Newspaper Page Text
RIGHTED,
> WO years
after rvy
father’s
__ death m y
f j m o t h e r
ft <* died. The
r* :<f^P long, ing disease wast¬
took an
acute form,
and after three months of painful ill¬
ness she left me to join my father.
My uncle came to me at once, and
took me home. We had a funeral
from the large house, and then I
folded my hands and prayed to die.
There was nothing for me now, I said,
in my wicked repining; other hands
could distribute my money among the
poor, and I could die and meet all I
loved in heaven. No words can des¬
cribe the bitterness of those days.
The old sorrow had been comforted
and soothed by the tender love that I
had lost now. My mother, ray lifelong
companion, was gone, and I was alone
in the world.
Uncle StaDhopo was very kind,
Lizzie and May affectionate, Harry
sympathizing; but they all had their
own interests and duties, while I stood
alone.
Lizzie was going to be married, and
had her trousseau to arrange, her
lover’s visits to receive. Harry was
preparing for a tour ; May was deeply
interested in the study of German;
uncle had his business to attend to,
and the interests of three children at
heart. I, only, was alone.
Judge, then, of my deep gratitude
when Mrs. Hall wrote to invite me to
make my home with her. She was
very feeble, and needed a daughter’s
love; would l take her in my dead
mother’s place, and let her love and
comfort me? Uncle grumbled a little,
but let me go.
“Remember,” he said, “Agnes, this
is only for a long visit. Milford can¬
not spare you always, and this must
bo your homo. Promise mo to think
of my house as your home. And,
Aggie, when you are able to bear
gayety, you will come to the New
Year’s party? Lizzie will come home,
theu ; May, too, if she marries. Let
it be a family reunion for the future.
You will come?”
I promised all his kind love de¬
manded, and theu went to New York.
My welcome there was a loving,
cordial one, but l found a now mem¬
ber in the quiet family. said
“My niece, Martha Hall,” the
old lady, after greeting me; andatall
figure rose up from a corner and
said:
“Good evening,” and then sat down
again.
I did not get a good look at her un¬
til the next morning, when she burst
into my room. Then 1 saw a blonde,
tall, fair aud gloriously beautiful,
dressed iu an eccentric way that my
experience did not recognize as
“fast.”
“Good morning,” Bhe said, ab¬
ruptly. “How do you like it?”
“Like what?” was my astonished
inquiry.
I 4 Why, this slow, stupid place. Oh,
I forgot, you are in mourning, so you
can bear it. 1 suppose I am in mourn
iug, too, or ought to be, but I won’t
wear blaok. What’s the use? I never
saw papa for eleven years. Went oft,
you know, to .Russia, and left me at
boarding-school, and there died and
bequeathed me to aunt and Gerald.
I’ve plenty of money somewhere, they
say, and next year, being of age, I
mean to use it, aud be gay. Till then
I’ve got to vegetate here. Oh, mercy,
I did hope when I heard there was a
young lady coming there would be
some life, but you look as slow as the
test.”
“I have just lost my mother,” I
said.
“Dear me! have you? That is bad.
Mine died when I was ushered
into this world, so I can’t bo expected
to feel much about it, being probably
more concerned about ‘here we go
up, up,’ ‘little Jack Horner,’ and
literature of that description for some
time afterward. By the way, what do
you think of Gerald? He’s to be my
husband, you know.”
“No, I had not heard.”
“Bless you, yes ; aud if he don’t die
on accouut of it, it’s a mercy. Tho
old folks arranged it all. Papa wrote
to auntie, and I’m to stay here till I
am of age, and theu marry Sir Frirn.
If he were not so awfully solemn 1
might endure it, but tho one ruling
desire of my life is to see him turn a
somersault, vault over a chair, or do
something elso equally absurd.”
"I am afraid you will never be grati¬
fied.”
