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Some Things You Know a*
Some You P ’*
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A *35 New
chine reduced tc L iv *
bry’s. ' ? V n - V>
l Messrs. Luth
amsay, Jr., a
esday fa
jubilee.
,4. Simmon.- .fstHw W\' j “
•lie with )
A ftcr t , Decatur atB V'.
_ ininu m./lason, whfampngne ink's Hall—a visit
m the luncheon
great * h's hr 1 dining room and
a present of majr ‘ hot-house flowers
from Sir Ralph lucre, 'parting, we seem-
ed t.o develop into intimacy with
«• est our
neigi mrs. Hardi ay passed without
uncle or nephew < - over to see us_
ok ,
sometimes both. ' Yorke Ferrers,
we had taken bin (jo ; our joint fellow-
fchip without furti inur. and he was
as nint h at home' i an .e school room as
ourselves. . e .
lie and Alfy became great friends; they
Were constantly together walked, talked,
cadi rode, other raced, confided in and fell out with'
in regular boyish fashion, and
for the space of those Christmas holidays
were But well-nigh all'things inseparable.
the holidays must come to an end, and
achieved that result in due
course. The boys went back to school,
including bis Toddy, and Alfred entered upon
first, term at college, and Darbv and I
were left without even the governess to
keep us company, for m.v father consid-
ered I no longer needed one, and I would
never hear of any one but myself teach-
ing the child. '
“May I come over now and then to see
you and enliven your solitude?” Yorke
it errers had asked the day the boys were
leaving.
“If 1 am lonely,” I exclaimed, with sud-
den indignation, as I looked at the four
bright, rosy, boyish faces, a little grave
and downcast as the moment of parting
approached, “if 1 arn lonely you won’t
make any difference—it is the boys I
want. You could never bo the same.”
“I don't doubt that,” he said, with some
of that old huffiness of air and voice that
1 had always the knack of rousing. “I
nover meant to enter into rivalry with
them. I only thought you might be dull.”
“1 nm sure to be that.” 1 answered do-
jectodly. “But I don’t suppose you would
enliven me very much. On the whole, I
would rather have your uncle. He is
more sympathetic.”
He flashed one of bis thunderous looks
nt me.
I will send him, then,” he said, icily;
and stalked off to where Alfy stood, by
the head of the impatient chestnut.
I took no notice. I was used to his
short temper, and 1 knew his anger nevet
lasted very long. The three boys wen
bidding farewell to Darby. Toddy was in
tears, and Ted and Hughie almost in tin
same condition. The child herself was
very pale, and large drops rolled down hei
cheeks as she clang to her favorite Toddy,
Then then came a moment of throttling
ns the strong, warm young arms were
round my neck, and Toddy cried out to
I>arhy: “Be sure you don’t forget me,
duelvsy, and th<> child uttered her usual
formula: “No. 1 won’t,” and with a final
flow of tears and hood-bys they were off.
I went back into the hall with Darby
in my arms. 1 had forgotten all about
Yorke Ferrers.
He does not come near me for a week.
During that week his uncle drops in twice
to share the school room tea, and we in¬
dulge in desultory talk and friendly eon-
fidences, and 1 begin to think him even
kinder, cleverer and more companionable
than l did at first.
But 1 miss Y'orke. I miss him greatly,
llis fun, his little fits of pique, his pay
sallies, even our quarrels and disagree¬
ments—I miss them all. 1 ask Sir Ralph
after him at last, and he says he is al¬
ways out—mostly with the Crofts. The
information gives me a little pang, but 1
say nothing.
One afternoon I start out for a solitary
walk. Darby has a cold, and I leave her
asleep iu my own room under the care
of the nurse. 1 have not been out of
the house for several days, and certainly
this one is not particularly inviting. The
sky is steel-colored and dim; a cold wind
blows over the heath, and I turn aside
and enter the long stretch of wood that
borders it in the hope of escaping its hois-
terous attentions.
There, in the lieart of the wood, loiter-
ing. 1 see the well-known figure of Yorke
Ferrers. For a moment a little pleasura-
Me thrill of gladness runs through my
veins, and involuntarily 1 quicken my
steps. He hears me, I suppose, for he sud-
denly turns round, and then stops, and
awaits my approach.
“Well.” I say. and hold out my hand,
“you are a stranger! I—I have been won-
dering whether you had not started for
the Antipodes, or—or elsewhere.”
“I should have thought you were too
well employed to miss me,” he answers
loftily.
, “Well employed!” 1 echo. “I have only
had my usual employments. You know
pretty well what they are.”
“Only lately they include a guest at
afternoon tea every day.”
“Every day! Then I break off into
sudden laughter. “How absurdly touchy
you are! Why, you will never get on in
life if you take offense at every imagined
trifle. All the same,” 1 add demurely, "I
mu very much obliged to you for so faith¬
fully delivering my message to your uu-
ole."
“lie acted upon your invitation very
readily, I must say.”
"Why did you not come, too?” I ask,
glancing at the moody i'aee-
”lt was so likely V ne
‘T. at least, don’t give my company where
it is not wanted.”
“And so you took offense again!” I say.
“Well, at least you have been amusing
yourself very successfully, from all ac¬
counts. If your uncle took afternoon tea
with me, you took yours with Miss Nettie
Croft.”
“Did he tell you that?” he queries eag¬
erly. “1 suppose,' with a little harsh
laugh, "he wanted to make you jealous.”
“.TeaIons’” 1 repeat angrily "YY hat ab-
surd nonsense you are talking! YY'hy
should 1 be jealous 7 "
“Ah. why?" ue echoes -It
is only fools like myself who suffer from
that complaint. And, after all. I sup¬
pose you never gave a thought to me ail
this week.”
