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S. Some ThfnfS^y ou Know an Some You Don’t. A $35 New i 1 , ■ chine bry ’ reduced to , 'JSfJ s . ‘f ' 'ii veek society — J acquisition IX. My jea I>V- McCurn at once took fire. At Sir *nt the old fierce, resentful anger ;\ve re.Yorke seized me. The latter s silen.r pgravated my feel¬ ings against him. * not write to him; I could not, even “et, v 1 ' felt so inclined. Of what use wouk r,ve been, since he bad and I left my last t r fitters unanswered did not eveR at v Ids address? A week later D ’d I and the nurse, with Sir Ralph r?.£ a hairier, started for Nice. There Sir KfUfm rented a pretty ▼ilia for us, while he took up his quar¬ ters at tho neighboring hotel. There wo remained for weeks and months, while Darby grew well and strong again. And all this while I did not hear a word from Y'orke. One summer day Sir Ralph took ns all out for a sail and while we were drifting along over the blue waters of the Mediterranean confessed his love for me and asked me whether I could not return it. 11 is manner in making the pro¬ posal was so delicate, so gentle, I fairly began to long that I could find it in my heart to respond in the way he desired. But I could do no more than be silent, and he rightly interpreted that to mean that I had no love to give him. “I might have known it,” he said bit¬ terly. “I never meant to tell you; only just now the feeling grew too strong for me. Do not think of it any more. Let ns at least be friends.” “l r es,” I said eagerly, and finding voice at the same moment as I found relief. “We can always be that. I should bo so —so sorry if we could not.” After that Sir Ralph busied himself in the manage¬ ment of the boat. Suddenly a storm bore down upon us, one of those fierce, sudden squalls which spring up on the Mediter¬ ranean, and I firmly believe but for Sir Ralph’s able seamanship the vessel would have foundered and we should have all been drowned. As it was we weathered the storm, though vve landed in a drenched condition. Sir Ralph hurried us to the villa, while he went to the hotel to change his drip¬ ping garments. When we had changed our clothing and I had found, to 1113' great Joy, that Darby had suffered no harm from the exposure to the storm, I went down to the parlor, where, to my surprise, I found my father, who had just arrived. He hud time not only to pay us a visit, but <0 inform me that Sir Ralph had taken up all his dt'bts, and that it was Sir Ralph s money which had enabled us to go to Nice, which kept us there, which had been the means of restoring Darby’s health. “It is his money,” said my father, “and I never knew it—as there is a heaven above me, I never knew it, till—a week ago.” 1 rose from my chair, pale as a culprit, frightened, trembling, heart-sick. “Perhaps," I said in an odd, suffocated voice, after the silence had lasted some sixty or seventy seconds, “perhaps you can pay back the money soon?” Ho looked at me with a sort of pitying compassion for nn - ignorance. “I never can,” he said. “I should be ruined, or Moorlands would have to bo sold.” 1 felt as if all the blood In 1113- reins had turned to ice. Ruin! The full sense and misery of the word could only reach me in a dim and far-off way; but still the horror of it seemed about me even then as I looked on the bright scene beyond the villa windows- as 1 saw the luxuries aud comforts of the pret(3 r , dainty room. Across tuy confused and tangled thoughts my father's voice broke again: “There is one way—but one—by which all these troubles might be averted; one way by which Sir Ralph might become ruy debtor instead of uiy being his. Ho —he spoke to me of it long ago, before you came here at all. I left it to him and to your—well, to your own good se»se, Joan.” I looked at him in a sort of stupor. My heart began to beat slowly, painfully, nervously. I know what was coming now. I waited for the next words as I might have waited for the executioner’s ax. “I—I suppose he has not spoken yet?” my father continued. “He is diffident, because he thinks you are so much young¬ er than himself. But lie is a man worth tifty of the young, foolish dandies of the present day. And he loves you with all his great, honest, generous heart. Look at all he has done for your sake! I—I don’t want to force your inclinations. Joan, but I should like to know what you think of the subject. Give it due con¬ sideration. and then—then tell me what your answer would be if‘Ferrers asked you to be his wife.” “Would,be?" 1 cried bitterly. “There is no chance of what it would be now. Ke has asked me. Oh, if 1 had oul\- known all this yesterday—this morning—a little sooner! Now—it is too late!” “Too late?” echoed my father, stopping his pacing backward and forward, aud coming to a halt iu front of me. “What do yon mean? Has he asked you al¬ ready ?” “Yes.” “And yon-’ “1 refused him,” I answered slowly. He turned verv pale. lie dropped into « cha;r, and. leaning his arms on the ta¬ ble. bent liis face down on them, and groaned aloud. There came a slight sound at the door. A little white figure stood there—a golden halo of damp and tumbled curls about her face. She came straight into the room, and. with unerring instinct, went up to him. and laid her hand upon his knee. “Papa.” she said softly, “is it you. papa ?” The hands dropped from his face. The child climbed up on his knee without fur¬ ther wor<l. and leaned her soft cheek against his own. I