* “No, I especially since
suppose not,
you are here to keep him in counten¬
ance. I Perhaps I’ll marry him, per¬
haps sha’n’t. Is the blue thing be¬
coming?” she said, abruptly, walking
to the glass to see the jaunty little
jacket indicated. “I like red, but I
can’t wear even wink without looking
like a Dutch milkmaid. You could,
now, with all that splendid black hair.
Where on earth did you get your com
plexion, with black hair aud eyes?
You’re as fair as I am, though you
have no color. But what a little thing
you are. I could carry you in my
arms like a baby.”
I was always small, I said, scarce-
1D ? h ,°7 !° aD9Wer her *
n 1 didn t suppose yon had
kowq smaller at tout a^e. Heigh-ho I
Shall wo always, stagnate this way?”
and she sat down and began to nurse
her own foot.
I looked at her in perfect wonder.
In my quiet life, in our own little
town, I had never met with a speci
men of the fast young lady, and this
, puzzled
j beautiful, vehement creature
me amazingly. All her hair was worn
in a little crop of short curls, wonder¬
fully becoming; her fair complexion
was tinged with glowing color, and
her tall figure was perfect in all its
proportions; the little hands nursing
the pretty foot were small, and yet full
of nervous activity.
“You’ll read to auntie, now, won’t
you?” she said, “and I can practice
more. The only comfort I have i3
making that piano riDg.”
“I will read to her,” l said.
“Well, go then—it’s her hour—I
say—” and then she hesitated. “Kiss
me! I am not half such a heathen as
I look, and your face is as pure and
perfect as a Madonna’s. You must not
hate me. I am not half so bad any¬
where else, but I am half stifled in.
this horribly dull place.”
“I kissed her at once.
“You can come here,” I said, “and
talk, if it does you any good. I sup¬
pose it is rather sad for a youDg erifl
full of life.”
“Anybody would think you were
eighty at the least,” was the reply;
and then she darted off, and in a few
moments the great house resounded
with music. I never heard such a
voice, even in a concert room. A
pure, clear soprano, yet with the
deeper notes marvelously perfect.
She played brilliantly and sang ex¬
quisitely. the life that
How can I describe
opened for me? All the morning I
spent with Mrs. Hall, reading, and
having, by her taste and desire, open
to me the real treasures of literature,
a complete course of the best authors.
Wo read history, poetry, liotion; we
wandered over the old authors; we
dipped into newer works; we thor¬
oughly enjoyed the hours. What was
really a keen pleasure for her, was a
never-ending delight for me. The
afternoons were devoted to walking,
reading or driving.
Martha, or Mattie, as she preferred
to be called, rode splendidly, and I
attended a riding school, and soon be¬
came sufficiently accustomed to the
exercise to join her and Gerald in their
long rides. Our evenings were spent
in music, or else quietly in Mrs.
Hall’s room, for Mattie soon formed a
circle of friends, and plunged into tho
vortex of New York society. A rela¬
tion of her mother—Mrs. Marstield—
one of the votaries of fashion, under¬
took to chaperone the brilliant beauty,
and Gerald was often released from
attendance upon her, and joined his
mother and myself in our quiet sitting
room. I learned to accompany him as
he played the violin, and to blend my
voice with his duets, uud if we could
not translate melody as brilliantly as
Mattie, we, at least, enjoyed our
music as fully.
I would like to pause here, and
leavo the rest untold, and yet—well,
you will guess it. I who knew that
the cousins were engaged, knew that
Gerald was willing to marry Mattie,
and considered himself bound to her;
I, who was there because I was con¬
sidered true to my first love; I, a
double traitor to past and present
loved Gerald Hall.
I did not know my own heart for
many long mouths. It was a dear
brother’s love I received, a tender
sister’s affection I gave, 1 said to my
heart; and so unconsciously 1 left his
image grow to my soul, till I could
not tear it away. Charles faded away,
and a face, his—and not his—took his
place. The merry, sunny laugh was
never so dear as was now the grave,
tender smile.
More than a year had gone by, and
December chill was in the air when,,
Mattie came to my room one morn¬
ing, with unwonted clouds on her fair
face.