"I gave a great many.” I answer grave¬
ly. "Y'uur uncle aud i talked about you
very often.”
“Thank you for nothing.” he says an¬
grily “I don't care to be discussed iu
that manner.”
“Why are you so bitter against Sir
Ralph?" I ask. "It is so foolish of you to
set yourself against him as you do, aud 1
am sure be feels it.”
“I don’t care if he does." answers Y'orke
doggedly. “I hate him, and 1 always
shall. It is not ouly that he has stepped
between me and fortune: but now he
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ness f
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“houses to thrust himself between me and
mv -my friends. It is very hard.”
“I—I do not think yon should say that.”
I falter. "He has not thrust us away
from you. The boys are just the same.”
“The boys!" he bursts out wrathfully.
Who was talking about the boys? I
was not even thinking of them. I meant
—yon.”
“Me!” I cry, amazed, then stand there
in absolute silence, looking at him as he
looks at me. A sudden light flashes across
me—something that is both pain and
pleasure thrills my heart and sets my
pulses wildly beating; but, for the life of
nm. I can speak no word, and my eyes
fall beneath his own as I see something
‘■ap into their gaze that never yet has
kindled with so hot and fierce an earnest¬
ness.
“Yes, Joan—you!” he answers, coming
i » 15t tle nearer. “If you have not seen I
rare d for you, you must have been very
blind indeed. What else brought me to
J' our K ble every day? What else has mad-
dened me with jealousy—knowing as I
know that I have nothing to offer—that he
hns everything?”
f cannot speak. Dizzy and faint, I lean
a “ainst the straight, slim stem of the
trf> o, and all the scene whirls madly
j before my eyes. Then be holds out bis
i arms, and still with no word, only a
j f ain t and sobbing sigh, I creep into their
j j ^“ul bolter, embrace, after long as one wandering who finds home and
teaVs.
| have f’ or traced onc week I seemed back to the myself to
| 1 Eden. my way to golden
(fates of For one week I lived,
! moved, spoke, slept, as one in a dream.
! 1 saw but one face in earth or sky. i
| beard but one voice in the winds of twi-
: hglit. Life paused and stood for me in
silent, full completeness, and heart and
SO!1 ' were wrapped in a living ecstasy of
j°- v -
I * ,; iy by day he came to me. Evening
after evening we sat by the school room
bre, and talked soft and low of a happy
f' |f >ire—a future we believed in and ex¬
pected to realize with all the sublime au¬
dacity of youth. Sir Ralph had gone to
London. Yorke had decided upon his ea-
! reor ; it was to be the Bar, and his uncle
' bad run up to town, so he told me, to
make the necessary arrangements. We
w °re left to ourselves, my lover and I.
There was no-need to tell any one of our
happy secret, and we told no one. My
father never troubled himself about me.
ri ’“ bim, doubtless, 1 was still a child, and
ui, b no such thoughts as love or rnar-
riage in my head. And one night, through
{, 'f' rain and mist of the wintry dusk, I
strained my eyes to catch the last glimpse
°f the tall young figure I knew so well
a,!, l loved so dearly, then turned back to
the lonely room with streaming eyes and
sad and aching heart.
CHAPTER VI.
It was some two hours later. Darby
was in bed and asleep, and I had excused
myself from dinner on the plea of a bad
headache. Lonely and heart-sick, I had
wandered into the school room, and stood
by the window, listening to the wind as it
sighed through the shrubberies. As I so
stood and listened, I heard the tramp of
horses’ feet, and a moment later the door
was flung open, and Yorke entered. His
hair was wet with the rain, and his face
looked set and pale iu the gloom of the
lire-lit room.
“Has anything happened?” ; cried,
alarmed at his sudden appearanc*
“No,” ho said, “but my uncle 1 pli¬
ed that he would wait my arrival a i.on-
don, so i did not see tho fun of spending
my evening alone, and I took Firefly and
rode over. The truth is-Oh, ruy darl¬
ing!” and his voice broke, and ho drew
me suddenly into his arms, “I didn't half
know what it would he to say good-by to
you, and I have so many things left un¬
told.”
“Come and sit down by the fire,” I said.
“Your coat is quite wet. Oh, how could
you come out in such a terrible night?”
“I am repaid for it,” he said, touching
my lips with passionate fondness. “There,
sweetheart, that will prevent a chill.”
Laughing and blushing, I led him to
his old place. YVe plied logs on the half¬
dying fire, and sat down side by side.
“Now, what is it you have forgotten to
toll tne':" 1 asked. “Oh, Yorke,” nestling
closer to his side, “it was good of you
to eonte again, only 1 am afraid I shall
be stfil more miserable when you leave
really for good.”
“Dear old room!” he said, looking round
nt the shabby, familiar walls and benches.
“How often I shall think of it when I am
away! Joan.” and he grasped my hand
rin>-.^ct f.r>v,.olv. “von must promise me
faithfully that you will not have my uncle
here any more. I want to think of this
room as ours> sacred to these evenings—
to onr lo ve. I should hate to picture you
sit ting here with anyone else.”
promise,” I answered gently. “But,
dear, why have you this foolish jealousy
of F° ur uncle? I know he only thinks of
tne a little girl—a child to talk to. and
amuse himself with; and it will be hard
if 1 must show myself rude and ungra-
eious to him, for he has been very kind,
tuul be is so foiu? of Ibtrby. Yorke, once,
long ago, you promised to tell me the story
of tiiat other Yorke Ferrers. You never
have yet. Tell it me now.”
