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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 ®®