Newspaper Page Text
8
THE BANNJSK, ATHENS, GEO GI V, SEP CEMB ^ulO, lfc8
IN THE WINDOW SEAT.
One evening Is an autumn o'd
, We In the cushioned window seat
Sat side by side in converse sweet.
1 As that old tale our young Ups told.
We watched the shadows sway and greet
Upon the walla. The burning logs
Lay crackling on the great brass dogs.
Far back within the window seat;
Half hidden by the curtain's fokl.
You sat and swung your dainty feet,
i Out brown eyes tenderly did meet
As low we talked, the story told,
1 That evening in an autumn old.
Things did not chance as they were told
Within the cushioned window seat
That autumn time. Our story sweet
Is like some vague romance of old.
Here In the after years we meet.
When shadows oft from burning
Have lain athwart the great brass dogs
And clung about the window seat,
Half hidden by the curtain's fold.
The paths we trod have led our feet
Apart till now; and years full fleet
Have drifted by. Since we are old
We smile at that old tale we told.
But hist! Within the window seat;
Half hidden by the curtain's fold.
Your daughter swings her dainty feet;
And, madam, hear my boy repeat.
With eager lips, a story told
One evening in an autumn old.
—Charles Washington Coleman, Jr., In tippto-
cott'S Magazine.
A LESSON TO LOVERS.
r 4 ‘I think from all I have read and heard,”
said young Dr. Newberry, “the great bane
of the happiness of lovers, whether engaged
or married, is a lack of perfect frankness and
confidence between them. Should anything
•rise to excite doubt in the mind of either
party, an explanation should be at once
sought and given, and thus frequently much
trouble and unhappiness may be avoided.”
“I perfectly agree with you,” responded
Josie Chase, looking up brightly. “And so
there will never be any danger of our mis
understanding each* other, will there!”
“I hope not, darling,” he replied.
And then there was some little ecstatic
demonstration, such as youthful lovers are
privileged to indulge in when alone.
They had been but three days engaged, and
had known each other not quite three months
—only since the young doctor bad come to
Woodleigh to commence practice.
Josie was the belle of the town, and It had
not been without a straggle that the young
doctor had won her in the face of richer and,
as some people considered, more desirable
suitors.
She was very pretty and clever, and full of
•warm hearted and generous impulses and
•Iso, if the doctor’s landlady was to be cred
ited, somewhat fond of having her own way.
“Seeing she’s an only child,” said Mrs.
Tairliner, who had five grown daughters of
her own, “she’s well nigh spoiled to death.
Her ma lets her have her owu way, and
though her pa sometimes worries about her
odd doings, she generally manages to bring
him around in the end.”
“She’s such a flirt 1” said Miss Blossom Lar-
rimer, who, though the eldest of the cluster
of five sisters, still languished ungathered
open the parent stem. “Why, I couldn’t tell
the men she has led on to propose and then
discarded. It’s dreadfully heartless and
cruel P she added, with a sympathetic sigh.
“Oh, yon had better leave the doctor to find
ont all that for himself P giggled MIm Gray,
tha youngest of the five. “Only, doctor, yon
snnsn’t blame ns for letting'yon be caught in
• mantrap. We’ve warned yon. He, hep
“The last one,” said Mrs. Larrimer, sol
emnly, “was that wild young fellow, Jack
Ripley, whom they turned out of Rattlepan
college for whitewashing the president’s
home and other lawless doings. He used to
visit Miss Josephine while he was here at the
college, about two years ago, aud Just before
you came to Woodleigh he was back again
and the two were thicker than ever. Some
folks thought it would be a match, but her
pa Interfered and sent him off, I must say
she changes mighty easy from one to an
other. Pd be sorry to have one of my girls
act like that.”
These accounts at first set the doctor to
thinking a little, but he was not to be fright
ened from his wooing, and in his happiness
as an accepted lover be forgot all the warn
ings and crooklngs of this Larrimer family.
_ He knew that his Josie was a little coqnet-
Msh—a little vain it might be—as what pretty
woman is not! But that she was either
heartless or fickle he would not believe.
And it was not until further confidential
revelations from the indefatigable Mrs. Lar
rimer that an uneasy feeling of doubt and
perplexity began to take possession of his
mind.
“Ahem P said that lady, as she handed him
•second cup of tea, when one evening he frqd
come in rather late from a professional, call
“So Mr. Jack Ripley is back again in Wood
leigh. What do you think of him, Dr. New-
berryp
• “I have not had tho pleasure of meeting
him.” °
“No? Dear me, that seems strange when—
•when yon are both so much at the Chases.
