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LOVE ETERNAL. Itechangirg sky hath glories ever new; the evening splendors bring afresh delight; fhe morning rises clothed in new born light Thesun each day creates his throning blue; The stars at evening shine upon the dew, lot with those rays which broke primeval night; Those leaves return not which last year were bright. This spring hath others of the self same hue. {Yet j the same law reneweth flower and spray; et are the sun and stars the same al way; In the same heavens their wonders they proclaim. And such is love, in times past and to-day, Delighting still fresh deeds and songs to frame, But in its, inmost heart abiding still the same. —Edgar Eoskett iERAPHINE’S ROMANCE. BY EVELYN TllOItP. She irresistibly suggested a bird. Not a ing plump, consequential, prosperous-look robin. Not any sort of bird with gay plumage quite (Mile. Seraphine’s plumage was of the dullest and the most modest). Not a dapper little sparrow, either. Mile. Seraphine was small enough. fighting But there was no spark of the neverhave propensity held in her; she could her head up again if she had had hot words with any one. The bird Mile. Seraphine, with her faded yellow hair, was always suggestive of was a canary—the meek, underfed variety cf canary which passes its existence in a wooden cage at a high rear window where the sun never shines. The other kind which pearls its beaming notes behind gilded bars, and is fed by her own dainty longs fingers in madam’s boudoir, be of course to quite a different class of as one knows. It was Mile. Seraphine’s fate, shy, re served, delicately refined little spirit that she was, to be lodged in a large, clamor ous boarding house in a down-town cross and street, far over east, filled early late with the effluvia of cooking and the boisterous slamming of doors, , To be sure, she did not hear much of the 1 -clamor during the day. She had her lessons to give. She taught her native tongue in various educational establish ments where the daughters of our Gotham families are instructed in the last refinements of civilization, and where her faded yellow hair (they thought it was brella a wig) and her water proof and iim .hilariously (a cotton one, these young ladies of much particularized) were the cause sible that abiding Mile. merriment. It is pos conscious Seraphine was quite un of these graceful little jests, She was a trifle nearsighted and absent minded, too, at times. One rainy night, a night when the wind made wild clutches at one’s umbrella and the street lamps flared, Mile. Seraphine came in laferand more weary than usual, and met her landlady on the stairs. “There’s no use,” said that worthy person, whose equanimity seemed to have suffered a most serious shock, “that fel low’s got to go.” “Is he no better? Oh!” murmured Mile. Seraphine. not so wet or tired but that she could stop to listen to this tale of woe. Oh, yes, he’s better! But he’s got to go all the same. I can’t keep him no more. I’ve got my own interests to look after. And he ain’t got a cent to pay his board with, and I’ve lost ten dol lars by him already.” “Oh!” murmured Mile. Seraphine again. She went to the dining-room, where she ate, without appetite, the rem nants of a cold dinner, and then back to her own little room, where she took out books and the pile of exercises waiting to be corrected. But she could not fix her mind and her heart was heavy with in her. She finally rose and, extracting a worn old purse from her little leather trunk, counted over its meagre contents. This much had been laid aside to buy a against new pair of shoes and a heavier cloak the Winter. But there were more urgint needs even than her own. Alas! How full the world was of trouble! She wrapped what the purse contained in an envelope and then stole across the hall. At the sick man’s door she paused with a beating heart. It was very hard to do these things. How should she avoid offending? Perhaps he was asleep, and then she could slip the envelope under his hand and leave the room again unnoticed. The door was partly ajar, and she pushed it very asleep. softly. His But the sick man was not eyes were wide onen and seemed twice too arge for his wasted face. The fever had left him, but he looked so feeble and spent that Mile. Seraphine’s pity welled up in her eyes in a look so beauti¬ ful that it made her for the moment al¬ most than lovely. He was much younger she, and she felt like a mother to him. Besides, it suddenly seemed easier, seeing him lie there, a fellow-creature, friendless, ill and in distress, to offer simply and earnestly that helping hand the good Samaritan would not have with¬ held. As for Stephen Holme, when lie understood what she wished to do for him in his weak state, after his long loneliness and hopefulness, it was too much. For a few seconds he could not speak. ‘Mile. Seraphine, ‘ if ever I get on my feet again-” clasping “Oh, please, thin please!” she pleaded, her little hands softly in her French way, “do not say anything more. Of course you will be well again, soon. But now you must think of noth¬ ing And but that.” she hurried then away. Youth and the one ray of sunshine, the one token of human good-will, shin ing on the darkness and misery that had closed all around him, did their work, And the young man got better, and finally well enough last mild to crawl days out the of doors on one of the of early winter and to look for other quarters, “’Cause if he ain’t got no situation, and no money cornin’ in I can’t keep him,” announced Mrs. Brady, conclus ively. “There’s other parties that’ll take that room, and sure pay. And I can’t take no risks.” Mile. Seraphine shrank away a little, and flushed faintly over