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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,