Newspaper Page Text
ALIS. AO LONO !
AL ' flerr otif>, we were younc *o kng,
It eedftM that youtli would never go,
I'or '■th-.s and trees were crcr in song,
And writerin singing flow,
Tti tbi* days we never again MiaH know,
A Ins, so long!
Ah! was it all spring weather?
Nay; but we were young and together.
Ah! dear onr, I’ve been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And, oh! have they Mill the art
That warmed the. pulse- of heart to heart?
Alas, so Toner ago!
Ah’ ti- w* it '-11 apiiug weather?
Nay; but we were young and together.
Ah’ dear one, you’ve been dead so long—
How long until we meet again,
IV here hours may never lose their *ong,
Nor flowers forget the rain,
In glad nooulight that never shall wane?
Alas, so long!
Ah! “hall it he spring weather?
And ah ! shalJ wo ha young together!
D. G. RotttUi.
LADY RODNEY’S PLAY.
“I wish you wouldn't, Dorothy.”
“ Wouldn’t what? ”
“ You know very well.”
"Indeed I do not.”
" Well, if I must bo more explicit, I
wish yon would not act with that—that
Ppusonby. The way ho stares at you,
aud fixes you with his eyes, is
enough to malto a man forget his man
ners.”
“ My dear Cyril, you can’t be serious.
I bare never heard you so unreasonable
tiefore.”
“ Unreasonable! My dear girl! Con
sidering we are to be marred so soon,
aud all that., I ready thought you
would not object to a little advioe from
me."
“Of course not. If I like it, I shall
always follow it. You know that.”
"But surely, Dorothy, it cau’t boa
pleasure to go through rehearsals with
that lanky fellow?”
“ Well, you see, I nm bound to act
now. This is the 16th, and the th#>
atrieals come off on the Ifitli— only three
days; and how could Lady Rodney
provide a substitute in tliat time? And
besides, I should like to.”
“Oh, would you? That, of course,
settles the question.”
“Why, Cyril,” exclaimed Miss Bohun,
“I do believe you are jealous!”
“J am. It does not make a man
particularly cheerful fo know that the
woman lie loves is to be the object of
another man’s adoration for oven au
hour,”
“But, iny dear Cyril, it is only a
farce.”
“But, my dear Dorothy, I see no
reason why it might not torminatc in ft
tragedy.”
Miss Bohun laughs.
“Even that,” sho says, “would be
bettor than nothing. This place has
grown so dull since the Stewarts left,
and those mon at Ooote Hall.”
“Look hero, Dorothy, throw it up,”
says Mr. Disney, leaning over his chair,
and bending his head until bis face is
very near to hers, “for my sake."
“ Well, if you can bring me some
fever, I'll lake it; but I don't see where
you’ll get it, ns there’s nothing of the
sort in the parish, and I’m convinced
that nothing less could save me from
t Ims thing.”
“Then you are quite determined not
to give it up?” says Disney, coldly draw
ing himself to his full height.
“ I never was determined in my life,”
says Miss ljohun, with somo just indig
nation. “ I am remarkable for never
saying.‘no’ to anybody. You, yourself,
have frequently tohi mo I had the sweet
est nature in the world, mid it is quite
too lato to alter Lady Rodney’*
meiits now.”
“No doubt yon are right, oh you al
ways are. I'm sorry I cau’t be presold
on tho ltltli, but it is impossible, as I
shall have business that will detain mo
about that time.”
“ Very pressing business?”
“Yes, very pressing business.”
“Ah f" says Miss Bohun.
* v • * * *
Wheu Disney has been absent two
dnys, his thoughts undergo u decided
change.
To liavo loft Dorothy in the manner
he had, seems to him now to have been
not only an unmanly, but a most un
worthy action.
There is only one way out of it. He
will write to her, and humbly apologizti
for his conduct.
The night passes wearily enough, and
the morning brings him no relief. Ho
is still indescribably miserable, and
sinks into the belief that there is no
balm in Gilead for his uiichrv spirit.
The next day lie grows even more des
]>erate, and dually decides that to-mor
row, oonio what may, he will matu
iihorionlly speaking throw himself at
her feet, and implore forgiveness.
How slowly the train seems to move,
and how intolerable seems the delay at
each station to Disney, as the next
morning lie travels on his way to Bruin
plev. One half-hour more, nnd he is
fulfilling the guard's demands for the
shattered remains of his mutilated ticket,
end awakes to the feet that he hue aotu
ally arrived at his destination.
Hastily procuring his luggage,'and en
gaging the first ear convenient, he im
mediately proceeds to the hall. Arriving
there, he dismisses the man, and giving
tus luggage to the inestimable Williams,
he enters the house.
How good it. sooms to him beiug baek
again, and how small by this time have
Dorothy's own sins grown in his eyes!
After all. how could she help it? He is
sure she hated having to do it. And how
could she refuse lady Rodney, after
promising to play tier part ? And, be
sides, how many women aet. in privnte
theatricals, anil why shouldn’t Dorothy,
who is evidently fitted by nature for that
sort of sporty And when one comes to
think of it dispassionately, there are few
things so-so innocent as little tableaux,
and little drawing-room pieces, mid that !
lu fact, when they arc married, he
doesn't sec why they shouldn't have
private theatric*) s once a month. That
green-room at Kingsmore is just the
place for a stage—footligUts and drop
scenes, and so on.