“1 wish you hadn't asked me,” he said
gloomily, “to-night of all nights. I told
you he was a bad man—vindictive, pas¬
sionate. headstrong. He loved the girl
who was to be his elder brother's wife.
There had been bad blood between them
always, and this made matters worse.
The girl seemed to love him best, but he
was uot the eldest son, and her people
were mercenary, and forced her tc accept
the other. They had been married some
two or three years when Y'orke Ferrers
turned up again in Monk's Hall, appar¬
ently quite friendly and with the old pas¬
sion forgotten. One day there was terri¬
ble grief at the Hall. I.a-'r Ferrers had
fled, leaving her year-old son behind, and
Yorke was her companion. His brother
followed them from place to place, but for
a long time they managed to elude him,
and at last he died of a fever caught iu
Italy. Years afterwards Yorke came to
Monk’s Hall alone. The child was young,
and there had been no guardian appointed.
He took the boy under his charge, but
the lad hated him, aud one day ran to
sea. He was never heard of again. The
property lapsed into the hands of Yorke
Ferrers and his heirs, aud so remained
until-”
"Until when?” I asked as he suddenly
paused.
"Until my uncle claimed it,” he sai
in a low, hard voice. "History repeats
itself, you know. Again a Yorke Ferret -
and a Ralph Ferrers dwell at Moui -
Hall, and again they both love—the sa:
girl.”
“Oh. no—no!” 1 exclaimed, terrified ...
his gloomy tone. “Don’t say that. Yorke!
It is uot true, and eveu if it were-”
“Well?" he asked as I paused.
"Oh, but it could not be." 1 cried vehe¬
mently. and clinging imwe closely to bis
side. "Y'ou are uot wicked and vindic¬
tive like—like that other man.”
“ ’Men are as circumstances make
them. ” t# quoted, with little bitter
a
laugh; “aud 1 have often told you 1 am
no saint, and certainly between my uncle
and me there is no love lost.”
“Oh, Yorke, Yorke,” I cried, half weep-
u - fi V u - 1 * ,f SUcL w ~-V
L>| J* : bold'V 7
..x- °* , \<r™ I-not. suddenly,
1 here. kiss-me, .> /
love, and exorcise the
evil spirit. You should not have asked
for the story—it is not a creditable one,
and 1 hate to hear it or tell it.' Let us
talk of ourselves.”
I listened to his earnest promise, his
vows of faithfulness. I made none my-
self, nor did he ask for them. Ferhaps
he knew well enough that I should be
true—that 1 could not help being true;
and so, with h s young face white and set
and sorrowful, be kissed away my tears
and loosed my clinging arms, and left
me to the silence of long nights and days
whose cold pauses would be filled with
echoes of words he had spoken, of vows
he had vowed, of bitter weeping that nev-
er eased my pain, and futile longings that
lessened even hope.
CHAPTER VII.
Sir Ralph returned from London; but,
tru° to my promise to Yorke, I rather
avoided him now. There were no more
fri< :dly chats by the school room fire—
no A -re afternoon teas.
/.£. to* spring time grew more beauti¬
ful, and the young leaves clothed the
frees, and all the dark and frozen calm of
winter was displaced, so did I, in my
turn, seem to breathe new life, and tread
the earth with lighter step, and grow glad
with a chastened, gentle gladness that
such things as beauty, and love, and im¬
mortality had been given to mortals, mak¬
ing so fair a world, promising so holy a
future.
I kept my secret still to myself. Per¬
haps I kept it all the more closely because
some vague uneasiness was in my mind;
a doubt that, even to myself, 1 scarcely
whispered, as to whether Yorke’s letters
were quite as frank, and long, and confi¬
dential as they had used to be. This
doubt in time grew into trouble, as one
day Alfred came from Monk’s Hall with
the news that Sir Ralph had gone to Lon¬
don on business connected with his
nephew.
“To tell the truth,” he added, “I think
Master Y'orke is going the pace a little
too fast, and Sir Ralph wants to bring
him to book.”
The words gave me a dreadful shock. I
dared not ask for an explanation. That
week I had no letter at all from Yorke.
I began to consider whether I should tell
Yorke what I had heard or trust to his
candor to confess it.
He wrote at last. A letter full of apol¬
ogies, excuses and tender little phrases,
but with no word of what I had expected
to hear and just a brief mention of his.
uncle’s visit. I felt disappointed, but I
could not press for an unoffered confi¬
dence, and I told myself that, after all,
there might only have been, some business
affair to take Sir Ralph to town.
The next time he called I ventured to
ask him timidly how Yorke was getting
on, but he looked very stern indeed and
answered:
“Idling, as usual! When a young man
goes to bed at two or three in the morn¬
ing, and* 3 rises at noon, he hasn’t much
time or inclination for work.”
I was silent and grievously disappoint¬
ed. I thought of the three years that
were to work such wonders; one was more
than half over, but the results did not
seem promising.
I ventured to write a gentle remon¬
strance to Y'orke. In reply I received a
passionate, wrathful outburst that almost
frightened me.
“So my uncle has been at work trying
to undermine me in your opinion?” he
wrote. “Is this your love—to listen to
tales of me behind my back? If I have
been a little unfortunate, it is not quite
my own fault. You have no idea what
. constantly arising, and a fel¬
low must live like a gentleman. Sir
Ralph is a regular miser. He actually
refused me a paltry twenty pounds to pay
my tailor, and has put me in a nice hole.
Said my allowance was ample, and I must
make it do. 1 always told you I hated
him. Oh, Joan, I am an unfortunate
wretch! But don't you turn against me.