He was there yesterday and again this morn
ing and this evening. As they live nearly
opposite as, some of ns couldn’t help seeing
him going in and out. But, of coarse, you’ve
heard Miss Josie mention himP
• Ho, the doctor bad not heard any one men
tion Mr. Jack Ripley. And he thought it
rather strange that if that gentleman had
really come again a-wooing Miss Josephine
Chase she should have permitted him to pay
her these visits—she who was his
wife.
• As usual, when he was not professionally
engaged, he went after tea to see Josie. It
was a warm moonlight summer night; the
parlor was unoccupied and dose, and the
doctor, while waiting for his betrothed, took
his seat at a side window—a window which
opened upon the pretty garden, and through
which came a soft, refreshing bre.ze, laden
with the perfume of roses.
In fact, Just beneath this window was
what Josie called her rose arbor—a trellis
covered with a running rose bush, where,
only, last night he had sat with her in the
moonlight and talked over their pi«nq for
future happiness.
He had notioedat the time that she ap-
petted a little absent and disinclined to talk.
OottJd It have been on accouuLof this visit
or Ifr. Jack Ripley? And%tv, as the
thought occurred, he Became aware of low
•voices In the arbor. Before he could rise
•nd move away these words, in Josie’s voice,
Slightly raised, came distinctly to his ear;
“I tell yon, Jack, no ono suspects us. But
yon come too often to the house. You must
keep away, and this most be your last visit
before"
_ Her voice sank and the rest was inaudible.
But a reply came in a man’s tones—low and
tender and pleading.
K “You are sure that you will not fail me at
the last—that I may trust implicitly to your
promiseP
l 111611 mor6 murmurlngs; only broken sen
tences came to the ear of the unconsciously
spellbound listener.
r “What would the doctor say if he knew of
this!”
8 “Why, I think he would not exactly ap
prove,” came in Josie’s laughing voice; “but
*o long as I am unmarried I have a right to
consult my own inclination. As to papa, he
will be angry with us, of course, but only
for a time. You will see him with his
benevolent face glowing with a smile of
satisfaction while he spreads out his dear
pudgy hands and says: ‘Bless you, my chil
dren.’"
And then they both laughed.
Just then a servant’s voice was heard:
“Miss Josie! You are wanted in the parlor,
miss.” *
There was a sudden rustling of the roses as
the girl sprang up.
“Remember, Jack, to-morrow evening at
8 precisely. Can you see the dress I have on
—brown over a striped underskirt? Well, it
will be this dress and a thick brown veil.
And you must be standing exactly by that
poplar tree 1 showed you. Good-by I You
had better leave by the garden gate instead
of going into the house."
Then the doctor regained sufficient pres
ence of mind to move away aud seat him
self as far as possible from the open window.
Josie came in flushed, excited, and, despite
her evident effort to appear as usual, shy and
constrained.
The doctor did not remain long. He felt
too shocked and wounded to know what
course to pursue in this sadden and unex
pected state of things.
He would go borne and think it over. And
the result of bis thinking was that he con
cluded to say nothing to Josephine just now,
hut to watch her movements the next even
ing and Aud out something more definite by
which to shape his course.
It was a little past 7 o’clock the next even
ing when, watching from bis office window,
he saw Josephine trip lightly down the steps
of her father’s house, attired in the brown
and striped dress, and a little hat, around
which was tied a brown veiL
Ho saw her face before she pulled the folds
of the veil close, aud even caught her glance
as she looked shyly over towards his office,
as if fearful of being seen by him. Then she
walked on very fast, while be followed at a
safe distance.
She went first to a bouse in which he knew
a sister of her father resided—Miss Aimeria
Chase—a well to do maiden lady whose priuk
and severe aspect ho had never liked.
Here she remained about half an hour, then
reappeared, walking hurriedly as before and
taking her way, not homeward, but towards
the suburbs of tha town.
Entering a sort of lane or narrow road,
with a thick hedge on one side, she came in
sight of a poplar tree at a turn of the lane.
Here a man was standing—a tall, handsome
young fellow—who, on seeing her, catne has
tily forward and received her, apparently
half fainting, in his arms.
At the same moment be made a signal, and
a carriage, until now hidden by the turn of
the lone, came up.
The two hurriedly entered it, and they
drove away at a rapid pace. Tbev were
clearly going to catch the north bound train
at the nearest station.
The doctor, although he now understood
the plan, made no motion or attempt to op
pose it
“If she prefers him to me let her go,” he
said, and in forlorn wretchedness and bitter
ness of soul returned to his office.