“Here’s a confusion” said she,
taking me as usual into her confi¬
dence. “Auntie reminds me this
morning that next week I shall be of
age, and you know all about Gerald
aud me. I think myself he’s in love
with you ! Gracious, don’t jump that
way, Agnes. Of course, I don’t sup¬
pose you care for him, you quiet
mouse; for you are infinitely too
proper to love auother woman’s
fiance, and then there was that won¬
derful Charles. But he is fond of yon.
If it were not for auntie, now; but
you see sbe’s set her heart on the
match. Well, there’ll be oue suicide,
for Guy Howard will haug himself 1”
“Guy Howard?”
“You don’t know him, Mrs. Mars
field’s nephew; a man after my heart,
with some spirit. Well, never mind
him!”
But she did mind him I saw for she
sat quiet for some moments.
“\Ve’U have to submit,”she said, at
| for l» s t- Gerald, “it is for a mercy it’s all you arranged don’t care
now.
! You’ll come to the wedding, I sup
P os «* anJ please wear white, for I am
J ding.” suptrstitious about colors at a wed
And she went off,.leaving me in a
j strange turmoil of pain and irresolu
! tiou.
I could not stay ! I loved him! Not
with the girlish love I had given
Charles, but with a woman’s whole
heart. I loved him ! I could not stav
to see him married, and married, too.
to a woman who loved him not. Some
wild scheme of warning him of Mat
tie’s feelings rushed through my brain,
but I discarded it, and resolved to go
away. I would go somewhere and
hide myself and my new sorrow Irom
all eyes. Then I thought of my uncle.
Only two days more and he would wel¬
come bis guests to a New Year’s party
again. I had met Charles there; i had
first seen Gerald on that anniversary;
I would go, and live one night in
memory of happier days, and then—
then—well, the future would decide.
So I went to Mrs. Hall and told her I
was going to Milford.
“You will return soon?” she said,
wistfully.
“You will be alone,” I said, “when
Gerald takes his wife for u wedding
tour. Then I will return.”
She held my hand a moment, look¬
ing into my face with a loving plead¬
ing gaze that nearly unnerved me.
“Yes,” she said, “I will be alone.
It was her father’s will, you know, and
I would like to see Gerald happy.”
I kissed her for answer. It was not
well to talk about it, and then I bade
her farewell. I felt that I could not
meet Gerald again.
My uncle’s welcome was cordial—•
nay, more, it was vei;y loving. He
waa glad that I remembered his pet
anniversary, and I promised to lay
aside my mourning for that evening,
and try to forget sorrow for the time.
Lizzie was home with her handsome
husband by her side; May was en¬
gaged, and had another new face to
present to me; Harry was back again
from his tour, and uncle was in his
element. The evening was clear and
cold, pleasunt as a winter’s evening
could be. Early hours were kept at
Milford, and the rooms were well filled
by the time that Mattie would have
been dressing her hair. I wore a white
silk dress, and Lizzie had twisted some
jasmin sprays in my hair.
The dancers were all in motion,
everybody gay and full of life, when
1 stole out into the library for a mo¬
ment’s repose. It seemed as. if my
heart would break. The rush of
memory and present pain was so keen,
so bitter, that I could scarcely keep
from crying.
So, standing by the window, press¬
ing my hot forehead on the cold glass,
1 tried to still my anguish and main¬
tain the composure necessary for the
evening. While I stood there a step
crossed the room. It was my uncle or
Harry I said, and did not stir till I
was drawn into a close embrace, and
the voice I loved best spoke:
“Agnes, my darling, my love.”
“Let me go !” I cried..
He loosened his hold at once.
“Ob, Agnes, do you not love .me?”
“Where is Mattie? How can you
come here?” I said.
“Mattie! Agnes, do you think 1
care for Mattie?”
“Bnt your mother?” I said.
“My mother would not see me an
unloving and unloved bridegroom.
We have had our explanations, Agnes.
Mattie is engaged to Guy Howard,
and I have come to seek my wife here.
Is she here Agnes?”