Remember, whatever my faults are, I love
you, and I look to you to keep me straight
—a sort of sheet-anchor for my own wav¬
ering temperament. I hope you don’t dis¬
cuss me with Sir Ralph. I distinctly ob¬
ject to that, and I hate even to think of
your lending an ear to his malicious ac¬
counts of me; anyone could see why he
tells you them—it is just jealousy.”
This letter fell darkly upon my ideal¬
ized picture of my lover, blotting out its
bright colors and showing to me the plain,
faulty and by no means perfect reality.
It seemed to tear my soul with a light¬
ning fla^h of pain, for all that I tried to
see it in its best aspect, or excuse it by my
own knowledge of Yorke’s short and un¬
certain temper.
For long I could not bring myself to an¬
swer it. But then pity and softness broke
down the barriers I had raised, and led
me to plead against my own convictions.
“We are all weak, erring, faulty, more
or less,” I said to myself, and schooled
myself to write tenderly, encouragingly as
ever.
With the letter I inclosed a check for
twenty pounds, the quarterly allowance
for my dress and Darby’s. “I do not need
it,” I told him. “and I have a horror of
debt. Take it. and say nothing about it,
or I shall never forgive you.”
He obeyed me.
CHAPTER VIII.
The summer faded away darkly amid
storms of wind and rain, but the autumn
days were miid and bright, and full of
sunshine, and I should have been very
haitpy and content but for the
uneasiness I felt regarding Yorke Ferrers.
His letters seemed to me colder in tone,
and more uncertain in dispatch. Some¬
times for a whole week he would not
write. Then would come excuses and
ap logics, and fervid expressions of love
mingled with increasing complaints as to
“worries” and “bothers,” the nature of
which I could not comprehend, and he
never attempted to explain.
1 tried to be patient, but it was very
hard, and when one day Sir Ralph start¬
ed hurriedly off to London on “business,”
1 grew very uneasy, and resolved to ask
h in point-blank on his return what were
these troubles of his nephew.
'.Y'hile he was away 1 observed to my
r-eat surprise that father took to paying
j ' - visits few in moments our quiet at room, time, dropping sitting bj in
j ' r a a
> Jarhy’s side, and chatting to her in a
uiderous but would-be friendly fashion.
I noticed, too. that at times a look of trou¬
ble and anxiety would steal over hi s hard,
stern features, and that he would roam
restlessly from room to room, as if un¬
able to settle to his usual pursuits.
One night, as 1 sat with Darby by the
fire, my father entered the room. I was
so used to his presence now that 1 only
looked an invitation to the vacant chair
opposite, and he seated himself in it with
out more ado.
“Is she asleep?” he asked presently.
"Yes.” 1 said in a whisper, for it was
nor often the child bad rest,
"I—I wanted to talk to you.” he said
in a subdued voice. "Can you lay her
1 on the bed for a while?"
Wondering a little at the - unwonted
gravity of his face and voice, I took the
cinid oyer to the bed and gently laid her
there and covered her with shawls.
"I—I baldly know how to tell you.” he
said at last, as I sat awaiting the com-
numieation: “but 1 have had a serious loss
lately—a money loss. I cannot say any
one is to blame. It was an investment—”
"Yes?” I said interrogatively.
“An unfortunate investment,” he went
on. looking gloomily at the fire. "I —1
never understood much about money mat¬
ters. I trusted to my lawyer, a sharp.
clever fellow, so I thought. Well, he was
.'Sr?
f
----^ ^ *C? gif .
, lie
—■■ ...... ■ r Oij*oV>‘ ■' i —* wn nest, ^
jj as decampkh.^l'/buy affairs are in an
awful state, so Ferrers says.”
•
i Ferrers!” I echoed in surprise. “Do
| you mean Sir RalphV”
| “Of course I do. lie has been in Lon-
j | don much looking into I—I things shall for have me. but it's
not use. to go my*
; self. If,” brightening suddenly, “I could
find a publisher for my book, that would
j subject-” bo a help up the hill, but you see the
i
i “Is not exactly popular, perhaps,” I
suggested,
He looked at mo sharply,
“It is a great work,” he said coldly,
“No doubt,” I answered with due rueek-
ness; “but it is the great works, is it not.
that are so difficult to publish? The little,
insignificant ones go off easily enough.”
“Yes, that is so,” he agreed. “Well,
Joan, what I specially wanted to say is
this. The doctor tell? me that the child
ought to spend this winter out of Eng¬
land—Nice. Mentone, some of those
places. If it had not been for this—this
most unfortunate affair. I should have
sent you both away at once. As it is. I
really have not the means. The boys are
a great expense. In fact, as it is. Alfred
will have to leave college, and it is a ques¬
tion of three or four hundred pounds to
send you and the child and nurse away
for six or eight months. At present, and
indeed for the next quarter, I cau't lay
my hands upon fifty.”
I felt a sudden tightening at my throat.
I looked up. scared and anxious.
“Is she—is she in danger?” I asked,
breathlessly.
The question of t»;e money passed me
by; I only thought of Darby.
“Danger?” he said, vaguely. “Well. I
don’t know if there is danger. She is a
fragile little thing. But we must hope
for the best. That is all.”
“All?” I said, and rose and stood be¬
fore him. trembling in every limb. “No,,
it is not all. Do you know what she is to
me? More than my life—my mother's
last charge. There is nothing—nothing 1
would not do for her. If it is to save her
life—the money must be found.”
“Then,” ho said, rising, too, and facing
me with that new, troubled look in his
eyes, “I must trust to you to find it—I
cannot.”