The Chase house opposite was shat ap and
the windows closed, as though its life and
light had forever departed.
Did the parents know as yet what had hap
pened? Should he break it to them—more
gently, perhaps, than others would do, and
in their woe find some soothing for his owu!
He walked slowly up the front steps to the
porch, and there lingered. He could not find
it in his heart to enter the house where her
presence was no longer, and it was with an
effort that he gave the bell knob a pull
which seemed like the wrench in gs of his own
heart strings.
The door was Instantly opened, and, turn
ing, be beheld Josie standing sullenly before
him.
“I have been expecting you. for more than
an hour," she said. “But,” catching a sight
of his pale and startled face, “what is the
matter! Are you ill?”
“No; but I—I don’t understand. I did not
expect to see you. I thought you had gone
away.”
“Gone away?”
es—with Jack Ripley,” he said sternly.
And Josie, to his surprise, broke into a
laugh.
Then, changing, she suddenly became very
grave and dignified.
“How could you have had such a thought
of|me, Charlie?”
“Josie, was it you whom I saw leave the
house about 7 o’clock this evening, wearing a
brown dress aud veil!”
“Yes, certainly 1”
“And you met a gentleman in the poplar
lane”
“No, no#’ she interrupted, again laughing.
“That was my cousin, May Harding—Aunt
Almeria’s neico. We are of the some size and
exchanged dresses in order to deoeive aunt’s
watchful eyes. But come in and let me tell
you all about it. I could not before, being
bound to secrecy."
And then she told him how Jack and Mav
had for years loved each other and been
kept apart by Miss Chase, who had taken
charge of May when a child, and been to her
a sort of domestic tyrant.
Whenever Jack was in town, Miss Chase
kept a double watch upon the poor girl, and
and it was only by' tho scheme which l»ad
been so successful that May was enabled to
elude her argus eye and get safely away with
her lover.
“Papa had always been in favor of the
match, But for peace’s sake did not like to in
terfere with his sister Aimeria.
“He will scold a little when he finds out my
part In it," she said, “but will be delighted all
the same that May is happy at last No one
could ever say a word against Jack except that
he was a little wild and mischievous at college;
but be has sobered now, and just settled down
to the practice of law. And aa to whether
Dr. Newberry will blame”
She paused, and looked up half archly, half
inquiringly into his face.
“No, darling—not now,’ he answered; “al
though you have caused me the most miser
able hoars of my life.”
‘‘Charlie,” she said softly, as she allowed
him to draw her gently towards him, “if you
had practiced your own theory and sought an
explanation of what appeared to you so sus
picious, you would have been spared those
miserable hours.”
“Yes, darlirg, it was my fault * But this
r “ te5 °“ *° l ” 8ta
Mr. Blaine In London.
A Philadelphia business man tells this in
cident of Mr. Blaine’s visit to London. One
day he happened into the establishment of a
wen known bootmaker and asked to see some
shoes. Having selected a pair to his lilting,
Mr. Blaine inquired the cost, at the
time casually remarking that he had been re
ferred to the house by a friend in Lancashire,
from which district he had himself just run
up to London for a short time. “But you
are not an Englishman, sir," said the attend
ant who was waiting on him. “And why
not!” said Mr. Blainei “Do I not look like
an Englishman? And did I not say that I
hailed from LancashiroP’ “You may have
just came from Lancashire, aud I do not
say that your looks are not English.” an-
swered the salesman, “but an Englishman
would not have asked the ‘cost’of these shoss.
sir—he would have asked the ‘price.’»
WANTED.
Mar tie Woodbridge—her name was Martha,
but no one called her so—lived on the out
skirts of a small village. Her father was u
farmer, bat not a prosperous one. Nature
with her frosts and droughts was always get- j
ting the upper band of him, and the crops
which he raised were sure to be those which !
brought the lowest price ip the market. The
canker worm stripped his apple trees, and a
late frost blighted the corn and oats. He
had the misfortune to buy a cow which in
troduced the cattle disease into his farm yard,
and Creamer, Spottie and Whiteface—the
three cows that always filled their pails the'
fullest and made the most golden butter—
sickened and died.
This was the question which Mnrtie puzzled
over from day to day, coming at lust to the ‘
conclusion that she mast try her luck in the
big world which site had seen so little of out
side of her own small village. She would go
to London, and, if possible, find there a sit
uation as governess, in which she could at
least provide for her own support.
Her mother let fall a few quiet tears over
the plan, and, smiling patiently through
them, said:
“Ask your father."