“I don’t know; shall I inquire?” I
said, saucy for the first time, iu the
flood of happiness. And then I nestled
into his arms, and let him tell me his
love, while he read mine, I am sure,
in my face.
But this was not all. Uncle Stan¬
hope came in, Lizzie was called, a
long pause followed, and iu a sort of
blissful dream I found myself under
Lizzie’s long, lace wedding-veil,stand¬
ing by Gerald, the old clergyman of
Milford facing us, all my old friends
and neighbors surrounding us; and
Uncle Stanhope’s party was trans¬
formed into my wedding breakfast.
A Watch That Winds lisclf.
The latest novelty in the line of
time-Keepers will appeal to lazy and
forgetful people. It consists of a
watch which does not require any
winding. All that is necessary for its
owner to do, in order to have the time
with him always, is to walk half a
mile a day. The watch does the rest.
These novel watches are got out in
several varieties of cases, some ex¬
tremely ornamental but the kind mosl
commonly seen in Chicago is made
with a plain black case and an open
face. The winding mechanism con¬
sists of an ingenious contrivance by
which a small weight is raised and
lowered from the jar of walking. The
motion of the weight works a small
ratchet arrangement, which winds the
spring to its full teusiou, aud then is
automatically held until more wining
is needed. A course of shaking up
and down for a few minutes will an¬
swer the same purpose as a stroll
afoot, while ali the jolts and jars of
ordinary existence are likewise made
useful as a means of winding.—Chi¬
cago tribune.
Most Sensitive Part.
It is a mistake to suppose that the
tip of the tongue is the most sensitive
P ar t of the body. Those engaged in
polishing billiard balls or other snb
stances that require a very high de
gree of smoothness invariably use the
cheek bone as their touchstone for
detecting any roughress.
. ........
Counting all classes of reserves
Germany can id twenty-four hours
raise an army of 4,000,090 disciplined
men.
THE HALL OF A HOUSE.
An Attractive Feature of the Mod¬
ern Dwelling.
In the furnishing of a modern house
the hall constitutes one of the most
serious problems, but there is one
rfa*. 3
’■■v ■>
m
PERSPECTIVE VIEW.
consolation. If one solves it success¬
fully the hall becomes one of the most
attractive features of the entire house.
It then ceases to be a mere passage¬
way, and becomes a veritable room,
and one which, strangely enough, will
be more generally used than almost
any other in the house. In the con¬
ventional city dwelling, when the hall
is long, narrow and dark, with a high
ceiling and a flight of stairs that
makes an unbroken sweep to the floor
above, very little can be done to give
a true artistic effect. If the front door
is of solid paneled wood a great im¬
provement will result from replacing
the upper panels with glass. This can
take the form of a sash of small leaded
panes in fanciful design, or a single
sheet of plate glass, protected by a
neat iron grill. The mistake should
never be made of using colored glass
unless one can afford a masterpiece of
genuine stained glass, for the ordinary
so-called “cathedral” glass is crude in
colors, and an abomination. The
hall stand or hat rack, which is of¬
ten found just within the front
door, should be banished to some rear
corner, if it is to be tolerated at all,
where it will not be so much in evi¬
dence. These racks become “catch¬
alls,” and old coats, hats, umbrellas
and canes aro not at all ornamental.
In place of these conveniences a broad
ball chair, of formal design, or better
still a mahogany settee, will serve
every purpose. These should be re¬
served for the use of casual callers. If
there are no convenient closets that
can be made for the garments of the
members of the household, a neat
clothes tree such as are imitated from
the antique, will prove a great deal
more sightly than the hall racks that
are made nowadays. It takes up but
little room and can find a place in
some rear corner.
■ J
m vm
mm mm
*.- .'• SfaeMi
03 ms™ *3ksM»
■■" i ay no
60!^ '■•*••** '•- ,
EAIjIi AND SXAIECASa.
