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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*