He is gettiug positively enthusiastic
over the theatricals, whioli subject has
carried him as far as the drawing-room,
when it suddenly occurs to him that
Miss Bohun is not there, as the man has
led him to suppose.
No doubt she is in the conservatory,
which she so much affects. Ho pauses.
He thinks he will give her a pleasant
surprise, and, cautiously moving aside
the curtain, that he may not too rudely
break in upon the reverie that is doubt
less filled with him, he gazes upon the
little perfumed paradise beyond.
At first the light dazzles his eyes. He
draws his breath quickly, and then—
what is it he secs? In the distanoe
stauds Dorothy—her featur, a eloquent,
her eyes alight, her lips half parted, as
a smile fomi and tender hovers around
them.
At her feet kneel ronsonbv. his hands
.tightly clasped ; his whole attitude be-
A " 'hou the most intense.
Even a* Disney watches them, stricken
to the heart by this cruel picture on
which he has so unwittingly intruded, a
passionate outbreak erf words comes from
Ponsonby’s lips.
“Darling r he says, “I appeal to
yon for the last time, and implore you
to listen to mo ! Do not, I Ixweeoli you,
let the adoration of another ” —(“That’s
me,” Disney says, between his com
pressed lins.)—“ blind you to the undy
ing love 1 offer ! On you are cantered
all my liopos of future happiness I Do
not sentence me to life-long despair, but
say you will l>o mine 1”
Disney waits with maddening impa
tience and beating heart for her reply.
It comes very nervously from Doro
thy’s pretty lips.
Her head is bent modestly, and her
lie passively in Ponsonby’s.
“ How can I answer you ?” She says,
in distinct but wavering accents. “And
yet why should I not unburden my
mind? Truth isjalways best. My heart
has long been in your keeping, and ii
you wisii it, it is yours.”
It is too much! Sick at heart, Disney
turns away, not caring to listen to words
evidently not meant for him to bopr.
The dreadful awakening has come! All
his dreams of bliss have boon shattered
bv this sudden and painfully unexpected
blow; and Dorothy, his love, whom he
has believed as true as the angles, is
nothing more in his eyes now than a
practiced flirt and heartless woman of
the world!
His first thought is to return to the
city; ids next to remain. Has lie not
heard somowhere “second thoughts are
best?” Yes; lie will remain, and see it
out to the hitter end; and when this
loathsome play has come to an end, he
will tell her what he thinks of her, and
how she has wilfully broken liis heart
and ruined his life!
At dinner lie is compelled to meet
her; but everybody being present, his
exceedingly cold greeting passes un
noticed by all, except by Dorothy her
self. She can not mistake the change
in his whole demoanor. Where is the
tender pressure of her hand to which
she has been accustomed? Why did
lie come at all if he is still filled with
hitter thoughts? There is some faint
comfort in the remembrance that sho
did not ask him to return.
But what has become of the "press
ing business?” Why has ho oome back
in such hot haste?
Ho carefully avoids her all the even
ing; and next morning nt breakfast is, if
possible, more markedly cold and dis
tant toward her.
Hhe is saddened and disheartened ; but
pride con es to her rescue. Hhe decides
in herself that sho will show him how
little sho lias taken to heart his coldness
and indifference.
Never before, perhaps, as during this
iuterminable day has Miss Bohun ap
peared so gay, so bright, so full of life
and spirits ; and yet in the solitude of
her owu room while dressing for this
luckless play, slm shods many a bitter
tour.
At 9 o’clock tho curtain rises. The
guests settle themselves in their seats
and prepare for anything.
Miss Rodney arrayed in a very Quix
otic costume, fresh from Worth, appears
before the audience, simpering and grim
acing, and doing her utmost to imitate
a r. al live Countess, while in roality sho
only succeeds iu resembling a very in
ferior Nonbrot.
While Miss Fulkiner, from the Hall,
who is in private life her intimate friend,
now makes it poor pretense at waiting
ii]sin her as confidential maid, and ren
ders herself utterly ridiculous by giving
herself sufficient airs for b&lf a dozen
Countesses.
Both arc a distinct failure. Everybody
tries to applaud, but disparaging remarks
fall lightly on the air.
The faint applause brings to life two
liarily veterans, who for some time past
have given themselves gratis to the open
arms of Morpheus, and have content
edly reclined therein.
“I think Miss Rodney has a better
chance of getting off than tho girl in
green," sleepily drawls Number One.
“Do you?” replies Number Two.
“Well, I'm uot much of a judge about
that sort of thing; hut my opinion is
neither will get off tieforo the other.
You see, my dear fellow, when women
are born with a talent for uctiiig like
those two —two tyros, they don't get
easily settled in life.”
Then the curtain draws up for the
second time, andsomobody comes slowly
outo the stage somebody who sets
Cyril’s pulses swiftly throbbing.
It is Dorothy. She is very pale, and
her eves aro a little languid ; but she is
just a degree lovelier than ahe ever was
before.
Disney hardly hears how tho play
progresses. Not a syllable makes itself
known to him ; he can only tell liintself
how lovely she is looking, and that slie
is as false" an flair.
Her eyes are on the ground ; but sud
denly some words strike upon his esr—-
words that bring back to him a soone
fraught with grief and auger. He starts,
and lifts his head; and for the first time
eagerly regards the players.
Ponsoaboy is on his knees before her.
He is holding her hands. Ilis whole at
titude is as it was that fatal afternoon
in the conservatory. He is again pour
ing forth his soul in words of extrava
gant passion.