Mr. Woodbridge said “No” at first; but
having lain awake all night over his diffi
culties, he called Martie to him, kissed her
solemnly, gave a weary sigh, and with it his
consent.
So it came to pass on a cool, crisp October
morning, when the woods were at their
brightest autumn flush, and the frost had
stiffened the grass into little silvery blades
and spears, and made the few pale flowers
that lingered by the roadside hang their heads,
that Martie put on her bravest smile, (made
hopeful, comforting little speeches, kissed
them all good-by at borne—the dear old home,
so full of joys and troubles—and started for
the city, to pnt into that great, hurrying,
driving, jostling market the wares she had to
offer.
Martie was eager aud fall of hope; but,
alasi how much eagerness and hopefulness go
down to death every day In the frantic rush
and scramble for the good things going.
Martie in the great city looking for work to
do seemed like a quiet little wren trying to
pick up a worm or a crumb where hawks and
vultures were snatching and clawing for
plunder.
Martie was met the moment she stepped
from the train by an old friend of the family,
who bad kindly promised to receive her at
her house and do what she could to assist
her. The next day, early in the morning, a
modest, unpretending little advertisement
was sent to one of the daily newspapers.
What a stupendous affair it seemed to Martie,
and how her unsophisticated little heart beat
at the thought of itl Nothing could come of
it that day, however; and while she goes out
with Mrs. Allen to do a little shopping, and
stare at a few of the city lions, let us take a
look at the quarters she has fallen into.
Mrs. Allen kept a small, private lodging
house, very select and very genteel Its ro
tates were learned Professor Bigwig and
family, from whose presence a certain liter
ary aroma was supposed to pervade the at
mosphere; the brilliant CoL Boreas, hero-
according to his own account—of numberless
battles; a rising young lawyer, with his
pretty, blushing girl wife, all fresh and lovely
in her new bridal toilet; a rich widow and her
still richer daughter, who, it was said, was
soon to become the helpmate of the clerical
member of the household, the Rev. Paul
Appolos; and last, though not least, the
representative of the fine arts, Mr. Raymond,
an artist whose pictures had won golden
praises from critics and connoisseurs, and
golden dollars from purchasers.
Mr. Raymond was Martie’s left hand neigh
bor at Che table. With the first glance at his
dark face, Iron gray hair and mustache, and
deep set gray eyes, she felt rather inclined to
be afraid of him. When he smiled she liked
him better and thonght the gray eyes looked
kind, and she felt very shy and louesome
among all Chose strange faces. She was glad
to have him talk a little to her, and take caro
that she was provided with *11 she wanted.
On the second morning after her arrival in
the city Martie’s advertisement appeared.
Mrs. Allen sent a paper up to her room be
fore she was out of bed, so that almost as
soon as her eyes were open she had begun to
hope, aud to be afraid and to wonder if, out
of so many people whom she supposed would
come to see her, any one of them would think
well enough of her to want her services.
Martie was very painstaking with her
toilet that morning. She wanted to look her
best. She spent twice the usual time over
her wavy, golden brown hair; and when she
had put on her pretty gray dress—the gray
dress was for morning and the black silk for
afternoon—and fastened the dainty, spotless
collar and cuffs, she dallied fully five min
utes over her little stock of ribbons, trying
this one and that, and went down at last to
breakfast, looking to Mr. Raymond’s artist’s
eyes, which took her in at a glance, like a
wild rose Just ont of a thicket, with the
deWy morning brightness brimming in her
brown eyes, the pink of rose petals in her
cheeks, and soft, warm, shimmering sun
beams woven into the ripple of her brown
hair. How bis artist fingers longed for can
vas and colors to give his beloved St. Agnes
that beautiful hairl
But the wild rose might as well have been
blooming in her native thicket In vain
Martie peeped from her front windows, and
held her breath when the door bell rang.
No ono came to see the gray dress that morn
ing.
The black dress fared better. It was called
upon, and Martie went down to the parlor
with her heart in her mouth, to meet the
grand lady whose carriage and dashing
horses she had watched as tbey drew up in
splendid style before the house. But, alas!
Martie was not experienced, and Martie was
too young, and, though madam did not say
so, Martie was too pretty, and to set youth
and beauty before him in the shape of a
young governess would be tempting Provi
dence. Madam was very sorry, hoped thia
and that, and swept gracefully out to her
carriage, while Martie mounted with rather
a slow step to her little fourth story room, to
watch and wait, and wonder if everybody
would find her too young. She was not to
blame for it, anyhow, she said to herself, try
ing to £oax a laugh.