There came a little cry from the bed—
lovr. faint, exceeding weak. 1 was by my
child’s side in a moment; her head was
resting on my heart.
“Me can’t sleep, Jo,” she said, piteously,
“and me’s so tired. Tell me a story.”
And so, with eyes that slow tears
scorched with pain, and voree that trem¬
bled in unsteady modulations, I put my
grief and terror on one side, and told her
one of those fairy legends that she loved.
It was Andersen's story of "The Little
Mermaid.”
“Why, Jo,” she said, wonderingly, as
she touched my face when the story drew
to its end, “you are crying! Is you so very
sorry for her?”
“Yes, darling,” I said, struggling
against my weakness. “Are not you?
Think of all the cruel pain she bore, and
how she loved the Prince, and then it was
all for nothing. He married the Prin¬
cess.”
“But he did not know,” said Darby,
thoughtfully. “Why did she not tell him
how she loved him, and all about the
fiss’ tail?”
“Because,” I said, “no woman must tell
a man she loves him until he asks her.”
There came a faint sigh at those words
from some one standing behind me, and
suddenly I looked up aud saw Sir Ralph
Ferrers. He had entered so noiselessly
we had not heard him. I sprang to my
.feet. I felt so glad to see that kind, fa¬
miliar face once more.
“When did you come back?” I cried, de¬
lightedly. “Have you been standing there
long? I never heard you.”
“Not very long,” he answered, holding
my hands in his warm, strong clasp. “Just
long enough to hear the little mermaid’s
tragic end. Now, little one, what does
this mean? Didn’t you promise me you
were going to get better?”
Darby nestled closely to him, her face
radiant.
“I is better,” she said, emphatically.
“Would my little girl like to go where
there is no cold and damp, only blue sky,
and beautiful flowers, and warm, bright
sunshine all the day?” he asked, gently.
“Ob. yes,” cried Darby, eagerly. “Does
you mean heaven?”
“No, no!” he ejaculated, sharply. “No,
no, child! If it is heaven, it is an earthly
one. But you would get well and strong
there—so the doctors say; and we must
see about taking you.”
“Why did you tell her?” I broke in, bit¬
terly. “You know it is impossible!”
“I know nothing of the sort,” he said,
cheerfully. “We shall summon the fairy
godmother—eh, Darby? and she will bring
chariots and horses, and all the rest of it,
and whirl you off before you’ve time to
think of it.”
“And Jo?” questioned the child eagerly.
“Will Jo come—and you?”
“Certainly Jo will come,” he said, look¬
ing humorously at me. “And I—if I am
permitted.”
The color came and went in my face. I
could not understand whether he was jest-
ins or iu earnest.
“You— you have brought some good
news back,” I cried, trenfbling. "Father's
affairs are not so bad as be thought?”
“No.” he said gently: “not half so bad.”
“And we can go to Nice?” 1 said, clasp¬
ing nty hands and looking at him as if be
were the saviour of my life, as, indeed,
1 thought him then.
“As soon as you please,” he answered,
smiling at my rapturous face.
“Oh!” I cried, and bent my head to hide
my glad relief—relief so great that it
threatened to overwhelm me with emo¬
tion.
He laid his hand gently on my bowed
head.
“Do not fret any more,” he said; “it
will he all right now.”
“Fret?” 1 cried, and raised my head and
dashed away the sudden mist of tears.
“Oh. it is not that! It is the hope, the
joy, when all seemed darkest.”
“Y'es,” he said in the same gentle way.
“Were you afraid it could not be man¬
aged ?”
“Indeed I was. Do you remember,” I
went on gaily, “once before 1 called you a
magician? I think I was right!”
“Do you? It is very nice of you to say
so. It makes me happy to think I have
ever been of a little use to you.”
“A little!” I cried. “Y’ou are the best
and kindest friend I have ever had. At
least-” and I broke into a little happy
laugh. “I have never had any friend at
all before; bur that doesn't matter—I can't
imagine a better.”
“Don’t praise me too much,” be said, a
little sadly. I thought. “I may not be so
disinterested as you imagine."
“Come here.” said Darby's little voice
imperatively; “me wants to bear about the
beautiful place.”
As my joy sobered down I remembered
Yorke. and my resolve to question his
uncle about him. It needed a great deal of
courage to speak naturally and lightly on
the subject. The friendly dusk cn-jit on
apace. Tbe voices by the bed crew softer
, and more silent; at last they ceased. Tinn
8tr Ralph came over and sat down by tlw
hre. 1 gathered up nay nerves for an ef-
j fort, and burst out suddenly:
“Is—is your nephew quite well?”
There was a little pause; then, to my
great surprise, he said calmly:
“I did not see him.”
“You did not see him!" I faltered. “How
was that?”
“He was not in I^ondon.”
“Where has he gone?" I exclaimed, anx-
} e ty sweeping away all prudence.
“That 1 could not 1 he
swered gravely, but not seeming SUI
prised at my curiosity. “But I fancy to
Boulogne.”
I was silent. My heart beat slowly,
painfully—a strange singing noise was iu
my ears.
“There is something more!” I cried out
suddenly, and a little tongue of dame
leaped up in the grate at that moment,
and showed me a pale face, sternly set.
that looked up to my own. “What has ho
done?" And doubt strove within me and
struck jarringly the keynote of my trust.
"Is it only—debt?”
“It is worse.” said Sir Ralph slowly,
and a whole history seemed ro be written
in the grave lines of his face, and the
dark gleam in his troubled eyes. "1 can’t
tell you the story—it is not one for a young
girl's ears. Besides, he was your broth¬
er's friend.”
