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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 *<