her sallow cheek, as she often did at Mrs. Brady’s words, But then she upbraided herself brutality, for men tally accusing the landlady of She was a poor woman, too. Once more she had recourse to another little fund tucked away in the leather trunk, and this time it was the last there saved “It is very little. But it may do for the first few weeks till—” she added eagerly, seeing the young man’s flush, you get something to do.” from “I can’t take anything more you, Mile. Seraphine. God bless you!” “You will hurt me,” she said, “if you refuse.” thing And so he took it. But getting any to do was hard. And the days passed on. And once, coming back footsore and dejected and faint, for he was not yet strong, to the room over a shop on the avenue hard by, where he lodged, ing he met Mile. Seraphine return from her lessons, “Where is it you live?” she asked, The following day there was brought a timid knock at his door. She had him sorae copying to do. trouble,” she “I got it without any said, with could her deprecating eagerness, thought be fore he speak; “they it was for myself.” After that, one day, while giving her lesson in the house of a French resident, who had married an American lady, and to whose children she had been nursery governess, she heard the son,, who happened to be at home, casually remark that his father needed an extra clerk. An idea implanted itself little then faded under yellow Mile, Seraphine’s germinated queer curls, and on the morrow. The French gentleman’s office was on Bowling Green. Poor little Mile. Ser apliine entered its precincts with a tre mendous spirit and a faltering step, Her whilom employer looked up with a scowl which changed recognition to a good-hu mored smile upon his of her. He ing had always Seraphine, liked thisgrotesque-look- Mile. Seraphine little and. found heart to state her errand, “Well, what sort of references has he, this young protege of yours?” he asked at length. “Oh, I am sure they will be found of the very best!” cried Mile. Seraphine, clasping her hands most earnestly, The French-American laughed and looked down at her quizzica they would ly. be if “It’s evident that you had the giving ol them,” he cried with jocose intent on. And Mile. Sera¬ phine blushed crimson, and was so over¬ whelmed with confusion that she turned the wrong way to go out. “This way,” said the gentleman, tak¬ the ing her with playful good nature by arm. In the little side office into which she had blundered a young girl sat over a type-writer. She raised her eyes for a second, and Mile. Seraphine thought she had never seen a more lovely face. creature!” “Oh, what a beautiful young she wispered as she went out. “But how sad she looks!” “She has reason to be, poor child!” said her pilot sympathetically. “It is one of those reverses of fortune which are much too common with us over here. Her father was well to do; he died pen¬ niless. The girls all had to something.” “Poor creatures!” sighed Mile. Sera¬ phine, whose heart was always bleeding for some one. On the evening before the day when he was to begin liis duties in his new po¬ sition, Stephen Holme asked Mile. Sera phine to take a walk with him. It was a soft and balmy starlit night, a respite and breathing space half way the between the beginning and the end of winter. It They silent walked into the adjacent Stephen square. was and lonely. was preoccupied and said little for some time. Then, while they strolled slowly and no one was in sight, he began tremu¬ lously : “Mile. Seraphine—” down Mile. with Seraphine looked up and then a prophetic emotion which warned her that something never before heard of was going to happen. “Mile. Seraphine, if I get on, will you marry me Well, as soon as she could speak she urged upon him the difference in their years, her p'ainness, the obvious fact that, with his way to make, he must not hamper himself with a wife. “Perhaps you think it is gratitude only,” Stephen said gravely. “It is not. You have been, and are, more to me than any one else ever was.” And so they became engaged. And Mile. Seraphine, who had always looked older than she really was, seemed to grow by that much younger, and more, as the winter spread on and the spring weather came, when, after Stephen Holme had had his dinner, he would call for her, and they would take the cars to the park, and walk slowly about under the sweet-smelling trees or sit in the little summer house and look out on the small sheet of water. After with Stephen Holme had been a month or two his new employer he had seen a chance for making an investment which promised good results, and lamented in his talKs with Mile. Seraphine had his poverty, which prevented him taking ad¬ vantage of it. Mile. Seraphine had said nothing. But the next day she had gone to the savings bank and out of it drawn all her little hoard, saved up dol¬ lar by dollar, and laid away against sick¬ ness, Stephen. against a rainy represented day, and brought it to It all her worldly had possession, dreamed and Stephen, who not of its existence, re¬ fused to touch it. But Mile. Seraphine had pleaded allowed so well, himself alas! that be he had at last to tempted. At first all had promised well. But one evening Stephen had come in looking miserably haggard and white. He said nothing until they sat in their accustomed place by the water’s edge in the park, and then he broke down and, crying like a child, told her that the money was alt gone; the investment had proved disas¬ trous. Then Mile. Seraphine had laid her hand on his arm and, forcing him to raise his head, had shown him a face on which there was only pity for him and a per¬ fectly serene smile. What did it mat¬ ter? Was it his fault? she asked. Were they not able to