stole out of the room. The child, perhaps, might comfort him. I coulu not. CHAPTER X. K, xr - room and shut n ou my knees beside the bed and gave myself up to lutter despair. For once I put my ill-fated love aside, and looked life and its attend- ant circumstances fully in the face. When I rose from my knees that day I said in my heart: “I will marry Sir Ralph Ferrers to-morrow if only he will ask me again”—and I meant it. Tfce events of the day had unsettled Lisd disturbed me. and every time 1 thought of the generosity smd kindness I bad so ill + Notice. *v All settle | * *«* 4 -• *.c# v. •-j - 03 mm requited I grew hot with shame and dis¬ may. Sir Ralph was just the same as ever, to all appearances—courteous, frank* genial—so true a gentleman, so kind a friend. I said this to myself again and again as the meal went on; as I watched the looks, or beard the tones I knew so well, and had valued so little. Some stu¬ pid constraint had fallen upon me, and I was very taciturn; but Sir Ralph and father did not appear to notice it. V\ hen dinner was over I left them, and went out into the grounds. The night was dark with shadows here in the quiet walks l paced; the stars glittered in myriads over the violet waters, and everywhere came the scents of roses and orange blossoms, steeping the air with languid, dreamy odors. It seemed to me as if I had never been so keenly conscious of the beauty of the scene before. The very breath of the wind, the sway of the leaves, and murmur of the sea, touched me in a way altogether new and strange. I felt as if they were parts of a dream, not actual realities. Presently a figure stole out from among the shadows, paused, then came toward me. “Is the child asleep?” he said abruptly. “I wished to bid her good-bye, for I must be off early in the morning.” I turned my face to his. I saw how pale he was, and what a harassed look the kind gray eyes held in their depths. “You are going—to-morrow?” I echoed Stupidly. “Why?” “It is better I should be,” he answered slowly. “Your father’s affairs—I must see to them. They—they can’t be as bad as he says, and he must not be allowed to sell Moorlands—he must not!” My lips began to quiver. I looked up »t him. “Oh, Sir Ralph,” I cried, “how good you have been! How much you have done for as! Father only told me to-day about— about Darby.” “I did nothing—nothing,” he said impa¬ tiently. “What is the use of money if one can’t help a friend who’s in a scrape? And what’s the use of my money to me? It can't buy ine the affection of a single creature—it can’t give me a home-” Ilis voice ceased abruptly, then grew gen¬ tler. “Forgive me, Joan,” he said; “I did not mean to reproach 30U.” “But I am fond of you,” I burst forth with sudden courage—“and grateful. Oh, you don’t know how grateful I am! Your generosity shames me. I seem to have been so selfish, so exacting-” “Hush!” he said. “If I have been of any use or comfox*t to you, that is all I want. 1 am a lonely man. I wanted something to occupy my thoughts and af¬ fection. I found it. If there is a little pain behind, that is only my fault; you are not to blame—or—or the child.” “The child?” I faltered. “Yes, I know it was for her sake. And she loves you so. Don’t say there is no one-” “Did I say that?” he asked gently. “It was wrong and ungrateful, was it not? Perhaps I should have said-” “No, do not say it,” I cried eagerly. “I know what you mean. Oh, if I had only known it before!” “Do you think I wanted to buy your love?” he said sternly. “Oh, Joan, how little you know me! You would make any saeritice for their sakes. I am sure of it, child; but l don’t want a sacrifice. Since you have learnt the truth, I must leave you; for—for my own sake, perhaps, as well as yours. I know it is hopeless to expect you to love me—even a little—and I am foolish enough to care only for your love.” “But I don’t know that it is—hopeless.” I cried suddenly, with a courage born of desperation, I fear, for 1 could not bear the idea of losing him out of my life now. He seized my hands and drew me out of the shadows into the pale, sweet glow of moonlight, and looked down at my face with earnest, searching eyes. “Child,” he said, “if I know you at all, I know you would not trifle with any man’s honest love. Do you know what your words imply? If it is not folly to you, Is it—anything else?” “Yes,” I said, gravely, “a great and noble gift, of which I am not worthy.” “But which you will accept; is that it, Joan?” “Yes,” I answered, lifting my eyes to tiis. and wondering not a little at the rap¬ ture and the joy that lit his face, and swept away every line of age by the magic of happiness, “and value as I have never valued anything in all my life be¬ fore.” “May heaven bless you for those words.” he said, and bent and kissed my brow with reverent and most tender touch. “And the love—will that come, too?” “If I were not sure of that I would never be your wife,” I answered. "I believe you,” he said. “And remem¬ ber, Joan.” lie added, solemnly, "I trust you with all mv heart—with all my soul.” “I will remember,” I said. Aud afar off, like a sob, the waters seemed to echo my words, as they rose snd fell in the quiet night, against the juiet shore. A month later we were married. CHAPTER XI. “I never saw anything so lovely in the vhole course of my life!” “You have made that remark a good many times, my dear,” says my husband’s foiee. “But I pardon its repetition here. This place is