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Carradine’s Love.
Carradine sat alone at hia easel,
painting; and as he painted he
tho ught. Eight years before when he
w as a poor and struggling boy, just
e nteriDg on that race which must be
run by every aspirant to art and its
h onora, there happened to him some
thing which neither time nor toil had
been aide to »flaoe from hia memory.
As he was passing along the street a
wreath of fragrant roses suddenly fell
on his head, and, looking up in won
der, he beheld, reacning out from
the embroidered draperies of an over
hanging window, a child with falry-
llke proportions, with great, dark eyes
and long, curling black locks, who
stood smiling and throwing him
kisses from her curved lips, colored
like a pomegranate. While Ehe still
gazed a nurse had come forward and
drawn the child away; the curtains
were closed, and he saw the little irea-
ture no more.
Such was the vision that the artist
had carried so long in his memory ; in
his memory only, for he had no sec
ond glimpse of the child. That very
day an accident occurred which kept
him a prisoner in his room for some
weeks, and when next he went out
the house was empty, and a placard
with great flaring lett-rs announcing
it for sale stared him in the face, from
the same window in which the little
white-robed elf had stood waving
her hand and smiling to him. In
course of time other faces appeared
thtrc, but they wire strange faces,
and among them was never tbe one
for which he looked.
Now, as Carradine sat painting
alone, he thought of all this ; of the
struggle that had ended at length in
success; of his hard unfriended boy
hood, and of tho beautiful child with
her fragrant rose-crown which had
seemed almost like a prophecy. That
rose wreath, dry and withered now,
was all that was left to him of the fair
vision, but when the morning, in
turning over an old portfolio, he had
come upon it by chance, it spoke to
him of that by gone da\ just as elo
quentiy as when its blossoms were
Iresb and full.
“Eight, years ago,” hesaid, thought
fully, letting the shriveled circlet slip
through his flugt rs slowly. “She must
be six ten now—if she lives. If? No,
11 do not doubt her living j resencc—
somewhere. I wonder where she is
now, and what she is like at sixteen?”
With that he placed the wreath be-
LSide bis easel and began to paint. The
Race as it grew on the canvas, pre-
* entad a y oung girl in the dewy morn-
,ing blush of first youth, with shadows
[in the great dark eyes, and a half
smile about the bright curved lips
Like an embodied summer sun shower,
was thus that the artist pictured
[ s idear of the child-woman, whose
familt* look and smile for eight
eng years had been his own dream of
love.
Canadinehad not had an easy life.
An orpuan from his earliest years,poor
ana unfriended, he had striven hard
for the means to gratify that inherent
idolatry for art which was always
clamoring to And expression in form
and coloring. He had fought and he
had won ; but now, at 26, he stood
in the place whioh he had gained for
hi u.-ielf almost as much alone at the
a ery heart as he had been eight years
before, when the child’s gift came to
him as a prophecy.
It was nut that he was friendless.
There were men who liked and sought
him, women who would have gladly
taught him to forget his lonliness in
their affection. But though his nature
responded readily to any kindness,
there was one chord, deeper than all,
that remained untouched ; and, from
tnv sweetest glances, his thoughts
went *. ack to the unknown ^chlld that
had tunned down on him so long
The ideal nead became his great
source of enioyment, and a dreamy
^softness shaded his dark-gray eyes, as
hue bv line and lint by tint took him
r ba u into that oast, which, all lifeless
as it was. seemed to him, in those mo
ments,more real than the busy present.
Yet now. In reviewing that oue bright
.vision of his memory, it was not so
[much ihe lovely child that he saw, in
fancy, as the beautiful girl whose face,
rith fuller depth and sweetness, look
out at him from his own oanvas.
