wi at M hia trouble now?
Tne strong man baa bam oa stroUe,
abc, sad result, be now turn suite.
“Never take a sulky girl to ride in a boggy.”
aaya Harper's Bazar. No, we shonld prefer a
hansom girl in a phaeton. , ' -' —^r- -
Tourist—Yoa have a fine farm, indeed 1
Farmer—Yea, I reckon it’s one of the beat.
T.—What ia its moat profitable source of in
come.
F.—Sommer boarders.
A good organte will know how to tono Ms
reeds and rend hia tones.
If ail man were to pay aa they go, theca would
be leas going and more paying.
Up inarms—The midnight baby.
A sand witch—A pretty giri in
tome. -
After popping the
to question the Pop.
Bashful lover: “Ah miss,
yonr father. I’ve some im]
propose to him.”
41 Well, I’m sorry father ia not
yon maze the proposal to me?”
cards soon followed.
“We prefer to deal with these
know by their business rej_
ing will give us a ‘square
Cincinnati manufacturing
Rowell & Co., 19 Spruce
“and that ia why we give yoa
iiu i«.... a’ -sa-
H" ' -J*-?**S cub *<