an earthly paradise.” I am standing, or rather we are both standing, on the platform of the railway station at Salzburg. There is a pile of aaggage beside us; there are polite offi- rials suggesting the various excellences of ffieir respective hotels: there is my par- lieuiar maid a little distance off. and there s Darby, with meek and wondering face. listening to my rnptu.es. For Darby, who could not bear to be separated from me, had at my husband’s own request, accom¬ panied us. Presently we were at the hotel, and I am shown into a room all white lace, and dainty furniture, aud with a balcony be- youd the window, from which I behold a perfect panorama of loveliness. The sun is just sinking behind the highest of the mountain peaks—it is the Gaisberg, 1 learn afterwards. The rich, soft air seems like a breath of purer life, and as I stand and gaze, the river and valley fade into paler tints, and the trees stand black as shadows against the rose hues of the sk; “One is glad of life at such a time, l say at last, and I draw the child closer t my side, and tell her iu low. hushed tor s j 1 of those of wonderful that heights far, with tL crowns snow reach far ur > ■ heaven, of how tho clear stars leap .. j j the violet dusk of the sky, of the waters ! that grow so dark as the spoil of right creeps onward, and how one by one the distant lamps gleam out through trees I and avenues, and shine down into the j j river, "I it all." the child, I can see says as 1 cease speaking. “How beautiful it must he, Jo! I can hear the river quite dis- { tinctiy about the whole place.” “It seems the only thing that hn* life or motion,” I answer dreamily ._ “There is fhl rt as it. w. . ’ had toUnuf^ iere in this faint a voice remeriX;ered as only pain remem- bers; and cold, and sick, and trembling, I turn, and Inside me, on the adjoining bal- cony, I see—Yorke Ferrers. For a mo- ment I do not speak. No word—not even the commonest form of greeting will m.v Ups frame. I only stand as if turned to *tone, and gaze at the face before me with eyes that must surely speak the ter- ror of my heart. He bends a little nearer. I have some dim. confused idea that he puts out his hand, but I do not touch it. I draw fur- ther and further away—a sort of horror seizes me. I feel as if I hated him—hated bim because he stands there, calm, smil- ing, composed; and I—what agony has me in its grip as I lean against the cold stone balustrade, tongue-tied, paralyzed, by the shock of this strange meeting! Darby's voice rouses me. Darby it is who runs forward and clasps the hands that to me are as the hands of a mur- derer. “It is Y'orke,” she cries gladly. “It is Yorke, and here, too! How funny! Did you know we were here?” “No,” he says; “I did not know.” “Why don’t you speak to him, Joan?” the child goes on. "Are you not glad to see him? You were so fond of him once. Was she not, Y’orke?” “Yes,” he says, in an odd, cold voice; “I think she was fond of me once. But that was a long time ago, Darby—a long time ago!” Then something gives me strength, and I stand up calm and straight, though pain seetns draining the very life-blood from toy heart. “I was too surprised to speak to you,” I say in a voice that is no more like my own than these falling evening shadows are like the radiant sunset I have watch¬ ed. “How—how did you come here?” “By train, from Vienna,” he answ r er3. “May I ask the same question of you? Or shall I waive ceremony, and say at once, why have you never answered my letters?” “Your letters? I gasp. “What letters?” “Those I wrote before leaving London, and again from Boulogne,” he says. “I grew- sick of it at last. A one-sided cor-' respondence has few charms at the best of times. It certainly possessed none for me.” “Y'our—letters?” I repeat. “Why, I never had one after last July. Never, i though I wrote to you again and again, though I begged and prayed for one word' to say you had not forgotten.” “I forget,” he in the i never says same, , hard, , strange .. _ It . mis-, . , v.ay—- never. ib my fortune to have a fatal memory. There is something odd about this. I cant un- tt. But I can, I cry with a sudden pas- sion of wrath and indignation. “Yon are not telling me the truth you can t be. W hy did you go away with that woman. If if you had loved me as you said, you eould never have done that—never! And as for letters, I had none. And all these months I have waited and waited in vain! Oh,” I cry in sudden despair, as I wring my hands together, “what does it all mean?** Earth, sky, the very stars and moon are whirling madly about me. With a last effort at self-command I seize Darby. “Go in, child,” I cry, hurriedly; go in and wait. I will be there in a moment. I forget Sir Ralph. I forget everything.; I only remember that I am here face to. face with my false and perjured lover, aud that I will have the truth from him. at any cost. Darby obeys. I go close to ; the little stone bar that separates the two balconies “Now,” I say, looking at the face that is as white as my own, “tell me why you have deceived me so.” His eyes meet mine. Oh, the sweetness and the misery of that remembered look! The hands of time go back. W e are boy and girl once more lovers, loving and beloved. We are in the school room at home. My heart leaps in mad and fierce lefiance of the present and the future, claiming once again the old rapture and the old belief. Then I hear his voice, and grow calm, [is with the icy chill