Instinctively, he nardly knew why,
ie disliked to work on this picture in
Tany other presence, #nd he devoted to
It only his hours of solitude. Bo it
happened that it was nearly finished
when, by some chance, a nqgpi uia.
ecwu.*d him bending ever it, too ab-
lotioaAy approaoti. As
.rose
ly, turning his easel to the wall, so rs
to conceal the face upon it. This little I
stratagem, however, was destined to
be of no avail. Having been marked
by tbe intruder—one of those cm rdiai,
well-meaning people, good-natured to
a degree, but with little delicacy c f
perception—the action at once aroused
his curiosity.
“Aha, master painter,” he said, with
a laugh, “let us see what it is that yc u
work at by yourself till it steals away
y ur eyes and ears. Only one peep I”
h that, he laid his hand on the
frame, and, receiving no fi rbidding
word from Carradine,turned it around.
The next moment he was loud in
praise.
“But who is it, Carradine? If it is a
portrait tell me where to And the orig
inal, and I will, if it is a seven days
journey!”
Carradine smiled.
“If I msyelf knew where to find
such an original, I should not be here
to tell, you my good friend,” he an
swered, evasively.
“Oh,a fancy sketch,” said the other,
misled, as the artist had desired. “I
might have saved myself the trouble
of asking. No real flesh and blood
face ever looked like that—the more
shame to nature, I saj ! Of course
you will exhibit it, Carradine? 7
“No.” answered the painter quiet
ly.
“No!” repeated the other in sur
prise. “But, my dear f< llow, you
must, or I shall belr y your secret,
and yv>u will have a swarm of visitors,
worse than a plague of E ypt, let in
upon you.”
Carradine hesitated. A chance
wbrd in his friend’s speech had sug
gested a possibility that made his
heart leap in spite of sober reason.
“ You are right,” he said. “I shall
send the picture for exhibition. It
will be better so.”
After his visitor had left him alone
again, Carradine bent long over his
easel, g. zing into ihe lovely, upturn* d
face, until it began to fade into the
gathering twilight.
“If—if!” he murmur d to him>elf,
half unconsciously. “But it cannot
be. Yet I will send it—and per
haps ”
And so the picture was sent, in due
time ; and it seemed almost as if Car
radine’s soul had gone with it and
drawn him to follow. Hour after
hour, and day after day, he sat in the
gallery, scrutinizing eagerly every
face amid the visitors, whom taste
or fashion had i rought to look at the
now celebrated artist’s latest success.
Eve; y night he went away unsatit fled,
and every morning he returned with
hope springing afresh in his heart.
Still, the object of his search, what
ever it may have been, does not ap
pear ; and one day, discouraged at
last, he resolved to go no mi re on
so fruitless an errand. Shutting him
self in his studio, he began to paint,
but, strive as he would, he could com
mand neither hand nor fancy. Final
ly, tired of repeated failure, he aban
doned work, and yielded to the im
pulse which drew his steps in the
customs' y direction.
When he entered the small side-
room in which liis picture hung, he
found but two persons within, a young
man and a girl.
Carradine could not see the faces of
these two, but, with an earnestness
for which he was at a loss to account,
he followed their retreating figures as
they moved slowly toward his pic
ture. But the next moment an excla
mation of astonishment burst from
the lips of the young man.
“Why, here is your p: rlrait, Leila!
What does it mean ? Who Gan the
painter be?”
With that, he hurried out to pur
chase a catalogue. Carradine ad
vanced quickly to the girl.
“ 1 am the painter,” he said.
She turned and looked at iftm with
one steady gaze from those glorious
eyes that had haunted his visons for
so marly years. Then she spoke :
“You painted that picture? and
how 1”
“From remembrance,” he answered.
“It was my only tribute to the little
unknown princess who crowned me
once with roses. Does she, too, re
member it ?”
For a moment doubt was in her
face; but as lie looked fixedly at htr
it vanished m certainty. A smile
Just touched the bright lips.
“It was you, then, on whom I
foroed my roses? a prlncesB who
gave away honors unasked. How
often I have wondered since ”
She stopped, turned? to tho oanvas,
and added abruptly, “But I was a
child then ; and ht re—”
ou are a
Carradine, completing the unspoken
sentence. “Is it so hard to under
stand ? The same power that kept
the child in my heart showed me into
what she would ripen.”