Under the best of conditions the hall
will be none too light, and this fact
should be borne m mind in choosing
wall paper and carpet. The furnish¬
ings should be in light warm tones,
and only the mosc formal designs are
permissible. Few people seem to
realize the effectiveness of pictures in
the hall. It is customary to hang one
or two large frames on the side walls,
and allow the long stretch above the
stairs to go uncovered. In the latter
place pictures are needed, if anywhere
in the house, for there is no other way
in which the vast wall space can be
broken.
All of this has reference to the fit¬
ting and furnishing of the ordinary
city hall.
In the villa house the architect gen¬
erally plans a square hall that has all
the effects of an ordinary room. There
may be windows on the side, an open
fireplace, and plenty of contrivances
that lend themselves to decorative
effect. Here the treatment should be
the same as in any other room, wi;h
■;
" 1
- 1
'SffssaC
ST t n a — H
'‘ifcq L
V
\ rr « v S£3tl
It
■ n I
’&K5S.*
U=.-,=u
FIRST IT.OOB.
this restriction. The pnrpoee of the |
hall must never be forgotten. Easy
chairs and 6 ofas Will not be out of
place if they do not detract from the
formal character, or do not obstruct
free passage. There should never be
a profusion of ornaments or bric-a
braa In a general way the hints as to 1
Should en be aDCe placed door inctelo’H fit\S
th« n i > the
The design illustrati this
a
boa, ia itself.
to represent open timbe?
the ter, wall, with fin,shed wainscoating in hard »h°te
from the floor, which* f our
above
witn aforma! design planted
stucco work, representing the flea
lis of France.
The residence is sixty-two feet
by seventy-eight feet in depth,
first story being ten feet six inch
i P Pgjfg
h*i£$ -■M
JF
-•> +m.
j I *
1 JL
M A tttss?
\
SECOND FLO OR.
__
rooms height. is shown The arrangement by the floor and plans. size] 1
design, The sum not of including $8405 will the build t| 1
apparatJ cost
mantels ranges, and heating
Copyright 1897.
UNCLE SAM’S ORIGINAL ATT Iff
Somewhat Different From the Mol
ern Figure.
The original U-icle Sam of from" song aJ
cartoon was so different ti
modern pantaloons, figure, that with its readers long stripe!
our will a
interested to see the costume as shoull soul
of the students of history say it
be. In the first place, say the!
slightly authorities, bell he crowned should wear and a high feltej haj
of
fur. with His frilled shirt bosom shouid projecting be portrayej ouj
a
pouter fashion, and generally with
breastpin in it. His shirt collar shoal
be high and connected with his shiri
His cravat should be wide and tie
with a “pudding,” as it was termed i
former times. The waistcoat shoul
be a buff, single breasted affair, wit]
gold or gilt buttons. The swallow
tailed coat should be made with higj
rolling collar and high pointed lapels
The greatest difference betweq
Uncl'd Sam as he is and as he should b
lies in the pantaloons. They shorn!
be made with a “trap door” in iron
and fitted below the knee for the wear
■:
m* W
m
I, V,
nf! nV ifiii
m
i\\
&
k s> ;]
S3
a SRS i
V '
ing of the boots outside. These nooK
should have tassels in f r °D>- ^9
shirts were unknown until about
Striped pantaloons are of a com.
lively late date, a»d straps nnder
booti were oot ksowa ..
They were a part o! ,h ? L ‘f- si
fastened on ., he boo « 0
audwere under it. Goate.
and buttoned the 4
until late in *>•
not worn pictur. shows
The accompanying Sam oE a century
the correct ■ Uncle our good
bnt times change anu
ago, with tiieni.
uncle
Governor Smith, the new Executive
of Montana, advises the ameaum
constitution o f nr . 1¥iUC
the State land o br the
million acres ot - '
the leased, «u thgt
State be no t sold, but
residing on these ' an
persons taxation on p nai
■ 11
SomcboJv for a
The^ Kev.
York paper .«„ £WS a-. -- te
New .^c oa g
that know.” the '^ £ c f? ene r _f to t b 9 t the
plication _ a flighlv the L--* w
piece of comments
ville Courier-i 1 ^