work both of them? Was not one there to help the other? “Seraphine’’—Stephen put and his arm about the queer little figure kissed her—“you are the best woman ou God’s earth.” She hoped he would forget the mis¬ chance. And after awhile lie did seem to brighten again. But within a few weeks she fancied that he grew paler and that there was a troubled look in his eyes. In her delicate soul she shrank from feared plying that he him thinking with questions, stiff of that the was little sum of hers he had taken a> d lost. In every subtle way she tried to show her indifference to the loss. And Stephen, on his side, was constantly more gentle and tender with this pale, weird-looking his little creature who was to be wife. She felt vaguely that it tvas as though he wished to atone to her for something. advanced, The summer was now well and the days and nights succeeded each other in slow and sultry order. W sps of straw and greasy waifs of brown paper invaded the choicer sections of • h - city, now forsaken of their tenants, and the heavy air was filled with the d s cordaiit wail of distant hand organs. Well, Seraphine s pupils had flown, o e and all, for the summer, and she h id made her plans for her ten days’ autoi at a farm house on Jong Island h eh constituted her one yearly diversion. Stephen would go out from Saturday until Monday, and wlmt more con d one wish? If she had not been so keenly alive to the sorrows of so many of her fellow-beings whose wretchedness she saw continually around her, and think¬ ing of whom it seemed almost sinful to gladness, be taking ten whole days of idleness rode and the world, as she down to Bowling Green one "bright morning to give Stephen some last direction expedition as to trains, or what not—for this was a momentous one—would have been to Mile. Seraphine more beautiful than any dream. The head of the firm was away, as were many of his subordinates, but a boy told Mile. Seraphine where she would find Stephen passed Holme. into the office she She where had head pleaded firm Stephen's day, cause and with finding the of the that it empty turned toward the other parti¬ tioned inclosure where the beautiful gil l sat over the type writer. But then she stood still. She made no sound. She was only there a moment, yet it seemed like eternity. Stephen was in there, and he stood before the beautiful gill and looked down at her, with such a passion of love and sorrow and renunciation in his face, while she buried hers in her hands, that a veil tore away before Mile. Seraphine and she read the secret of the last few months, troubled of Stephen’s his altered looks, of his eyes, of increased devotion—devotion which was only loyalty that would not permit itself to swerve, how'ever tempted—as in plainly as though it had been written fiery characters before her. She turned and passed out people again. And who neither of these two young loved each other had seen her, so ab¬ sorbed had they- been in their own The gas flared high in Mile. Seraphine’s And room that night; dawned high and the late. little when the morning room was dismantled, stripped of its few poor little efforts at grace and prettiness, and the small leather trunk was had packed. Many months ago a letter come to Mile. Seraphine from had a settled; cousin who, letter go¬ ing far cut West, chose a she telling her that if she something to come there, might though be French able to might teach still be considered a superfluity. The pup’ls had leaving all paid for their final quarters before town, and Mile. Seraphine could go now. She would not leave any trace behind her. If she did Stephen would still feel him¬ self bound to her. That must not be. She looked at herself in the g’ass. What! He, so young, so handsome, marry such a faded,plain,m she ddlc-aged woman as "was. One who looked so wild and haggard in the gray morning light, hollow with cheeks! her reddened eyes, She had and her Mo, no. only been and by, dreaming. It must had never cared be. foi By because Stephen, who only her he could not be ungrateful, would forget and marry the beautiful girl Ami he loved and he should be happy. for her there was always enough to carry her on a few months and then— who knows? An 1 that is why a good that natured man, traveling westward same day, wondered once or twice whether the queer-looking little party with the faded lock of yellow hair who sat next him could be crying behind her thick veil, lie fancied so.— New York Mercury. Remedy for Ivy Poisoning. W. W. Duffield writes to the Scientific American as follows: For many years I suffered terribly from tills cau-o, but re¬ membering that all poisons are acids, acids, and that alkalies neutralize I bathed the poisoned member aud in obtained a strong lye made fiom wood ashes in-tant relief. Subsequently rubbed I found that the the dry ashes alone, over poisoned member, were equally effective. ince this d seove y, have had no fur¬ ther trouble, and having tried this and sim¬ ple remedy repeatedly w.th like ou good myself results, on I many otuers, wood am now thoroughly convinced that ashes w b in e ery ca e prove a sure aud severe gn specific for all cases of ivy poison. A Novel Scale. , Three men of Ohillicothe, Ohio, are a \> u t-- tieuin the manufacture of a 11( , , 1 sc ale for which they hold patents, ; ail of weighing in pounds and ounces it indicaies the value of articles Ueit. For e amp c, if a man buys |, u;: at 0 cents a pound, li an adjusts indicator the , r. j a t . s so p,. , , toe lower indicator shows the , fatty weigh' o butter at that p, ; ti.it <s put on the scales. The ' lii this principle will be a ies on ni.tnulaciurid to we gh up to tons.— jy u The mrikisha, drawn by men, is tha natimial ' chicle of apan.