of death. “I never deceived you,” he sa3’s, and his face does not blanch nor his e3 T es sink.i There is no guilt or shame in the eyes that meet m3 r own, but they are stormy with sudden, anger, and that ver3' anger seems to claim kinship with all ray memories of him. “A woman has always the right to insult a man if she chooses,” he says; ‘I thought the right to reproach lay on my side. Heaven knows I have raged at pou, stormed at you, hated 3-ou at times; but-” “But she?” I persist. “Where is she— that woman who stole you from me—■ that woman who stands between us?” “Be silent!” he cries in a sullen, stormy way. “Don’t take her name on your lips. How you have heard of her at all passes my comprehension. It is a short story^ enough if 3-ou care to hear. You know where I lodged. There were only I and another fellow in the house, and the— lady—who kept it represented herself as a widow. I told you that long ago, when I first went there—did I not?” “Yes, I say stonily. “She—she was only an adventuress,” he goes on. a sudden streak of crimson showing itself on his cheek, “and she too': a—a sort of fancy to me. a Traieauce at last, and I left. Then she followed me to Boulogne. That is all— the plain facts as they stand. Of course you’ll sa>- I’m not blameless; a fellow never is blameless when a woman throws herself at his head; but I give you my word of honor I never encouraged her— in fact, I disliked her rather than other- wise.” "knd have you—married her' J ” I ask abruptly "Married her! Great heavens—no! Do you take me for a fool, Joan?” Then I turn sick and dizzy; I see be- f >re me shipwreck, sorrow, desolation— r-r.ly these; and a few moments before life 1 ad looked so fair and full of peace. A lew moments! Why, it seemed as if years * ,au ad passed passed since since I 1 had naa stepped s.eppeo out out on on that balcony, and gazed with raptured vision on the white snows and gleaming ; waters. j “So that is—all,” I say brokenly, find¬ i ing voice at last. “Then she must have stopped your letters and mine. She took | VO u from me, whether with your will or ‘ Qt Absence is hard I thought n . a test. ( it too hard for you. I—oh, Yorke—Yorke, : wbat you baTe cost me!” ! “Do not say that!” he cries with the j 0 i d passion in his voice. “Remember I, 1 too< haTe su ff eT ed thinking you changed, j f or _oh. Joan, how can I explain to you? j folly like that does not change a man’s be axt—nay, rather it sickens and disgusts him, and makes him turn with deeper j longing to the pure love of a pure woman, And so I turned to you and prayed to you, and you gave me only silence. But now Fare has been kind—kinder than I de- serve. I- or you look , , at.me w:tn ... remem- bermg eyes, ana I-I think I never loved you so well as now. Dear, look at me as t0 J °°k 5,011 ior = 1Te me “Oh, hush-hush!” I cry bitterly. “Is it possible you don’t know-that yon have not heard “Heard what?” he says, and his Ups grow white, his face changes back to the wrathful, storm-iit face I know so weil. “That I am—married.” at,x maJeoYijand^jowerba jear— 4 * 4 I very terror, and long to hide myself from s ig b t of men —from every sound and sign 0 f human life. There comes a step on the bare waxed floor 0 f tbe inner room—a step and a c heery voice that rings out in frank and kindly accents; “Why, Joan—Joan, my dear—where are you? Star-gazing still? Don’t you know dinner is waiting?” My hands drop; I look up at Yorke’s face; I see the lurid flash that leaps into his eyes, and a worse terror seizes me than ever thrilled my heart In all the pangs and fears of its beating life, “So it is my uncle!” he says in a voice low and deep as thunder. “Curse him!” Then stars and moon faded suddenly from my sight, and amidst an awful dark- ness I felt myself falling—falling—falling —whither, I neither knew nor cared, CHAPTER XII. When I wake up I find myself lying dressed in bed. Only my bodice has been removed and rests in a chair. It is evex- ing, and through the open window I catch a glimpse of waving trees in the bright moonlight. As soon as my maid sees that I am awake she comes to my bedside, and in answer to my questions tells me that I had fainted, that I was alone when Rir Ralph, terribly frightened, appeared on the scene, and had me brought into the room. He had remained with me until I had come out of my swoon only to fall into a deep sleep, and then had gone into the garden for a smoke. At this moment I catch sounds of fa- miliar voices from the garden below, and springing out of bed, I rush to the win- flow. Yes, they are the voices of Sir Ralph and Y'orke. They are talking in quiet, friendly fashion, there is no faint¬ est trace of anger or resentment in either voice, and I tremble, and draw back and ask myself, “What can it mean?” In spite of my maid’s remonstrance, I order her to help me put on my bodice, and snatching up a shawl, rush down into the garden. ■ My appearance causes my husband great alarm; but I tell him that I feel better now, although my ghastly face belles the fact. He asks me why I fainted, and I answer that I was fatigued and giddy. He then turns to Yorke and introduces me to him as the latter’s new aunt. Yorke acknowledges the introduction, meant »nly for my ear. ne has, then, not told his uncle that he had met me before. I tremble as I think what his purpose may be by this concealment, and his assumed friendliness for the man whom, only a few hours ago, he had told me he