She did not look at him now, but at
the picture, as she asked in a low
voice. “And whom am I thank for
such an honor?”
“My name is Hubert Carradine,”
tie answered, and saw at once that it
was no unfamiliar word to her. “And
yours? Through all these years your
face has haunted me always, but your
name 1 never knew.”
She hesitated a moment. then
turned to him.
“You never knew my namer Then
think of me still as you have thought
of me through all these years.” she
said, a half smile lingering about he)
mouth, but never lighting the great
dark that was shaded by subtle sad
ness. The look, the tone, transported
Carradine beyond all remembrance of
place or circumstance, into the unreal
realm of imagination in which hi
wish was supreme ruler.
“I have thought of you always as
my life and my love,” he said, half
unconsciously, his dreamy, deep gray
eyes glowing upon her face. Sht
blushed suddenly, and then paled in
an instant. Just then her former
panion entered the room,
am ‘Lelia Auverney,’ she said
hastily, “and this is Cecil Wynd-
ham, my—my betrothed husband.”
Not another word was said. As the
young man approached, Carradine
fell back a step and looked at the two.
His was a fair, handsome face, so lit
tle marked as yet by time that it
would be hard for an unpracticed * ye
to conjecture with what lines the
shaping chaiacter would yet stamp it.
Nevertheless, with one keen g ze Car
radine estimated both present and fu
ture.
She said a few low-spoken words to
her companion, who presently moved
toward Carradine, and addressed him
“I have the honor of speaking to
Mr. Carradine, the painter of this pic
ture?”
Carradine bowed without speaking.
‘ Will you pardon me for asking if it
is a fancy sketch ?” continued Mr.
Wyndham.
“Partly so, but suggested by the
face of a little girl,” answered the
artist.
“But the likeness is so very strik
ing !” muttered the young gentleman.
“I must have it at any rate. Of course
you will part with it—at your own
price?”
"The picture is not for sale,” said
Carradine, quietly still regarding the
young man with that cool, steady
gaze which had already caused him tc
betray a hesitation, almoi-t confu
sion, very unlike his usual easy confl
dence. He seemed to haye an instinc
tive knowledge that the artist wai
measuring him, and to shrink from
that measurement with unconscious
dread.
Carradine saw Leilia Auvernay onct
more before she returned to her homt
in a distant town. Then he took hit
picture r rom the academy walls, and
hung it in his studio, where his eyet
could find it whenever he looked away
from his work. For he did not give
up work; yet, among themselves 14s
friends pronounced him an alfirec
man, and marvelled what had caused
so subtle a difference. Always quiet,
he now seemed to live in an ideal
world of nis own ; and, whatever ht
might occupy himself with, there wat
that in his manner which appeared ti
imply that it was only a temporary di-
v; mon until the coming of some event
Fr which he was waiting.
So passed half a year, at the end ol
which there came a letter to Carra
dine. It was very brief, but it wat
enough to assure him of that whicL
he had been almost unconsciously ex
pecting.
The letter was from Leilia Auver
nay. He went to her at once. Shi
met him with a laughing light in hei
eyes such as he had not seen there
when she stood in the gallery beside
her betrothed husband ; a light whicL
recalled the merry child who had
smiled down rn him so long ago.
“Mr. Carradine,” she said, “I told
you that my fortune was gone, but I
did not tell you how uttirlv it had
been swept away. I am nothing bet
ter than a beggar. Will you take me
for one of your students, for charity’s
sake ?”
He looked searchlngly into her
smiling face.
“And Mr.. Wyndham ?” he asked
in a low voice.
She laughed without so much as a
flush of emotion. *
“Mr. Wyndham lias gone with the
rent of my itossessions. Did I not say
that I had lost everything ? You see,
Mr. Carradine, that I amfcpot of as
orth_a2_mx picture
The words, as she said them, did
not seem bitter. He took her hands.
“Leilia,” he said “does your loss
make you unhappy ?”