“Yes,” I answered mechanically, keep¬
ing my hands tightly clasped as if to re¬
press the cry of longing that would fain
have burst from heart to lip: “he
my brother's friend. Tnat,~* warn a sud¬
den burst of courage, “is why I must ask
you for the truth. What concerns the
boys concerns me, yon know. Will you
tell me a little more?”
“I hardly know how to put it.” he said
doubtfully.
“Do not put it at all,” I said, with mo¬
mentary desperation. “I dare say 1 can
guess. It is—it is—about a woman.”
The little flame died down, a sudden
dimness shrouded him, and to my ears
his voice came low and stern as I had
never heard it yet.
"Y'es,” he said; “it is about a woman.”
(To be continued.)
Compressed Air as Motive Power.
The attention of inventors has been
so concentrated on electricity and its
possibilities that compressed air, which
is almost as wonderPT in its capabil¬
ities. has been quite lost fight of. Just
what it is capable of we cannot as yet
understand, but we do know that it
runs locomotives, transfers the United
States mails, hurls the charge of au
explosive a mile and a half, with a
force sufficient to pulverize a regiment.
It operates block-signals on railroads,
loads guns, drives machinery, works
pumps, and carves out all sorts of
beautiful things from stone and mar¬
ble. It is coming Into use for thou¬
sands of minor purposes. As a clean¬
ing and dusting agent, it is invaluable.
It copies letters, shears sheep and is
utilized in the stock-yards to slaughter
and dress meat. As to its future, pre¬
diction is made that it will clean house,
run dumb-waiters, take the piace of
the horse as a means of locomotion,
will wash dishes cud rock the baby.
There aro inventors who declare that
compressed air is already quite as use¬
ful as electricity, and much safer and
more manageable. To bring it into its
best uses, large distributing stations
mus‘. be built, from which compressed
air will ome as we now get gas and
water. There will, no doubt, be a
sharp rivalry between tin- two great
powers, electricity and compressed air;
and between the two we ought to be
able to get most of our minor services
well and cheaply performed.
George Isaac, a German scientist,
and three assistants were blown to
atoms by an explosion of acetylene gas
on Dee. 12 . It is said that he believed
he had discovered a non-explosive va¬
riety of acetylene, and that Emperor
William had been attracted by his ex¬
periments with the manufacture of the
gas, and was soon to visit his labora¬
tory.
Statistics of life insurance show that
in the last twenty-five years the aver¬
age woman’s life has increased from
about 42 years to nearly 40 , or more
than 8 per cent.
TRAMPS AND HOBOES,
The Difference Is that One Can Be Saved and
the Other Can.iot.
A tramp is not a bobo; a hobo is
cot a tramp; a vagrant is neither; a
criminal is none of these. A tramp is
a man of such mental make-up that
he lias no higher aim than to exist
and have “a little fun” occasionally;
avoiding responsibility and restraint
and all manners of mental concentra¬
tion, says a writer in the Forum. He
will walk only when lie cannot ride,
and will work himself tired going
from house to house rather than ac¬
cept a job ifi the promise of a meal.
The term "hobo” was not originally
of evil significance. It originated in
the west, when the great t de of hu¬
manity swept in that direction; and
it was applied to the many who, fail¬
ing of their first hopes, were forced to
the necessity of tramping from com¬
munity to community in quest of em¬
ployment. A hobo is a b tter sort ot
man than a tramp, has more self-re¬
spect, is usually young, and may, I
believe, be called a tramp in the first
stage. Many hoboes are nv rc*:y men
out of work who were forced to the
road by circumstances which they
could not control.
A vagrant loafs around a town as
lonn as lie can. He docs not jump
trains—he lacks the spirit to do that
—hut he may sneak into a box car.
lie is often a “grafter”—that is, he
blisters his arm, pretends to be para
lyzed, sells pencils, tells pitiful tales
of former brilliant prospects, or what
not; and, very lively, h: s the wlrskey
or opium habit. Hoboes are never
“grafters,” though tlmy may or may
uot have the habits just, ment oued.
Y'ery few genuine Lamps resort to
the grafting scheme.
Hoboes are products oi mdnstriai
conditions and the attitude of society
toward unfortunate able-bodied nun.
It would be interesting t » inqui.e
how many hoboes have dr.ft d into
our regular army and mad • ;.o d sol-
diers, and how many responded to the
President's call for volunteers.
Tramps are tramps by natur 1 bent,
seconded by early training. You s d-
dom find an Old hobo—til r* nr ‘ many
old tramps. A hoi o will lot b c me
a tramp if he can help it. You
can hardly save the tramo—he is too
far gone. Let him alone and save the
hoboes. an l the tramp p -ob'em wi 1
be, to a large extent, solved, Most
of the 100.000 men on the to d to day
are hoboes. They can be saved.
Should Bt mo qoiik inr It.
“If I sboulrj, try to kiss ycu I sup-
pose you wouffl cell for help,” he said.
inquiringly. If >ou aie eo e\ena»(.- ,
ingly slow that a ca>. for ue.p v. ju.c!
do any good, she rc "^ ) J
serve you just right >f I d-L Chicag ,,
Post.
* PUZZLE — DEPARTMErCi.* ?!
y 3 f*
The solutions to these puzzles will ap¬
pear in a succeeding issue.
____
___ 2 -__
5.—A Uouble Acrostic.
j j 1. A place of burial.
j 2. A person famed for noble action.
3. A masculine name.
4. To injure.
5 . A preposition.
0 . A plant.
The finals give the name of a city.