And then Dorothy’s voice rises, clear
but sad, and devoid of the warmth that
had characterized it during the re
hearsal.
“My heart has long been in your
keeping, and if you wish it, it is yours.”
As she finishes her speech she raises
her eyes and tilt's them steadily, and
with keenest reproach, on Disney, who
returns her gage, his eyes full of oon
trition.
Then the scene changes, and Miss
Boliun makes her exit, amid applaud
iugs loud aud deep.
The curtain drops ; so, I may almost
say, does Disney. How bitterly he now
repents his unpardonable jealousy.
Where shall lie hide himself from Doro
thy's justly reproachful gaze ?
Nothing he can ever do will make her
forgive him, of that he feels assured;
aud as he calls to mind the happy days
that have boon. "Jtemembrauce sits
u|Kin him like a nan.” He feela “They
should l>eware wboobarget lay in lore."
Yet in spites of his despair, he deter
termines to make an effort to regain his
lost position.
He will go to her. Rising suddenly,
he follows her to the green-room, whole
he knows she must be.
She is there, and alone.
“ Dorothy !" he says, entreatingly.
She turns with a start.
“ Can you spare me a few mome.nts ?’’
“ Can't you wait until the morning, or
is it a matter of life or death ?” she
speaks coldly.
“ That your answer shall decide. ”
“ My answer ?”
"Yea.” Going up to her. he takes
both her hands in his, and holding them
in a close clasp, says eagerly, “ Darling,
I havo been a fool, a brute, everything
unpardonable ! Anything you oould sav
to me would not be hard enough. 1
will go on my knees for your forgiveness,
if you wil) only grant it! Pid you know
half the misery I have suffered, lam
certain you would.”
“I’m not so sure that I shall.”
“ What! I shall die if you throw me
over like this—l shall, indeed 1”
“ Oh, no, you won’t—not a little bit!”
says Miss Bohun.
“But I assure you I will!” exclaims
Disney. “Life would bo impossible
without you !”
“ Well; but you sec I have promised
Mr. I’onsonliy.”
“To be his wife?"
“No; not exactly that."
“ Speak quickly I” lie says ill a low
tone. “Suspense is maddening.”
“I have promised him to become a
member of the Archaeological Society,”
says Dorothy.
“And couldn’t you have said so be
fore?" says Cyril, with deep sigh of
relief.
“How could I when yon Were going
mad ?”
“ Darling ! can you forgive my folly ?”
—coming still nearer to tier as he speaks.
“ There’s such a great deal of it, isn’t
there?” says Miss Bohun. “It will
take me all my time, won’t it ?”
“Not at all, I trust. Spare me a
trifle, and I shall be more than con
tent.”
“Dearest Cyril,” she says, mischiev
ously, with a quick glance from under
her long lashes, and a relapse iuto her
rehearsal tono, “my heart has long
been in your keeping, and if you wish
it, it is yours.”
“My love—my darling !” murmured
Cyril, passionately.
And so,
“ Soft nyc.li looked love to eyes, which uniike again,
And all went merry tm a marriage Dell! ”
The Three Napoleons*
Napoleon 11. was tho son of Napoleon
I. and Maria Louisa, and wan born at
Paris, March 20, 1811, and died tit
Schonbrunn, July 22, 1832. The young
Napoleon’s father bestowed on him the
title of King of ltomc, aud on his abdica
tion designated him as his successor to
the throne as Napoleon 11., and he was
recognised as such by the Executive
Committee appointed by tha Chambers
previous to tho final accession of Louis
XVIII. in 1815. The young Prince went
to Austria, whore ho was educated, and
the right of succession to his mother’s
dominions in Parma being withdrawn
from him in 1817, the Emperor of
Austria conferred on him in July, 1818,
the rank of an Austrian Prince, with the
the title of Duke of Reichstadt, nnd
provided him with eminent instructors.
The efforts made after the revolution of
1830 in his favor were unsuccessful, but
tho young man became greatly interested
in tho military history of his father, and
roeeivod from Marmont at course of in
struction in the Napoleonic campaigns.
He entered the army and went through
several grades, and in 1831 commanded
as Lieutenant Colonel one of tho
Hungarian infantry regiments of Vienna.
Ho died of laryngeal phthisis in the
same room la which his father dictated
peace to Austria. On tho establishment
of the second empire in 1852, he became
known as Napoleon 11. in tho order of
imperial succession. Napoleon 111.
popularly known as Louis Napoleon,
was born at Paris, April 20, 1808,- and
died at Chiselhurst, England, January
9, 1873. His mother was Hortcnse do
Bonuharnais, who had lived apart from
her husband, King Louis, of Holland;'
nnd his paternity was questioned,
although it has been ascribed to the
Dutch Admiral Verhuel. King Louis
himself only reluctantly acknowledged
the child as liis son at the command of
Napolson I. Hortense was the daughter
of Alexandre Benulmrnais and Josephine,
afterward wife of Napoleon; and, in ac
cordance with the wish of Napoleon, she
became tin wife of liis brother Louis.
Tlie Fat MarKsman.
Thirty miles out of Charleston we side
tracked to let tlie express go by, aud tho
train had scarcely come to a stand-still
when some ouo raised the cry of “Alli
gator 1” There he wns, sure enough.