hated, Sir. Ralph tells me that Y’orke had in¬ formed him that he did not get my hus- band’s letter announcing our marriage, and that his meeting us here in Salzburg was pure ] y accidental, l can bear it no longer> j falter ont that I am tired—that I would like to go indoors, and Sir Ralph turns his back on £ be garden, and the starlight, and the at- tractions of the nocturnal cigar, and ac J companies me. At the portal we pause for a moment He turns to his nephew. “Are you coming in also?” he asks. “I!” and Yorke laughs a short, mirth- | osg laugh. “Oh, no, I am not so fond of my p in ow as all that. I’m going for a walk; it’s a glorious night. I mean to ge £ to tbe to p + be Qaisberg,” pointing £ 0 erea t peak with its cap of snow. He 1}fts hie hat wit h all courtesy, but, ob>! the mock i ng smi i e) the look of hate and fury in the brief g] ance tbat meeta mv own. Then he is gone. He has not of f ered to take Sir Ralph’s hand or mine, an( j we go ; n t 0 the hotel and up to our rooms in silence. “Yorke is very much changed,” says gj r j> a ] p h, as ke moves to and fro in the room in restless man-fashion; “very much changed; but I think he seems inclined to be bet ter friends with me than of old, an( j be certainly took the news of my marriage in very good part.” “In ver3r good part!” I echo the words in a vague, frightened way—echo them, and hear them multiplied and repeated by voices of fear and shame, till they lose sense and meaning in the baffled fury of a curse that has struck to the very roots of my life. The next morning I woke up refreshed by sleep—for, strange to say, I did sleep —and nerved by resolution. I knew what lay before me. There could be no question of divided duty, of right or wrong. Hard as was the task, it must be performed at the cost of everything, even life itself. Sir Ralph came in to announce that breakfast was ready, and that after that meal he had arranged for a trip to Co- nigssee, a wonderful inland lake in the vicinity. Yorke and a German friend of his was to b© of the party, I would rather only Darby and I went with my husband, but I could offer no reasonable objection. After breakfast was over the carriage came around and we were off for our trip. On our arrival at the lake, which we reached about noon, we had luncheon, and then some of our party, L believe it was the German friend, pro¬ posed a row on the waters. We were bundled into two boats, our party being too large for one—I, Darbs r and Yorke in the first and larger, Sir Ralph and the German in the other. A stalwart peasant girl takes her seat in the bow, an equally stalwart peasant youth takes his seat in t be stern. “Are the others coming?” I cry out, paling with sudden terror, for a few rapid strokes carry us right away into a solitude, vast, gloomy, awe-inspiring, the like of which I had never imagined or be- held. “Yes,” Yorke answers curtly. “Oh, I don’t like it. It is horrible!” I cry, and cover my face with my hands. “Tell them to turn back! I cant bear it -it makes me ill; it is like the Styx, or whatever that awful place was. Do—do tell them to turn back. “Unfortunately, says o o.e, ui w looks like grim enjoyment o my error, * t P e ^ * ^ or 0 erman. ^ s ® , Th® «»“ ^ the our ®{J«i 1 / back! 1 must g0 back , ! > 1 , Aie ot ne ver saw such , an awful , place , life. 7 in my It is good place other , to as a as any ___ die in,” says Yorke, coolly, “if—as yon said just now—you are inclined to do that. I am sorry I can’t assist you. The other boat isn’t even in sight; I fancy they can’t get a rower.” I drop my hands. I look at him with a sort of horror. He faces the shore; I have my back to it. “Is it true?” I cry. “Are we the only people on the lake? Isn’t Sir Ralph be¬ hind us?” “No,” he ?a3"s with a sneer, “We are quite alone.” My eyes turn from his face to the deep, still water. Oh, the awful silence and gloom of this place! I feel as if I were in a new world. The waving branches of ! the trees below seem like beckoning arms I j that would fain draw me down, down to ; se uufa thomab !e depths. I seem to V without looking, that Yorke ^ dra iE „ nearer to me. Mirrored in that glassy surface I see his face, bending ' knouT” own. he whispers, in a hllsky< stitled voice-“do you know that ^ ere j a k e j s g j x hundred feet deep? Six hundred feet! What is there to pre¬ vent my taking you in my arms and plunging into this—Styx—as you called It? *Twould be an e asy death, Joan, and *T 0 yX% Xadonly very 7 %^ ,,,*Tnd met tis eyes, but all ieur u«.*u lei . iue. Yorke's eyes burned with fierce, unholy flame, and t looked back to them cold, still, ur.fear¬ ing. Teen a flash of sunlight shot across our path. The lake waters shimmered under its golden touch; the drops from the lifted oars fell like jewel-flames across its still and rippleless surface, and sud¬ denly. without word or warning, a long, reverberating echo shook the silence as with thunder. Darby’s cry of terror echo¬ ed my own. Y'orke half sprang to his feet, but the rowing girl pushed him back to his place. "Pistol!” she said, with a broad grin. “Only pistol. People shoot him.” And Btraightwav from under the seat she pro¬ duced an old rusty looking blunderbuss, and began to jabber away in her uncouth dialect with the greatest fluency. 