No one else came that day, but the next
morning there was an early call for “the lady
who advertised." Martie was glad she had
on the gray dress; perhaps she looked older in
it. But gray or black was all the 6ame; she
was again weighed in the balance and found
wanting—not in years this time, but in Ger
man—and as one weary hour after another
went by, and no other applicants appeared,
Martie grew heavy hearted. Her advertise
ment was to appear for three days. Two had
already passed, resulting in disappointment?
Mrs. Allen tried to encourage her, but when
night came, and the 0 o’clock dinner, Martha
felt sad and homesick.
. “I hope no one has made arrangements to
carry you off just yet,” Mr. Raymond said,
as he took a seat beside her at their end of
the long table.
“No,’’ said Martie. “No one wants m&
I’m too young and I don’ know German.”
And a big round tear rolled over into her
teacup.
. _l'.?l? ere !£ no_causo for discouragement ig
that, I assure you," said Mr. Raymond. “I
know people who would not find fault with
you on either seen "
Then he went on talking to her in such a
pleasant way that she soon l>ecan»e inter
ested, forgot all her troubles and the tear in
her teacup, and was as merry as though she
had been older and had known German.
Mr. Raymond stuyed down stairs until 10
o’clock, read aloud an old time fireside story,
and kept the ball of conversation rolling in
such pleasant channels that the evening was
gone before Martie knew it, and in spite of
all her disappointment it bad somehow been
the pleasantest one she had spent there.
The uext morning a lady came to see Mar-
tie in behalf of her mother-in-law, aud Mar-
tie engaged to go on the following day to see
the place and people.
There was no poetry about Mrs. Myrick.
She was pure, unadulterated; wanted her
girls to have a good, strong education—no
gimcracks, no fiy-rin language to jabber in.
She was williu to pay good wages—would
give her governess twenty pound a year and
her board; but she mustn’t expect much
waiting on. They didn’t keep any servants
—didn’t need any; a pity’twould be if two
hearty girls like hers couldn’t do their own
work.
Poor Martie! She would not say no at
once; because this was, thus far, her only
chance, so she promised to give an answer
soon, and went back to her room, praying
heaven to send her something better.
She thought her prayer was answered
when a gentleman called that eveuing, talked
with her about his three, little girls, and
seemed well satisfied with the modest ac
count she gave of herself. He was very par
ticular about music, however, and would be
glad to hoar Miss Woodbridge play. Their
interview bad taken place in the kiudly shel
ter of the quiet little reception room; but the
piano was in the big parlor, and in there the
professor aud the Rev. Paul Appolos were
discussing earth aud heaven. The colonel
was stalking about, showing off his martial
figure, and the young bride, by the side of
her new lord, was holding court in the midst
of a lively circle of callers.
Shy, bashful Martie 1 how could she play
before all those people? Poor, timid little
wren, that had just crept from under the
mother’s wing and flown out of her nest!
Could she show what sweet music she knew
how to make with a crowd of listeners?
There was none of the airs aud graces of
the music pounding young woman about
Martie as she dropped down upon the piano
stool and took a moment’s grace before en
tering upon the dreadful ordeaL ’Twas no
use waiting, but oh, if the gentleman would
only sit downl Why will he stand before
her and watch her poor, frightened fingers
as they trip and stumble, give a wild jump
for a distant note and miss it, make a dive
for one octave aud light on another, and at
lost lose their way altogether and go on
chasing each other up and down the key
board. Martio knows the piece she is trying
to play as well as she knows her own name,
but it all flies out of her head and slips away
from her fingers, and she ends at last with a
finale of her own improvising, feeling her
hair stand straight on head as she does it.
The gentleman was “much obliged,” left
almost immediately, and Martie, in a state
of grief and mortification, was rushing
through the ball, exclaiming, with a sob, as
she covered her face with her hands: “What
shall I do?” when she was suddenly stopped
at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Raymond.
“My dear child,” said he, “don’t take it so
to heart. I’ve heard you play that pieco be
fore, aud thought how well you did it; but,
of course, you couldn’t play with ail those
people staring and listening. The man was a
brute to ask you to do it.”
“O no, it is I who am such a simpleton,”
said Martie, “but you are very good to me;”
and she hurried on up stairs, longing to get
where nobody could see her, but feeling
comforted a little even then by the tender
sympathy which had done its best to console
her.
Once In her own room, the flood gates were
opened, and Martie cried over what she
called her disgraceful failure, until she had
succeeded in getting up a raging headache.