Just over the fence wns a pond of stag
nant water at the edge of a corn-field,
and a reptile about sit feet long was.
resting on a log uuil taking things pow
erful oasy. A score of passenger* jumped
down and a dozen revolvers came into
view, but boforo ft hammer was raised a
fat and puffy man who hailed from Wis
consin aud who was making a trip for Lis
asthma, called out:
“Hold on! Hold on, everybody!
Give me the first shot nt that ’gator and
I’ll buy tlie drinks for half tho State of
South Carolitia !”
Wo fell back to give him a show. Ho
bail a revolver about as long as your
thumb, aud he crept to tho fence, rested
it ou a rail, aud after a great deal of
wriggling and twisting and coughing and
wheezing lie blazed axvny. The alligator
flopped off the log and disappeared, and
the fat man threw down his pißtol and
jumped up and down and yelled out:
“ I’lumb-ceutor.or I’m a goat! Hooray!
Hooray!”
We wero patting him ou the back and
telling him that Wisoonsiu was the
greatest State in the Union, when a col
ored uiau came down through the corti
to the edge of the pond aud called acres* :
“ Which of you all am doin’ dat slioot
in’ ?”
“Me 1 Me! I killed him !” answered
fatty.
“ Who was you shootin’ at —mo or de
’gator ?”
“At the ’gator.”
“Oh, you was, eh? Well, dat’s only
ten cento a shot, but 1 oau’t have you
boderiu’ me fur less dan fifteeu ! If you
want to pnt in do odder five bullets I’ll
call it fifty cents !”
And as he started to come around the
pond the old reptile crawled out to the
first row of oorn and pillowed his head
on a sod as if weary of life’s tribulations.
The fat man looked from the darkey to
the alligator and then back at the crowd,
and all he said was ;
“Boys, fall iu by fours sml we’ll
ninreh up nnd swaller barrel and all.—
.V. Quad.
Z.unt Method of Managing Husbands.
Among the Ziuu Indiana, who have
reoently come to the front by coming
East for ocean water, there is Aid to be
a social custom that might be worth
adopting in more civilized circles. In
Zuni-land the houses belong to the
women instead of tße men, so a man can
marry without first being obliged to buy
or hire a house ; marrying men are,
therefore, abundant among tJie Znnia.
On the other hand, a man who marries
can only occupy his w ife's house during
good behavior, the wife having always
the right, to put an unsavory husband
out of doors. This is a privilege that
wonld raise many an Ameri.-an wife from
abject slavery to the rank of equal part
ner in the conjugal firm. But, whether
for husband or wife, the Zuni plan is an
advantageous one; it encourages early
marriages, assures every woman of a
home, so that she need not marry merely
to get one, and it keeps husbands in
order, for almost any man will behave
himself if, by so doing, he can avoid the
onerous duty of paying rent.
A RECEIPT IN FILL.
The tins had all been scoured until
she could see her face, or grotesque
caricatures of her face, in each and
every one of them; the window-panes
polished until they sparkled, or had
sparkled—for it was now twilight—in
the bright June sunshine; the silver
burnished until neither spot nor speck
marred Its mild luster; the loaves of
bread baked until each crispy crust
took on the right shade of tempting
brown; and Molly was scrubbing the
only unscrubbcd corner of the kitchen
when Miss Cameron's deep, harsh, pre
cise voice came to her from the dining
room: “Maryi are you not through
yet?”
“Almost, ma'am,’ 1 answered Molly.
“I think it is high time you were
quite ( ” declared the voice. “You must
make haste. We are going to the lect
ure this evening, MiSs (iedrgette and I)
and as Mr. Malcolm also wishes to go
out, we will be obliged to lock up the
house. Therefore it is necessary that
you should leave as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Molly, meekly,
and finished her scrubbing, with her
tears falling fast and thich. Poor little
girl! she had tried so hard to please her
mistresses, or rather her mistress—for
Miss Georgette was but a reflection of
her elder sister—and her efforts had
been met with a grim silence that be
tokened a begrudged satisfaction, until
the last few weeks; that is, in fact,
until Mr. George Maleom came there.
Mr. Malcolm was a sort of step-brother
to the Misses Cameron (his father, a
Widower, with two boys, had married
their mother, it Widow, with two girls),
and they inheriting nothing in the way
of property from their own father, he
generously made them an allowance
from the moderate fortune left him by
his. Generously and forgivingly—for
they had not rendered a tithe of tho
respect, to say nothing of affection.
Which was his due, to their kind-hearted
and indulgent step-father, choosing to
look upon their mother's second mar
riage as an insult to the memory of the
parent whose not-af-all-amiable char
acteristics had been liis only legacy to
them.
The cottage in which they iive'd, situ
ated in the prettiest part of Mcadowville
(the furniture therein being their own,
the bequestof amateroal grandmother),
belonged to Mr. George; and here he
had oome in search of solitude and quiet,
for the first time in twelve yßafs or
morei to spend a !ilonth Or two in think
ing out and arranging plans for slatting
n large business In it neighboring city:
And, as 1 hilve already intimated; things
had changed much for the worse with
Molly, the servant-maid, since his ar
rival. The grim silence had given place
to most open fault-finding, when Mr.
Malcolm was not within hearing. The
coffee was too strong, the tea too weak,
the chickens underdone, the steaks
burned, the eggs boiled too hard, the
rooms badly swept, the shirts poorly
ironed; and all tltesd compliiiiits; with
many more, the elder spinster, con
firmed by the younger, gave her to un
derstand originated with the guest.
“ What a hard man to please he must
be!” Molly said to herself many times.