1 un¬ derstood afterwards that it was the cus¬ tom to let off a pistol at this spot. The child was trembling in my arms. Her fears helped to subdue my own. I soothed her, and held her closely to my side while still the boat glided on, and finally shot up to a little promontory on the east shore, and there stopped. Oh, the delight of touching land again: i sprang out and gazed around, but I was trembling still. Then 1 turned to Y'orke, my face and eyes one blaze of indignation. “How dared you speak so to me?” I cried, passionately. “It was cruel, cow¬ ardly, brutal'” "Yes,” he said, “it was. But I don’t think you would have minded if 1 had carried out my threat.” “You must not be cruel to Jo," said Darby, lifting up that pure, calm face of hen rebukingly. “Jo is very good, and you are not. And you made her cry last night, and she was very ill. I do not like her to cry, and I will tell Sir Ralph if yon vex her.” Yorke’s brow grew very black. “Leave the child here for a moment,” he eaid, “and walk on with me. We are bound to have it out sooner or later. The 'present time is as good as any. Do not be alarmed. I shall not hurt you. The— the murder mood has passed.” “I am not afraid of you or anything you can do,” I answered, quietly, as 1 unlinked the child’s hands from mine and led her to a seat beneath the trees. "But you are right; I must know why you have behaved like this—why you have forced me into such a position. Your presence here is an insult to your uucle, and your pretended friendliness a disgrace to both. It is unmanly and cowardly to revenge yourself on me by acting as you have chosen to act.” We moved on, just near enough to keep the child in sight, but far enough to be out of hearing. “If you had only waited,” began Yorke —“if you had only trusted, or if I had not let my brutal temper get the better of me! Joan, why did you marry my uncle?” “He was so good,” I cried faintly; “so unselfish, and he helped us in such sore straits. He saved Darby’s life—he has rescued father from ruin, and—and he loved me.” “Yes,” answered Y'orke gloomily; “I al¬ ways told you that, and I always knew I should have no chance against him In the Jong run. You women want so much— an ideal so spotless, a physical man with the soul and nature of an angel. Ah! if you only knew our trials, and snares, and temptations! We fail you in a weak mo¬ ment, and then you are relentless. Joan,' would you have married had you not: ceased to believe in me?” “No,” I said brokenly; “you know that.” “Well,” said Yorke, “I wonder who has been most to blame—you or I? Not that* It matters much now. The mischief’s done—irreparably done. Joan, I wonder If you believed I loved you?” “Yes,” I answered unsteadily; “I did. That made it all the wors-\” “And now?” he said, and that old hate¬ ful sneer was on his lips. “Now, of’ course, we are to be virtuous and good— to go away, to turn our backs on each other, and on all that makes life worth living. Is that to be the program? Play fit friendship and decorum in appropriate fashion; lock up memory Rnd its treasures like an emptied box that one tosses into a lumber room. Do you think that’s an adequate description, Joan?” “It will do,” I said, trembling like a leaf. I turned back; I went down the rough path; I took the child’.? hand in mine, and stumbled like a blind thing down to the water’s edge. “Take me home!” I cried wildly to Sir Ralph as we met face to face. “Oh, take me home! This place is horrible. It ter¬ rifies me. I can’t bear any more of it— I can’t indeed!” And he humored me. He said no word, asked no questions, but I heard his calm and cheery voice talking to Darby, and its tones insensibly soothed my jarred and trembling nerves, and the wild, hysterical terror subsided. Swiftly and surely the boat glided on amidst the golden warmth and color of the day, but I—I sat there with hidden face and trembling limbs, deaf and blind to the beauty, and the stillness, and tho peace, only praying over and over again in some drear, hopeless way. “Help me to bear it, O Heaven! Help me—oh, help me to bear it!” ‘To be_continuedJ LIE VrE N A NT HOBSON. As Lieutenant Hobson grew to be a lad, and was in the Naval Academy at Annapolis, his moral courage and his physical courage proved to be well matched. Y'ou have read “Tom Brown at Rugby”? You remember the gentle little Arthur and the rough- and-ready, rugged Tom ? Young Richmond had the fin© qualities of both. One day young Hobson, with the rest of his class, was at the swim¬ ming lesson. He was far out along the rope in the breakers. It would be almost sure drowning to lose hold of the rope. But it happened by some mischance that, as Hobson pressed still further out, he met a classmate coming in, clinging for life to the rope. They two were alone out there in the breakers. The two lads looked into each other’s eyes. It was a hard moment for the youngsters. Safe passage along the rope for both was nearly an impossibility. Hobson gave way to his classmate, keeping the merest touch on the rope. But, somehow, at the moment of the boy’s passing him, even this slight hold gave way, and he sank into the breakers. The boy left on the rope got in, and sent aid. Hobson was brought to shore. All supposed he was dead, but he revived finai:y. I “Nobody could have come out of .t alive but Hobson,” was the general i cry. “He is a tough fellow to stand j that !” And, from that day, he Ams known among his classmates as “Parson Tough.” You can see, even from this brief account, h-^w all along, from a child qp f Richmond Hobson ha3 been grow¬ ing to be a hero. * *C MMitJlte: it mil ’n? ^ A * Toinlressing