The primals give the city’s nick¬
name.
C>.—An Hour-Glass.
* * *
* ♦ *
*
* * *
* *
*
* *
* * * »
I. Murmers of discontent. 2. Con¬
tinuing for a long time. 3. A god¬
dess. 4. A short, sleep. 5. A eon-
sonant’pn Prefect nm. 6. A kind of
vehicle. 7. A dart. 8. A kind of
plate. 9. A place for walking.
Centrals— A great historical charac-
ter.
".—Three Burled Cities aud One Buried
State.
1. After whist, bezique became the
fashionable game, 2. In the next
chapter, the character of Imogene
vanished entirely, 3. There fell a
large bomb a yard or two from where
I was standing, 4. I found Ernest
exasperated at the unjust treatment
he had received.
8.—Five Pied I.akes of tUe United States.
1. Aeerrsty. 2. Ellstum. 3. Ade-
ion. 4. Ddmmomu*. 5. Cedgskiw.
Solutions to Previous Puzzles.
1. —A Geographical Charade.—On-
tar-io.
2. —A Proverb Puzzle,—A rolling
stone gathers no moss.
3. —A Diamond—
I>
LEE
D E W E Y
EEL
Y
4.—A Decapitation—Broil, roil,oil, 1
--.
PRICE OF PEACE IN AFRICA.
Stanley Quieted Hostile Savages With Six
Yards Of Sheeting.
<tcs Suddenly u i i looking i ■ aronml -i ™ «nv
witu dismay about a hundred natives
far m war costume standing m a mass not
from our camp, writes Henry M.
Stanley, the African explorer, in tho
Ladies’ Home Journal, descriptive of
au encounter with the savages during
one of his early trips into Africa.
“Each head was crowned with tall
plumes of eagle and kite, or with'
manes of zebra and giraffe. We felt 1
that in some way we were the objectj
of the gathering. Even while we gazed
other warriors arrayed for battle came
streaming along.
“My men instinctively bucked on*
their accoutrements and prepared
their weapons, and I sent two guides!
out to the natives to parley quietly
with them, and to ascertain (
whether;
they had aimed against us, and while
tho interview lasted Hound the neces-
sary time to make a ±ew preparations!
to meet any unreasonableness. •
The guides on returning to us re-|
ported that the gathering was hostile
because one of our men, it was said,!
had stolen a calabash of milk andi
, Th* . , ,
’
ment ment. ine price was torn yards oi
sheeting! felt tempted to laugh;
that such a small matter should wear
so serious an aspect. The cloth was
measured, aud handed to the guides!
with the injunction to present it with-:
out any offensive remark, and I kadi
the impression that the affair w r ould!
soon be settled. It was confirmed
seeing them accept the cloth and pre-j
pare to depart. But the aboriginal;
nature is a curious one. The number 1
,
of the natives had increased enor-;
mously. Each fresh squad had 1
brought its own leader, aud these new
leaders, greedy or envious, demanded
satisfaction. They halted those who
held the cloth and clamorously
wrangled with them. From their
fierce gestures I judged their predatory
instincts were fully aroused, and thatj
the hot dispute would end iu mutual;
slaughter, but presently the mass 1
aligned itself at a bow-shot from thCj
camp, while a body of about two hun-!
dred natives started off on a dog-trot
toward a thick bush behind the camp.'
Efforts to avoid a fight eventually;
failed.”
PP e- e eer.
ne ameness of the deer in ^ Maine
is remarkable. _ hey caurn witu cuttie
m the pastures and make tnemselves
at home iu barnyards, while a few
cases are reported where men nave
ma i l0 pet ? °*. ^ eel a uc ^ aKOwe d them
to *atten in their orchards, , sc that the
animals mi gho be good and fat when
tne shooting season opened. Such an
apple-fed deer was brought to Bangor
recently and it is asserted that the
fiuit diet will gieatly improve tne
flavor of the meat.
A man wno was carting _ a , load 3 of
apples along the road to Ellsworth,
the other day, had a strange experi¬
ence with hungry deer. The cart
bvoke down, and the man decided to
camp out ou the road for the night.
At midnigat he was awakened by a
crunching noise and found his outfit
surrounded by a heru oi deer «no
j were nelping tnemselves to the apples
m the crates and boxes. Tne man
hau a gun, but it was one day before
open time, and he had too much re-
sped lor the law to shoot. New York
! ^ uu *
The Heaviest Man on Karth.
If greatest were the test of avoir-
dupois the place of honor would be
filled by Maurice Canon, a native of
the small frontier town of Stein, iu
the State of Constance. This mau is
-A! 1 to weigh not less than fifty stone,
and may ctaiia to be the heaviest man
on earth. He measures over 100
inches around the waist and sixty-
four around the thigh. His enormous
weight does not apparently incon¬
venience him, for he i3 active and in
robust health. He is a well-to-do,
middle-aged farmer, and, though his;
gautic proportions naturally make
aim aa object of cariosity to his neigh-
bars, he has declined all offers to
stray from his native fields,—Human-
itaatto.
2*
A STANDBY. ;
•-
One? more those words of kindaesi
sound, i
“Next year.”
The chorus heartfelt and profound 3
We hear.
The ills which gather and pursue
Will certainly give way unto
The good, the beautiful and true
Next year.
Tt was a summer full of woe,
That's clear.
But days with kinder hopes aglow
Draw near.
The mills will run and never stop:
Each farm will yield a paying crop:
* Our baseball club will reach the top
Next year.
■
These good intentions wise men must
Kevere.