“ And yet lie has one of the handsomest
and kindest faces 1 ever saw; and he
spoke right pleasantly to me the first
day lie came, and even ottered me his
hand (how Miss Cameron did frown!);
but I pretended not to see It, for I knew
it was hot tny place to shake hands With
hint. It is strange he should have be
come so fractious. He was so good and
merry and kind when I was a little girl.
I’ve heard father say 7 often he’d rather
shoe a horse for him than for any one
else in the village.” And then she
would fall to thinking how grand he
used to look to her childish eyes wliett
lie came riding up on his bay 7 mare to
the smithy, where she spent half her
time watching her father at the forge.
And he alway s brought her a gay pict
ure-book, or a pretty ribbon, or a box of
candies, or a bright new silver piece—
one Christmas it was a gold one—and
claimed a kiss (good gracious! how her
cheeks flushed at the remembrance!)
for payment when he rode away again.
How happy, how very happy, "she had
been then, with that dear'father and
dear old Aunt Nanny!—so happy that
she had scarcely ever felt the loss
of the mother who had died in giving
her birth. But when Molly was fifteen,
the blacksmith, so strong and ruddy
that it seemed impossible pain or sick
ness could ever come near him, fell
sick, and after lingeiing, sorely crippled,
for nearly two years, died, leaving no
thing to his darling but hard work. Yes,
there was one alternative: to become
Mrs. Jake Willow, nnd mistress of the
forge again: but .Jake was a rough, vul
gar fellow, and Molly, inheriting the
delicate tastes and gentle ways of her
mother (who ha. been a shy, pretty
young governess before she married the
handsome blacksmith), shrank from the
loud xoh a and rude lnughter of her
would-be husband. And so, in prefer
ence to accepting Jake’s offer, she be
came and Heaven knows this was a hard
enough thing to do—maid-of-all-work
in tlie cottage of the Misses Cameron.
Four little Molly! prettier than many a
princess, with lovely, black-fringed gray
eyes, and hair of the very darkest
brown—hair that would curl in spite of
her, to Miss Cameron's great displeas
ure. “If 1 had such untidy hair,” that
lady would often declare, glancing ap
provingly into the miiror at the fiat
dyed bands that made a triangle of her
high narrow forehead, “ I'd shave my
head;” and •• We’d certainly shave our
heads.” would echo Miss Georgette.
The kitchen Poor tinished, the rugs
shaken and returned to their places, the
bread put away in the big stone jar in
the cupboard. Molly sought her own
room (which, truth to tell, was no room
at all. but a corner of the garret rudely
partitioned off, with only a small sky
light to admit light and air—there were
rooms, empty, unused rooms, in the
attic, hut “they were much too good
for a servant.' 1 Miss Cameron said; and
“very much too good for a servant,”
agreed her sister)—to make ready for
her (fitting. Molly looked arounif it as
she tied her straw hat over her rebel
lious tresses, and agaiu the tears filled
her eyes. It had not been a happy place
of rest to her. but it had been a place of
rest, and a shelter, and she had been
glad to have it, fearing to leave it lest
worse luck lay beyond.
And she would not have been com
pelled to leave it had it hot been for that
unfortunate mirror, and the unceasing
complaints of the old bachelor. Old
bachelor! Why. he couldn't be so very
old. after all, for he was only one-and
twenty (she was then between five and
six) when he gave her the ribbons and
books and silver pieces, aud she gave
him the kisses.
But the sound of closing shutters
broke in on her reverie, and reminded
her that her departure was waited for. ,
and taking her bundle in her hand, she
•an quicklv and lightly (town the stair*
.0 the parlor, where the. maiden ladies
sat erect and stern, their bonnets already
on in readiness for the lecture.
“I’m going now,” said Molly, stand
ing in the doorway, her sweet, pathetic
face, with its pleading gray eyes and
quivering lips, in no way touching what
her mistresses were pleased to call their
hearts. “Good-by, ma'am. Good-by,
Miss Georgette.”
But the only reply she got was: “Bear
in mind that you arc still indebted to us
eight-and-twenty dollars. If, however,
you should prefer to purchase a mirror
yourself in place of the one broken by
you, we will consent to receive it, pro
vided it is in every way as good as that
left us by our grandmother. And in
that case we will agree to refund the
eight dollars, your last month's wages,
which we have retained as the first in
stallment of your debt; which is really
much more than could have been ex
pected of us.”
“Ohyesi indeed, very much more
than could have been expected of us,”
murmured Miss Georgette.
“ For such gross carelessness —” Miss
Cameron went on.
“Indeed, ma’am,” interrupted Mol
ly, her cheeks llaming and her eyes
sparkling: "a* I have told you I never
toileted it; I iVasfl’t even near it. I
Was sweeping the other side of t he parlor
when it fell, and the cord it hung by was
all moth-eaten, and had parted just in
the middle, as I showed you at the time.”
“ —Should be punished,” continued
Miss Cameron, not paying the slightest
attention to the girl. "Anil one word
more. Please to remember that wo
have your.signature to an acknowledg
ment that you consider yourself responsi
ble for the breakage.”
“You frightened me so that I scarce
ly knew what I was signing,” said
Molly. “ But as I have promised, I
will pay you, fof it shall never be said
that my" father’s daughter broke her
word. I’d give you the few dollars I
have saved, if I had not to keep them
for my own support until I get another
place. Poor Aunt Nanny can only give
me shelter, for, As you kiloWf she has de-
pended almost entirely on me for rood
and clothes ever since my father died.”