Then she went to bed with the determination
of writing in the morning to Mrs. Myrick,
informing that lady that she was ready to
accept her offer and enter upon the “educa
tion” of her children. But before she had
time to carry her resolution into effect Mrs.
Myrick herself appeared, having made up her
mind that Martie would not do for them.
She hadn’t been brought up in their ways,
and was likely to be too particular.
Thus vanished all hopes of success f Am ad
vertising. Mrs. Allen next advised that
Martie should try one of the educational
agencies in the city, and an application was
accordingly made. Then followed more days
of anxious waiting and of hope deferred, re
sulting at last in a visit and a generous offer
from a lady who won Martie’s heart at the
outset with her pleasant face and winning
ways, and her gentle, motherly talk about
the little boy and two little girls at home
for whom she wanted a teacher and compan
ion. But, alas, that home lay hundreds of
miles away.
It seemed to Martie like going to the ends of
the earth. Sho had twenty-four hours in
which to decide; spent half the time in wan
dering between yes and no—between . the
courage to go and the homesickness that
crept over her at the very thought of it.
Then, scolding herself for a genuine coward,
she made up her mind that go she must and
go she would.
"What!” exclaimed Mr. Raymond, In a
tone of surprise, “have yon really made up
your mind to go so far from home all
your friends?”
“Yes, I must go,” said Martie, with a little
quiver in her voices “Please don’t say any
thing to discourage me.”
“I wouldn’t for the world,” returned Mr.
Raymond, “only that I know of a situation
nearer home which yon can have if you will
accept it. Come into the reception room, and
I will tell yon about it."
Martie was all eagerness now. How de
lightful if, after all, she Should not be
obliged to make an exile of herself.
“It Is a companion, not a teacher, that is
wanted,” Mr. Raymond continued. “Would
you be willing to take a situation as com
panion?”
Martie’s face fell a little, but she answered:
“I should be very glad to take such a sitn-
ation, if I could fill it. Dp yog I
could!” .-'■*»»»,
“I’m sure you could.”
“Do you know the person who wants a com
panion!”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Myself.”
“Yourself 1 How —what”— tfha exact
question which Martie intended to ask just
here must be left to the imagination, since
she did not seem to bo quite clear about it
herself.
Mr. Raymond continued: “Yes, it is I,
Martie. 1 want you for my companion, mv
wife.” The gray eyes twiiled is he asked,
“Will you toko the situation!"
An hour later Mrs. Allen entered the room,
exclaiming, “Bless my soulP’ as she stumbled
upon an unmistakable pair of lovers.
* “My dear Mrs. Allen,” said Mr. Raymond,
taking his blushing “companion” by tne liana
and leading her.to the astonished old lady, “I
know that you will be glad to hear that Mar
tie will not be able to make an engagement
with that lady; die has already made one
with me."—Boston True Flag.
EYES AND VOICES.
If I coni’ look with gently perfect eyes
On thus strange human world-as oue who rears
no duty and no task, and who reveres
Truth more then say dream that minds devise*
Ono who oaa trace the false, the weak, the wise;
Incvxcu dow 'lay that dawns and disappears;
Who. through some wild, heart breaking clamor
hears ’
Ilope singing sweetly to the earth and atdre*
Then I should be what men and women are
When they are wholly just and whoUy brave;
Then ? should speak from life and from the
grave.
IVom every ashen globe and throbbing star;
No word of mine would be a word of wrong,
And there would bo no discord to my song. * .
There are two voices to a human life—
One. the sharp cry of passion, hissing hot;
Tho other, calm and sweet, as though begot
Of perfect peace to some heaven hallowed spot;
One Is the cruel, mocking voice of strife,
Which falls to every heart, to every lot, *
And one t ho voice that whispers to the clot;
“Rise to thy living spirit; Death Is not!”
Hearing these voices, there are men who bear
No message to their souls; they lust and plod
Under the flashing menace of a rod;
But there are natures touched so deep and near
That, iike the seed of beauty piercing sod.
They break their flesh and crave the thought of
God.
—George Edgaa Montgomery to Once a Week.
CONSCIENCE.
The young duchess of St Stephens was
the most beautiful and most friendless wo
man of her time. It was her own fault that
she was friendless; every one, men and wo
men alike, would be intimates, would be
lovers, she treated with a chill disdain, or
indifference perhaps, which isolated her.
Of course there were would be lovers.