“Do I look so ?” she asked, gayly
“As for the marriage, it was my
father's wish, and to gratify his dying
request i consented—before i knew
my own heart—” Here a quick, vivid
color shot into her cheek, but she went
on. “There never was love on my
side; and on his— well, money is more
than love with some natures. I do
not wish to blame him.”
Carradine’s grasp tigntened on her
hands.
“Leilia,” be said, “once your an
swer put a bar between, when I spoke
wordB that were surprised out of my
heart. Would it be so now, if I should
say them once more? My love, my
life, will you come to me ?”
“Will I come!” she repeated, lotk-
ing up in his eyes and drawing nesrer,
until his arms silently folded about
her.
And so Carradine found his love at
last.
How to Develop a Boy’s
Brains.
An incident in the school-life of a
teacher, as related by herself, illus
trates our point. She had charge of a
school in a country town early in her
career, and among her scholars was a
boy about fourteen years old, who
cared very little about study and
showed no interest apparently in any
thing connected with the school. Day
after day he failed in his lessons, and
detentions after school hours and
notes to his widowed mother had no
effect. One day the teacher had sent
him to his seat, after a vain effort to
get from him a correct answer to
questions in grammar, and, feeling
somewhat nettled, she watched his
conduct. Having taken his seat, he
pushed the book impatiently aside,
and espying a fly, caught it with a
dexterous sweep of the hand and then
betook himself to a close inspection of
the insect. Fir fifteen minutes or
more the boy was thus occupied, heed
less of surroundings, and the expres
sion of his face told that it was
more than idle curiosity that possessed
his mind. /
A thought struck her, which she
put into practice at the first oppi rtu
nity that day. “Boys,” said she,
“what can you tell me about flies ?’
and calling several of the brightest b>
name, she asked them if they could
tell her something of a fly’s constitu
tion and habits. They had very little
to say about! the insect. They often
caughkone, but only for sport, and did
not think itwc rtb while to study so com
mon an insect. Finally she asked the
dunce, who had silently, but with
kindling eyes, listened to what his
schoolmates hesitatingly said. He
burst out witb a description of the
head, eyes, wings and feet of the little
creature, so full and enthusiastic that
the teacher was astonished and the
whole school struck with wonder. He
told how it walked and how it ate,
and many things which were entirely
new to his teacher. So that when he
had finished she said : “ Thank you !
You have given us a real lecture in
natural history, and you have learned
it all yourself.”
After the Bchool closed that after
noon she had a long talk with the
boy, and found that he was fond of
going into the woods and meadows
and collecting insects and watching
birds, but that his mother thought he
was wasting his time? The teacher,
however, wisely encouraged him in
this pursuit, and asked him to bring
bet ties and buttirfltes and caterpillars
to school, and tell what be knew
about them. The boy was delighted
by this unexpected turn of affairs, and
in a few days the listless dunce was
the marked boy of that school. Books
on natural history were procured for
him and a world of wonders opened
to his appreciative eyes. He read and
studied and examined ; he soon u
derstood the necessity of knowing
something of mathematics, geography
and grammar for Che successful
carrying on of his favorite! study, and
lie made rapid progress in his classes.
In short, twenty years ’ater he va?
eminent as a naturalist, and owed
Ills success, as he never hesitated to
acknowledge, to \ that discerning
teacher.
Scientific Hints.
The sum of $3,650,000 is now invest
ed in the manufacture of iron in the
Birmingham (Ala.) district.
Two hundred and forty-four earth
quakes, it is stated, are known to have
occurred during 1881, of which 86
were in winter, 01 in autumn, 56 in
sj ring, and 41 In summer.
A lacquer for steel may be made of
10 parts of clear mastic, 5 of camphor,
15 of sandarac and 5 of elemi gums
dissolved in pure alcohol, filtered and
applied cold. This varnish is trana-
parent.
Unripe graces contain an unusual
large quantity of extractives, acids,
ash and phosphoric acid, and a small
proportion of alcohci, the extractives
having, as a rule, a sort of gelatinous
consistency.