“Yes, and a very ridiculous thing for
both <j{ you,” snapped Miss Cameron,
with a cold snap. ‘'She might much
better sell the hut she lives in for
kindling-wood, and go to the poor-house,
and you might much better save your
Wages to pay lor the things you break.
For break yon Will to the end of your
days. I never saw a person with such
fly-flwily hair as vburs that was not vain,
Bare'less and ffivtdbns.- You may go.”
“Yes, indeed, yotl may go,” added
Miss Georgette.
And the poor child went out into the
road, homeless and almost friendless,
with a shadow on her fair young face
and a pain in her young heart. But
she had only turned into the long lane
that led to old Nanny’s cottage, when
someone came quickly to her side, and
said; ift a kindly voice: “Molly! poor
little Molly!” arid there was Mr. Mal
colm. And Molly, in her grief, think
ing only of him as the friend of her
childhood, who had known her as the
darling of the kindest of fathers, flung
her bundle down, and burst into a pas
sionate flood of tears.
“ They were hard on me, your sisters,
Mr. Malcolm,” she sobbed—“very hard
on me. I did my best for them. I
Worked —and I am not very strong,
though 1 am a blacksmith’s daughter
—from morning till flight, and yet I
could not, please them. And it was not
my fault about the mirror. It was not
—it was not—it was not. Though Miss
Cameron insists that 1 stopped sweep
ing to look at my curly hair—l can’t
hern its curling; i rim everything to
make it straight; I tied It back so tight,
over and over again* that mv head
ached awful—and knocked it With the
broom. She was a little better before
you came; hut after you came, and
complained so much about the tea, and
the coffee, and your shirts, and—and ev
erything —”
“ I complain!” exclaimed her listener,
breaking in upon her rather confused
narration of her Wrongs. “ Why, I
never complained of anything. How
could I? there was nothing to be com
plained of.”
“ She said you did. But I beg par
don, sir”—suddenly remembering the
difference between the candv-and-kisses
time and the present. “She is your
sister, and—and my troubles are noth
ing to you.”
“She is my sister an extremely long
step off,” he replied, gravely, “ and
your troubles are a great deal to me;
and furthermore, I think 1 see a way
—a pleasant way—out of them. Let
me walk with you to your Aunt Nanny’s,
and there, with her to advise us. we’ll
talk matters over.”
“Oh, it’s such a poor place, Mr. Mal
colm! Miss Cameron called it a hut,
and said it was only fit for kindling
wood.”
“I’ve been in much poorer places,
Molly,” said he, and picking up her
bundle, he walked by her side to the old
woman’s cottage.
Two weeks passed by. A poor drudge
from the work-house, whose chief (in
fact whose sole) recommendation was
“no wages,” had taken Molly’s place in
the Misses Cameron’s kitchen. Mr.
Malcolm had gone away on business
directly after her coming, and on the even
ing appointed for his return, the two
sisters, attired in dresses of dull gray,
unrelieved by a single touch of color,
sat (everything in the house being in
heart-chilling, dreadful stony order),
one at each parlor window, awaiting his
arrival.
“He must be coming: 1 think 1 hear
wheels,” said the elder, in her usual
precise tones.
“Wheels,” repeated the sister.
And “wheels” they were, but not the
, wheels of a carriage, but those of a
I truck, and this truck, on which lay a
long wooden box, stopped before the
cottage door.
j “A mirror for Miss Cameron," the
driver called out as he jumped down.
“A mirror!” repeated the spinster,
1 unable to restrain a gesture of surprise.
And “A mirror!” said Miss Georgette,
with another gesture of surprise.
“Yes, ma'am; from Willard's, New
York. Where is it to be taken?”
i “First unpack it out here.” com
manded the ladv, recovering her self
pos'cssion. “1 can’t have the house
littered up with splinters and shav
ings!”
“No. indeed.” chimed in Miss Geor
gette, also recovering her self-pos
session. “Splinters and shavings!”
So the box was unpacked at the road
side, and the mirror taken from it
proved to be better and handsomer in
every respect than that it had been sent
to replace.
“I’ve brought wire to hang it with.”
said the man. as he carried it into the
house; “so there'll be no danger from
moths this time.”
“Moths!” said Miss Cameron, glar
ing st him. And “ Moths!” echoed her
sister, also glaring. And they both con
tinued to glarft, as though called upon
to superintend a piece of work highly
repugnant to their feelings, until the
mirror was hung, and the driver again :
in his place on the truck. _
“Of course George sent it, said Miss |
Cameron, when the man had driven
away. ’ ‘ But Mary Brown must pay ior
the other all the same. Our having this
makes no difference m regard to the
agreement with her.”
“No difference iu regard to the agree
ment with her,” assented Miss Geor
gette —when who should walk in, in a
gray silk walking dress, a bunch of
crimson flowers at her throat, and an
other in her belt, and the most coquet
tish gray hat, adorned with more crim
son flowers, but Moily herself?
“Good-evening,” she said, smilingly.
“I have called for a receipt in full.’
“A receipt in full! And for what,
pray? Have you brought the money?”
asked her whilom And, “Have
you brought the money?” echoed her
other whilom mistress.
“No, I have not brought the money,”
answered Molly; “ but I have sent you
a mirror that "more than answers all
your requirements,”
•‘You!” from both sisters at, once.