So let us gentle be and just, 3
Nor snoer. r m
If they should fail—these prospect*
gay— -1
The prophets in their cheery way
Will bravely come again and say
“Next year.”
—Washington Star.
PITH AND POINT. '
If the minister likes he can count
his marriage ceremonies by knots. j
A Georgia editor described a <1$-.
faulter as “six feet tall and $10,000'
short.”
“I believe your grandfather wa3 fi
minute man?” “Yes; he died iu hi®
sixty-second year.”
“Your office is as hot as an ov»n;*,^
Merchant—“Well it might be. know.’^ %
make my daily bread here, you
It isn’t much to the worm’s credit
to barrel-hoop turn when will do trod the upon; thing.-®* any ol^
same
Chicago News. a
She—“And yon expect “m9 to" re-;
turn your affection?” He—“Not
bit of it. I’d rather have a little of i
yours.”—Boston “Katharine, you Transcript. will always fiucC j
me au indulgent husband.” indulgent-td* “Do you-
mean indulgent to me or
yourself?”—Chicago Record.
Many dye to-day
Who never dyed before.
And those who ort havo dyed
Now dye the more.
-Life.A
Inquisitive Tommy—“Wliat Grandpa* is &
court of law, grandpa?”
(who has lost a law suit)—“A plaoa
where they dispense with justice.”—
New York News. 1 ■
Mrs. Good—“My poor man, art!
you married?” Soiled Spooner-i-* al-j
“No’rn; I got dis limited look from
ways bein’ chased from place to place'
by dt police.^ Jud 0 e. •
Hicks—“You want to know if
Innerby J loves that girl. “ Why, win-, ho
a(tnall , 0VM her fa lt ,.» ^
-
„ Jjac]; ..(_| irl , gho has so
kllow os t on Transcript,
11T In '-’boosing . wife,’ .. .
a says an «-
^ange, “be governed by her chin.”,
^he worst ol it is, that after choosing
a wifo D1 ie is a P t to ke0 P on bein »
go yernei l i . n the same way.
Madeline—“He proposed to her
while they were iu the surf.” Gladys
—-“Did she accept?” Madeline-®!
“She threw cold water on liim.”—J
Philadelphia North American, J
“At one time,” began tho great
grandee, “the kingdom world?” of Spain did?”w ran)
clear around tho “It
replied the pessimistic then?”-—^ peasant.-
“Who was making it run
Puck.
you will let me have those rosek
j give you a kis 3 for each of then! 1
—i-, u ^ why do you run away? How
ru q e G f you!” He—“One moment; I
am going for some more roses !”—•
Standard. i 1
t(T ‘ . ‘ yoa vant , k. , , leave footprmt* , , .
on the sands of time? asked the men-
“-No,” answered the young man,
who ia aiabif; i oas bufc ] azy . “p*
* , carnage carriage ruts ruts. ”—Wash-1 wasn^
011 °“ 11, ^
The grasshopper has, according to,
Jt 5 size > 120 times tbe kicking power,
°. f ^ h0 uv era S e man - u must be ex *
ciii n o times . for the young grass-,
hoppers which go courting and find
^ be mau at k° me - •-
start Bill—“Why for the Klondike? doesn’t your I under-] friend^
stand he’s saved money enough to'
get out there.” Jill—“Yes; but corno] Ue’k
waiting until he get3 enough to
back with.”—Yonkers Statesman. ■
--------------
. The Heron's “Powder Down” Spots, v
An examination of herons and cer-
tain other birds show3 that whether
the light has been seen or not therQ
are singular spots upon birds that are’
well adapted to produce it. These are|
familiar to anyone who has examined'
herons, and are called “powder down’*
spots. One, and usually the most con¬
spicuous, is on the breast and in the
exact spot where the light was seen by
the sportsman. Pushing the featherfit’
aside there is apparent a secretion of*
some oily substance and a continuous
decay of the base of the feathers which;
resu R s j u an accumulation of yellow
matter uot unlike phosphorous. This
is the powder down patch, and if tha
featber8 are disturbed the yellow pol-
Jen-like matter drops out and imparts
Q ^ v na t, ire to the surrounding
feathers> That there is a chemical
destruction of a part of the feathers ia
ve ry evident aud the decomposition
might weil be accompanied by the :
phenomenon of phosphorescence which
is a common feature of so many ani-
mals and plants . j
3
Purified the Spot ne Had Sat On.
Outside a certaia native bazaar ia-
Egypt a Frenchman sat bnsilv paint*
ing> Inside sat tbe dasky salesman.!
Unlike most other bazaar keepers, he
bad aud not instantly shut everything up‘
made himself scarce as soon as he
paw that be aud bis belongings were
being photographed. He simply sat
stolidly there. The Frenchman, hav-
finished, packed up his traps and
disappeared. Then the bazaar keeper
gave a quiet order, and a youth came
out with a thurible iu his hand filled
with burning incense, and carefully
and slowly incensed every inch of the
spot the , i rencamua . ha . t occupied . . and _
J ae !* hole 0 * the un-a - > ate neignbor-
boud as we ‘" ^ew aoroi I res3.
lie Kerigeu His l’roycr.
A little United 8tales boy, having
been initiated into toe methods of
government of various con itries, and
earnestly instructed as to tne superior¬
ity of those obtaining iu his own land,
thus astonished his in . r at prayer-
sime: “OurFatiie>% ’ C:) c iu Heaven,
[(allowedbe Thy n • m; T ty republic
come—mother, 1 w . . y again for a
kingdom!” And he a coiiiiuued to
revise his prayer o i t icoC lines.—
Toronto Saturday NT^hi. -t