The blood of crabs and other crusj
taceans has been proved by M. Fredj
ericq to have the same saline constiti
tion and the same strong and bitt
taste as the waters they inhabit; it
has not the same constitution as th(
water, and thus shows a marked su^
perioritv over that of crabs.
Tne post-m >rtern examination of a 1
mulatto woman who died recently in
Cincinnati revealed a brain w6ighingj
61 ounces, There are on record but
two brains heavier than this—that ol
Cuvier, weighing 64 33 ounces, anil
Abercrombie’s, which weighed 6J
ounces. The mulatto was not considf
ered bright intellectually, yet is dej
scribed as becoming late in lit*
“thoughtful and reserved.” He ha?
beeu a slave.
A new method of storing grain is
proposed in air-ticht cylinders or binj
of sheet iron, to be sealed after a pa
tial exhaustion of the air. It is sal
that wheat, flour and bread wo stort
or seven months have been founder
excellent condition, and that takinj
into account the security of the grail
against dampness, fermentation, at
tacks of insects and large vermin, fl]
and other risks, when sealed up in i
partial vacuum, the new plan is mj
economical than ordinary storage
granary.
A series of tests at Bochun,
many, to determine the values ol
bituminous coal in the making of]
steam, show that washed slack, hoi<
ing 18 per cent, of wfi l, r 00 p|
cent, of ash, evaporated 5 7 pounds
water per pound of fuel; while
same coal, with only 3 per centf
water, made trom 8 to 8.5 pounds
steam. Making due allowance
moisture bv reducing to a standard 1
like qualities of coal,free from moisti
there is found to be a direct ioswj
using wet coal, of 14 per cent.
Gordon’s new huge dynamoeleci
machine has been tried at East GreeJ
wich, England, and has provec
great success. It maintained 13]
Swan lamps in a state of incandt
cence. while but a fraction of its f|
power was called into * xercise.
Inventor believes that only with g«5
erators of electricity capable of sui
plying from 5000 to 10,000 jpcandescenl
lamps at least the problem of econonfi
cal electric illumination can be solve
In tbe machine just tried the induce
coils remain fixed, while tne electro
magnets revolve.
The celebrated Gobelin Factory wt
originally intend d for dyeing, ani
Giles and John Gobelin, the most not-^
ed dyers of that time, were its found
ers. These two men appear to havi
become famous by reason of their hav-|
ing introduced into Paris a celebratei
scarlet. Their workshops were estab-l
fished on^he banks of a small stream!
called the Bievre, near to Paris. Like]
many enterprises regarded by thel
people of that time as eccentric, these'
workshops received a nickname, am
under the appellation of the “Gobelinl
Folly” they continued till 1667. when]
the whole property and plant wert
purchased by me iximr at tne suggesj
tion of Colbert. u «»biv me
converted in'o a rcAai * « iui dJ
kinds of artistic articles 01 oamtln")
such as sculpture, ueunrmmr and]
tapestry weaving. The era 01 me Uc-
belin tapestries then begun ana tnev
rapidly acquiioi deserved ceieprity,
A 1 romineul feature of Mr. George
Falntsbury’s edition of Corneille’s
play of “Horace” is the introduction,
which consists of short essays on the
life and writings of Corneille, French
tragedy before Corneille, the tragedy
of Corneille and Racine, Frenoh tra
gedy after Racine, and the stage in
oMiorneille,
They Would Meet as Frierds.
Ex-Secretary Evans tells a sti ry at
his own expense about a small donkey
wuich he sent out to his country seat
lor me use ol his children. One of his
little daughters, going out with her
nurse to admire the animal iu the
paddocu, was sorely distressed when
the donkey lifted up its voice and
brayed dolefully. “Poor thing! Poor
thing!” exclaimed the sympathetic
child—but suddenly brightening
she turned to her nurse and
“Oh ! I’m so glad. Papa will be
on Saturday, and then it won’t
lcnesomeJ*