And again, for the second time nt one
short hour, they were guilty of being
surprised, and letting their surprise be
see n.
“Yes, I. 1 have the bill witn me. A
receipt in full, if you please. ’
Miss Cameron arose, walked in a
statelv manner —Molly following her
to Iter" desk in the dming-roora, seated
herself, took pen, ink and paper, and
began: “Received from Mary B
when —
“ Stop a moment,” said Molly; “ my
name is no longer Mary Brow'n,”
“And what may it be?” inquired Miss
Cameron, regarding her with lofty eon-
tempt. . .
“I'll answer that question,” answered
Mr. Malcolm, suddenly appearing, and
passing his arm round the slender gray
silk waist, thereby crushing the bunch
of roses in the natty beit— “ Mrs. George
Malcolm.”
The pen fell from Miss Cameron’s
hand, and for the first, time in her life
that estimable woman went into hyster
ics, whither her equally estimable sister
immediately followed her.
And Molly, taking her leave at that
moment, never received any receipt, in
full or otherwise, after all. —Margaret
Eytinpe, in Harper's Weekly.
The Newer Arithmetic.
If a man buys a box of strawberries
with the bottom shoved up half-way to
the top for twenty-five cents, how many
can he buy for $2 ?
Bought a horse fourteen years old for
$65, and sold him to an editor for $l2O as
a six-year-old stepper. How 7 much did
I make ?
If it takes eighteen men to do the
bossing and four men to do the lifting
when a street-car horse falls down, how
many bosses and lifters will it take to
put five horses on their feet ?
Julia has 5 beaux and Emily has 3,
while the old maid next door has none.
How 7 many beaux in all, and how many
would be left if they should give the old
maid half the crowd ?
How many are $lB less the $3 you lent
a Congressman’s son to help him pay
his fare to lowa ?
A certain city has a population of 420,-
000. The census man can’t find but
231,580. What is the difference, and
where did the remainder hide during the
census taking ?
A. has an overcoat for which he paid
$lB, and his wife trades it off for two
red-clay busts of Andrew Jackson,
worth thirty cents each, How much
mouoy wi!l she get from her husband to
buy a fall bonnet?
If six men who talk politics and dis
pute on biblical questions can build a
iValk in five days, hoxv long will it take
two men who whistle and flirt with the
widow on the corner to do the same
work ?
A man pays thirty cents for three
pounds of evaporated apples and gets a
sl4 newspaper puff for sending them to
an orphan asylum. Does he gain or
lose and how much ?
How many peck pcacli-baakets, each
holding six quarts, will be required to
hold seven buslnls of peaches, each
bushel of which is short four quarts ?
How do you obtain an abstract num
ber? Answer—Hire a strange boy to
take a dozen oranges to your house.
How do you obtain a concrete num
ber ? Answer—Mix one part Akron ce
ment with two parts of sand and spread.
—Detroit Free Hresa.
There died in England not long since
a madman, in whose body was found
twenty buckles, fourteen pieces of glass,
ten pebbles, three knotted strings, a
piece of leather, a fish-hook, a pin, nine
copper buttons and 1,782 nails and tacks,
A French convict carried around in his
stomach fifty-two objects, including sev
eral knives and a piece of hoop-iron
four inches long. A sailor died in a
London hospital a few years ago who,
when he was drunk, swallowed pen
knives and aud clasp-knives by the half
dozen. In Boston, in 1805, he swal
lowed four in one evening, and next
morning, encouraged by the notoriety,
swallowed eight more. He was finally
seized with vomiting, and was only re
lieved by heroic measures, but his stom
ach was ruined. But the next Decem
ber, being again drunk, he swallowed
nine clasp-knives, and was several
months in getting rid of them. He did
not, in fact, get rid of all of them, and
died of slow emaciation four years after
ward.
Wants in a Great City.
Among the advertisements in the New
York Sun is one for “first-class waist
hands.” This is a fine opportunity for
some young man to embrace. Another
advertisement reads, “ Wanted, a boy to
feed and kick at 303 West Twenty-first
street. Wages, $4.” This sonnds as if
it might come from “ Shepherd” Cowley,
though he did not feed his boys. “A
third-haud baker” is also wanted. This
must call for the man who was hurrying
down street swinging his two hands, and
it was plain to everybody that he had
also i/ot a little behind hand— making a
third hand. Still another advertisement
calls for “A stout young man to be gen
erally nsefnl about an ice cream saloon.”
The most generally useful young man
in an ice cream saloon is the one who
brings in the gills there, early aud often,
but it is hard to nnderstand why he
should need to be stout.
The Swiss Way.
In the Canton of Geneva, Switzerland,
every country school-master is required
to know something of agriculture and
natural history, to the end that he may
instruct his pupils therein. Every vil
lage has its night school, in which lads
and yonng men who have attended the
communal school the required term—
until the completion of their thirteenth
year—nicy obtain further instruction in
matters relating to their calling ; and,
during the winter, lectures are given in
the village school-rooms—sometimes in
the village churches —by professors
from the University, on agricultural
chemistry sad kindred subjects.