Meadows, It is always best if manure is to be put on grass land to do it in the fall. Both the leaves and roots of the grass keep the manure from being washed away and wasted. There is, as ex¬ periment has shown, very little leach¬ ing of manure through the soil, as its fertility is held iu the first few inches near the surface. Besides, if the top- dressing is applied now the benefit from the manure can be greatly in¬ creased by passing a heavy drag over the surface; displacing each particle of manure and carrying it into contact with a part of the soil it has not be¬ fore reached. Threshing Buckwheat. Owing to the great amount of sap its thick stalk contains, buckwheat cannot well be piled up iu stacks or put in mows. We have known it to be threshed by machine, but it took so much more power to thresh the buckwheat by threshing machine that the experiment was not profitable. It is extremely easy with a little beating of the head to dislodge every grain of buckwheat. But when stalks and all were put in it had to be done very slowly, else the green buckwheat stalks would clog the cylinders and stop the machine, It takes much more coal to thresh buckwheat with a steam thresher than it does to thresh grain whose straw is dry. Marketing Honey. *" Grade the honey in as many differ¬ ent classes as you have honey. Class¬ ify everything. Don’t put a second or third grade honey, be it ever so little, in a first-class lot, thinking you will get a first-class price for it. The consequences are you will get a third- class price for your first-class honey when you do it. Parties that handle honey by the <Juaintity, from all parts of the coun¬ try, are better judges of honey than you are, as this does not require them to be students of apiaculture. Never use seoond-hand packages; many have been brought to grief by doing this. Have your comb honey stored in the best white polished sections, W«aned thoroughly, and packed in the best shipping cases. Put your name and address on every package Also sent out as producer of said honey. give tho source from which it was gathered. One or more varieties as the case may be. Perhaps the best shipping package for extracted honey is the sixty-pound square tin can with a three-inch screw cap. These cans are furnished by the manufacturers in pairs, with"wooden cases, two cans in a box, and usually sold at seventy-five cents per pair. Last, but not least, do not consign your honey to strangers that you know nothing about. Quite a few bogus honey commission firms bob up every year and somebody gets in the trap.—Farm, Field and Fireside. A Comfortable Fruit Ladder# Upon the ordinary fruit ladder one must stand for a long time and en¬ dure the strain and the cutting into the feet of a small round. A fairly broad, flat step gives firm and com¬ fortable support to tho feet. The ladder can be made light, too, as tho one shown in the illustration. Make one in the winter according to this pattern, while you have plenty of time, and it will be ready for next season’s fruit picking. The top of u j fiiy it t , ggflfi M By in c- CC J ftp' ^ 1 . I s . 0 \ / CO 1 u A CONVENIENT STEP FOP. FBEIT PICKERS. such a ladder can narrow to a point if desired. The main piece must be of some light material free from knots and other imperfections. Dress all the material before putting together, then paint. If kept under shelter when not in use it will last many years.—Orange Judd Farmer, Improving Pastures. If there is any one part of the farm that is neglected it is the pasture fields. While there may be some lit- tie excuse for this on large grain farms, it can be hardly overlooked on a dairy farm, where grass a?id green pasture are the chief dependencies for success. The improvement of pasture fields is a crying need on many old places. As a rule, the roughest and most sterile fields are given over to pastures, and it is not giving a cow a fair show to make her pick up a living on land that would not produce any- thing else. This is often the case, however, and then we blame the cow for not giving more milk. Half the fault against onr dairy cows can be traced to improper feeding. Because a cow has a large field or meadow to graze iff it does not follow that she ought to give a large flow of milk. A much smaller piece of laud would pro- duce much better results if the pas- ture was rich aud well cared for. It is all right to gives the cows for pasture the roughest and rockiest part of the farm, for naturally one does not select that portion for plowing under crops. But it is the part of wisdom to bestow a little care upon such fields, to improve them each year. A few days’ labor devoted to the pasture fields every season will surprise the owner in the results five years later, First, there are rocks and stones that can be gradually carried off the field and piled up. Clearing the pasture field in this leisurely way will yield its re- ward some day when it i3 found de- eirable to cultivate the meadows or hillside for orchard or field crops. Along with this work should go that of clearing the land of wild berry bushes, brush, roots and weeds. The roots once taken up will kill the bushes aud trees for good, and so with the weeds. See that they are rooted Up, and not simply cut off. Noxious m&fc- *. yfrass plants from grow- J i^?g'oi^;raIly they harbor para*, may rusts of grain, which spread to the cultivated fields any day and do a great amount of damage^. This work of clearing the pastures of foreign growths is important at thitf seasou of the year, when weeds are about to produce their seeds. One plant destroyed, root and branch, now may prevent the growth of fifty next summer. So it is wise to begin at once, for every year that the work is postponed the pasture field degen¬ erates much more. While engaged in this work of de¬ struction it might be well to recon¬ struct, too. Plant a few shade trees in the most convenient part of the field, and if necessary for their protec¬ tion fence them in until they attain a good growth. Years later they will be' appreciated by both man and beast. When the weeds are are pretty welf rooted out it will pay to sow the fiel<i in the fall with grass seed, spreading it thinly around, to reinforce the old grass.