The young duchess was a noted beauty, and
her very indifference mode men sigh for
the distinction of conquest. There was “no
harm" In this of course, for everybody knew
that the duke had a very fine house at Ham
mersmith, standing in lovely gardens, aud
that he visited it daily when in town. Those
who cared to observe bad seen a dainty vic
toria, which was always much admired in
the park, drive out of the gates of this house
audits sole occupant always the prettiest
little woman in the world, whose blue eyes
looked laughter perpetually. If this was the
duke’s taste why had he married Claudia
Mandevilla, the dark, silent, sphinx like girl,
who, from her first appearance In society,
had always carried herself with the air of a
tragedy qneenf None could tell, though
many conjectured. But it was quite well
known that the duke and duchess had quar
reled bitterly the day after marriage. Since
then the duchess had dwelt alone, and the
duke had found solace in the society of the
merry, blue eyed little lady who accompa
nied him on his incognito trips abroad. In
town and in Scotland, at the chief country
houses where entertaining had to be
done, at other people’s houses ou
visits, tho duke and duchess were
always together. And oh, how bored
they must be, thought every one. Itwas not
difficult to amuse the duke; iu the unfortu
nate absence of the blue eyed lady, he was a
man of easy and ephemeral amours. But no
one ever succeeded in amusing the duchess.
It was well known that before her marriage
she had been engaged to Lord Vane, and it
was an accepted fact that the breaking off of
that engagement had been tho result of a
lovers’ quarrel, and the marriage of Claudia
with the duke a matter of pique on her part.
It was understood, therefore, that she was
still attached to Lord Vane. Why in the
world, then, said the conical, did he not come
and carry her prayer book and fan for her,
and visit the same country houses, iike the
elegant and indistinguishable heroes of
“Ouida’a” novels! But no, Vane was on the
war path again; he had goiie off in his^yacht
to unknown seas; perhaps he was shooting
seals, or something equally absurd and in
human. At all events, he was not dangling
after Claudia, his one time inamorata.
And yet she was the one central spot on
this globe to him. Ha never went near her,
for he believed he loathed and hated her. Yet
go where he would and amuse himself as he
might, his thought was really always with
this inexplicable woman.
Quite young—so beautiful that the way
her dresses were made really hardly
mattered, and her face was never touched
with anything bat honest water—a woman
admired aad coiyted, yet quite alone. Two
men had loved her, and each had parted
from her for life after a terrible quarreL
What mystery was it that made her so iso
lated? People asked the questions in vain.
It was evident chat the duke, though he kept
up all necessary appearances before society
with a painstaking punctiliousness, was In
reality as far and entirely separated from
his wife as was her old lover, Vane, on his
distant seas.
Of coarse the duchess was very much talked
about, but there was no scandal except the
slumbering one which associated her with
Vane. This woke suddenly into life when
Vane came home right in the middle of the
season, as he generally did. He being a per
son of some importance in many ways, the
moment it was known he wa3 iu town his
breakfast table became richly ornamented
with cards and notes of invitation, on which
were emblazoned all sorts of beautiful cre6ts
and mottoes. The duchess of St. Stephens in
vited him to a political dinner. He went,
and found her the same cold beauty, talking
cleverly, though very litUa She seemed
hardly to notice him. Then the duchess of
St. Stephens invited him to a great ball, one
of tho solemn and splendid functions ot the
season which it was her duty to preside over.
She looked glorious; but he caught one
look of agony in her eyes, like a look in a
hunted animal's. It made him sick. About
2 o’olook he left, and went away on foot
along the square. It was a soft summer
morning; ho lit a cigar, leaning against the
railings of a sleeping house, ana watched that
other one all alive and alight,
o There he stood thinking till the carriages
began to roll away, and then till they were
all gone. The door was closed and the lights
put out Suddenly the door opened, and
then shut quickly. A figure came down the
steps aad came toward him. He drew his
breath tuqrd. It wan the duchess, with -a
traveling dress,'a bat and veil on,alittle*bag
to her hand. What on earth did this mean?
R° parted forward as she approached him.
“What are you going to dor he exclaimed,
speaking without thought
She opened her great eyes in amazement at
the sight of him.
“What are you going to do!” he repeated
fiercely, his heart panting—he knew not why.
Long afterward ho understood that the
agony of that moment had hinged on that
one thought—who was she going to?
i She answered him very quietly:
“I am going to do what you neglected. I
am going to give myself up to the police.” -.
“Do you mean it!” he asked, thunderstruck.
“I mean itl” she answered, in a tone that
carried conviction with it.
At that moment another voice broke In.
They had not noticed any one approach.
“You will return home,” said this voice,
breathless with haste, “whatever else you
May have meant to do.”