Story of a Silver Mine. 1 8
An old Colorado miner says:
f was yet at Leadville a man
iront Denver named Dexter -Ji m flB
ter they called him—and lie was'fJSß
iife and hope and had sonic
Dexter looked about him fur a HS
xml finally bought a claim on
Hill, which had at that time iiijijbS
prospected very well. lie paid,
about $15,000 for it, and sot to
putting in machinery and
shaft, which was already
hundred feet or more. He naH
away on tiic mine, people
hint a good deal, but lie never
heart. Ttx mine had not
single thing in the way of
the shaft had been sunk by
several hundred feet. Dexter
know what to do. He had now
nearly all the money he had and
ing was coming in. One day jHI
early part of the year 187'J a par
to hint and asked him what he
take for his mine. Dexter
and ft bargain was made between Hp
Tho price paid was, I think,
some $5,000 more than DexteedS
spent on it altogether. He was
glad to get the $30,000, and thHl
himself well ..out of a bad hiiMgl
He rushed out onto Carbonate l|jß|
ordered the miners to drop their *9
and quit work. This was about
o’clock in the afternoon. H e
‘Boys, I have sold this hole, ami I doS
want you to work another minutejgß
for me. I will pay you ott right
you can quit.’ Well,the miners h.;|jS9
finished a drill anil were
place a blast and uncover somriyfl
anil they asked to be allowed to
it before they quit work. ‘ Nn.Sfl
Dexter, ‘come out; I don't want
work any more; there’s nothing ; a til
old hole.’ The men
and reported. Dexter got his
and was happy. Well, tiie
been bought by a stock company,
a short time they began
Now, young man, what I am
tell you is the solemn truth,”
miner. “Those fellows went up
to that mine and laid a fuse to
left by Dexter’s men and touched iH
After the smoke cleared
in to see how much rock had
ened, when what do you think? (H
before their eyes they saw the riH
body of silver ore which has evii'B
seen since the world began. AIH
time hundreds of thousands of dB
met the gaze of the delighted mvnß
the richest kind of ore". Well,
fellow 7 ,” continued Mr. Knowles, ‘B
mine was the celebrated Kobert kH
which has made everybody rich wIM
had anything to do with it since j 9
Dexter sold ft. Millions of dollarsß
been turned out of it, and
cst silver mine in the world.” 119
porter asked the miner how Dextc9
the misfortune. “Well,” he repfl
“ they say Dexter would cry for a
time after whenever he heard the i
of the mine mentioned, but I
know how that is. He got hold of i
mining property with the mone
ceived, aud is now a rich mau, livi
Denver in fine style. He has the
tation of having the most elegantly
nished house in Denver, and it suit
a beautiful plaoe.”
A FINANCIAL ANECDOTE. 9
Theodore was a poor lad. One ■
when he was very hungry he espiS
6-cent piece on the floor of the bro*
office, which ho was sweeping out. I
had remembered stories wherein 1®
boys had picked up a small pie?®,
money, handed it to the great mere®
or rich banker and been immedia®
taken into partnership. So Tbeo®
stepped up to the-door of the brut®
private room and said : |
“Please, sir, here’s a 5-cent piec®
found on the floor.” |
The broker looked at Theodore a ■
ment and then said : |
“You found that on my floor,*
you ? And you are hungry, aren’t yo*
“ Yes, sir,” replied Theodore. |
“ Well, give it to me and get outH
was looking around for a partner, bfl
boy who doesn’t know enough to M
bread when he is starving to death >®
make but a sorry broker. No, bcH
can’t take you into the firm.” 1
And Theodore never became a rf*
broker. Honesty is the best polH
children, but it is not indispensable 14
success iu the brokerage busin- (rl
Boston Transcript. |
A Considerate Husband. I
Not long since one of the Scliaun: Urj*
girls married a man who was celrbraM
For his poverty and other bad
Yesterday, Gilhooly met Muse Scliaift®
burg on Austin avenue, and
h'm how his married daughter was ■
ing on. J
••She vash doing line. Her
vash so k lid. He schoosts
3very dings she vants. He vash so
nit her. He shoosts pays her
tings.” I
“I am glad that he is so conn*
orate.” ■
•‘Yell, I va.sn’t glad dot he vash S
kind mit my darter.” ]
“Why not?” 1
• Perausc all de pills vash sent ■
me to bo pa and. 1 vi-h he vouM M
i little m re rough mit her. He '**
.(I kind mit my money.”—
■si. tin is. 1
Princess Louise’s Tart. 1
The Princess Louise is a lady of raucß
good teste, with a large fund of commoj
sense. The supervision of her hous
hold affairs is upon the model characte*
istic of all well-appointed Bngh-W
households. A gentleman who has ■
weakness for apricot tart dined with he®
a short time before she left for no*
gland. To his delight apricot tart
included in the menu, and he express?*
his fondness for .it. , ■
“I am so glad you like it,” replied®*
hostess ; “ because I made it niysej*
Let me give yon the recipe,” and m
interest she detailed its ingrethcu*
“Remember, when you get home, *
tell Mrs. J that apricot tart slmu*
always have an upper crust.’—® II
Hour.
An Austin Sunday-school teache*
wanted to make his pupils compreheo J
the parable of the good shepherd. 1 j
said: “Now my dear children, sn PP,*a
you were all little sheep, and I ® a, J
charge of you and lead von aliout,
would I be?” “A big sheep.” was * *■
unanimous response in chorus. Jkx®*!
Siftings.
Physicians who have had opportßi-|
ties for studying the opium-smoki®? I
habit of Chinese, state it as their cpjj’ I
ion that as a vice it is no more prevail I
hurtful or degrading than the draS;l
drinking of 'Western nations, and I
opium smoking is far less burtfu' tb ‘*. I
opium-c&&ng,