—Indiana Farmer. The Self-Sucking Cow. Of all the nuisances on the farm a self-sucking cow is by far the most despicable. Consequently, the best way to serve such an animal is to dis¬ pose of her to the best advantage pos¬ sible, and the sooner the better, for once this bad habit is acquired it caa rarely, if ever, be cured. Still, if the cow is an especially val¬ uable one, it is a pity to dispose of her, nor is there any need of it. Why? Because by simply usiuga milk muz¬ zle on her, such as is represented itt 7 l I? —jfi S3 » * Si •• ?■ < o' _ •» ,» ! IL 1* t » A A MILK MUZZLE. the accompanying cut, she may prevented from “draining” herself/ and that in such a way as to causd her To very make little this inconvenience. | muzzle take a piece of board (soft wood) about five by six inches and hollow the upper part oufe as shown, leaving the opening b* m tween the two o tongues tongues about about half bait inch wide. Round off these tongues nicely, cow/ so that they will not hurt the a?a for these are the parts that to be inserted into her nose; then/ having driven four wire nails into then wood (indicated by the dotted lines) to prevent splitting, hook one of the tongues into the animal's nostrils and; work the muzzle edgewise through the space, so that the opposite tongue comes into the other nostril like a nosh ring. What are the results? Why, in this position the board hangs down in front of the cow’s mouth, aud while it does not prevent her eating, and eating freely, the moment she at¬ tempts her efforts to “bait” frustrated. where she ought Thus it notj is are that many regard this as the most prac¬ tical way of muzzling a self sucking cow.—Now York Tribune. Coal Ashes For Potatoes. We liavo heard of some farmers who applied a small handful of coal ashes in the hill before planting their seed potatoes, taking care to let the seed come in contact with tho ashes.' Their potatoes thus treated were free from rot and scab, while others in the neighborhood were very badly affected by disease. The farmer who tried this is enthusiastic over hi3 success, and proposes to apply coal ashes ini the hill to as many potatoes as he can secure the ashes for. But one experi¬ ment, even though so satisfactory as this, is not conclusive. There mayj have been a difference in time of, planting or of soil which would hay I saved these potatoes from rotting afij^ way. It would have been more satisfy factory if a group of four or eight hills were ashed, aud some adjoining them were at the same time planted' without the ashes. As we have often explained, there is very little if any manurial value in coal ashes. So far as increasing the potato crop is concerned coal ashes, are useless. But the very fact that the coal ashes have no manurial value may be an advantage in growing pota¬ toes free from rot. In contact with this material, free from manures, if there were germs on the seed potato that might extend and cause rot they would be isolated, and thus the new crop could be grown free from rot. All farmers know that to put stable man- ure in contact with the potato would either make the soil around the seed too dry, or in a rainy season it would furnish the best breeding place for the rot fungus. In fact, stable man- ure plowed under the same season i3 not now considered a safe practice among farmers who are experienced in growing potatoes. It is much bet- ter to mauure the ground a year or two before, and so give the manure time to ferment and disappear, leav- ing only its condensed nitrogenous and mineral fertility iu the soil, In one way we think that in a wet season, as it was while the potato crop was growing thi3 past summer, the coal ashes may prove a benefit. They help to dry out the hill. So too wilf superphosphate of lime, especially that made with a little excess of sulphuric acid, as most of it is. We have known farmers to use a very little phosphate in the hill with potato seed, but in this case taking care not to have it come in contact with the cut surface, which it would soon eat into and destroy. Potatoes thus treated were free from rot, while those beside them not phosphated itt the hill wer6 half rotten. In this case we attributed the good effect to the drying of the soil in the hill. Wa can imagine that coal ashes being inert themselves must have operated to make the soil more dry inside the bill during the very wet weather early in the season. Even when the dry weather came this dryness in the centre of the hill where the potatoes form is an advantage, for most of the potato roots that supply moisture have by this time extended to the middle of-ilje rows.—Amervcan Cultivator. ^