I ^PlWyrT ° Dly «t V, 1
said; ‘Hwtif „ U nre mv l* 0 *-
v ane looted Wt v
wasunoo Ilmi(Ul ^« ili|a
then Vane UaU <L ke n tla*
his time. hot
“Compromise mer *
sionately ( andw r
Neither of then, ^ "1
her; voice befo*^"*<S!
name," thewent*
me tni l am mad<w!f, meritl V' 1
^me to me ? *1
0 Jh n r n thanyoua ^-I h?
I shall not dism-aoo bav ® *
would in
the misery’
truth honestly
of the sham and mauL- ^
existence. YonS^olm
- V0U1, name fcjf****
then, am I to he J”?
Why is it that Iamto^ 64
and watched biS*J* »
family| i am -W
great a coward to Jji eu<i M
others who will do itL Mf .hs
thepolicel” tfor me. j '
ItV. ~
no > Claudia!" erk, ,
itch in cr nt ^ ' Tle Q ont &J
catching at herns she tun*1
away. “Not that;
as you like, takewhiff”*
sail within the wind J
hold my position. Don't
tfcfc b«L 1
your conscience waking ™ M
qmetiy and not make aS&
A public scandalr
scornfully. “What does
Vane was looking on at tlissn. I
husband and wife i„ comp M
It was impossible to guess howfcj
A strange piece of l uck broJ.1
den condnaon. Down a 2 J
mgat nansom on its w av k-T?
shook off the duke’s han/i'
a hare, {springing i u ^ * j
magic words to the cabman, wwl
his horse and drove away ""
Both men started In pursuit fas]
gave in at the end of three ^,1
Vane, on the contrary, was full of.
ran like a professional He Jj
his eyes fixed on the cab, and l
Euston. The horse was not vm
perhaps he would havo had to m - -
A mail train was just stanina
darted into it, ticketless, and Vu
same a few carriages from her.
Claudia went to a small sees je
. stayed at the hoteL Vane got K
1 where he had a much prized ^
commanded the hotel door and'
I node.
* How she walked and walked, to
and outl How she thonght an
making the most of her brief rem
mentary quiet! He read thisinl
sad, sad face.
All the time he sat and wondr
he should go out, meet her and
She was so untamed, so mysterio
he feared to act He waited an
and waited a day too long.
One bright morning she did i
as usnaL Hour after hour pass
afternoon, and still she had
Trembling with excitement, he
his seat, went out, entered tl
asked for a glass of sherry. In
he heard it alL The whole hob
fusion—a lady had been foun
bed that morning, an empty hot
in her room showing how the c
done.
That unknown lady was nei
bat lies in a nameless grave;
people in tho quiet watering |
over the memory of her beauty
what could have driven her to s
despair.
The odd part of this nncomfoi
that it is the true history of a n
It is understood that Vane n
Claudia and had hidden her
where dR the continent It is si
absurdly Jealous of her, aud
Claudia, who lies so still in he
Who among tlie conventions
a stereotyped age could guess
had no taste for intrigue or li
vices, while her passions were
to make her a murderess or a
Vane’s sake she had killed her j
known it; yet all the time, and
wore and still wears, hidden a'
ture of her beautiful face.—Loi
. ert!
Buckthorn In Toothachfc
Dr. Gretchinsky has called attend
practice which obtains among the P-
in some parts of southern Russia ot >
toothache with a gargle of decow^J
thorn—Pinamus cathaiticua. ®
in order to test the ground of WP
he made a series of con-,
monts upon a number of
prison who were suffering frt
The patients were ordered Ji
their mouths with the coo
tion every three or five
the pain disappeared, and »
the suffering ceased In about
though there still remained * ^
or kind of itching about the
nounced anodyne effect «*_P
serting a cotton W0 ?JL P ^ g a ^T»
decoction in the cavity o
Dr. Gretchinsky consideni» ^
'IsaSSKSjaSs
gSSSSSZlgSS,
boiling 100 parts of the bart >,
cient to yield 200 parts of tbe^
and adding ten parts >
writer attributes the anody “ <{i
The San as » taBlp
The* following °°®f
county, Pa.: Above the
in MountJoyis alanteww^
deal oil lamp. Behind
tograflectoriTheoth^ %tS i
1-htog occurred. init*^
brightly, and the day bad to ^ „
of balmy July. The
trated the glass of juj,*
through the chimney of ^jetor. 1
focused on the polished,
were so focused that th . ji
wick in the
some time before it was discov
Herald.
Public Wbeiston**^
ajsaasggSs
zens and small boyji per*®*
sight to see a half daH^^M
near the building shajV^ 1 ®®