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A Century of Female Novelists— By Emily J. Mackin- 
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A Modern Cinderella— By Ella Rodman Church, (Illus- 
trated,) -.----•-- 
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1 1 


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Diamonds," (Illustrated,) 232 Clark, --- 60 

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May, (Illustrated,) 256 trated,) 291 

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Our Arm-Chair, 

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178 Cider-Mill— By the author of "Josiah Allen's Wife," 139 

263 Our Jonesville Folks, No. II.— Eben Landers'es Boy— 

93 j By the author of "Josiah Allen's Wife," - - 309 

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505 * cil— By the author of "Josiah Allen's Wife," - 469 

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84 < Our Paris Letter, - - - 96, 181, 267, 347, 427, 512 

419 I 

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Weaver, 171 

73 Panier Bodice, (Supplement,)— By Emily H. May, 

J (Illustrated,) 169 

J Pattern in Run Lace — By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus- 
trated,) 507 

"Fhil"— By Fanny Driscoll, (Illustrated,) - - - 455 
Photograph Frame Corner and Border— By Mrs. Jane 

Weaver, (Illustrated,) 341 

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ver, (Illustrated,) 338 

126 | Pocket, of Java Canvas— By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus- 

i trated,) 87 

g3 | Postillion Corsage, (Supplement,)— By Emily H. May, 
2f*4 ) (Illustrated,) - -,- - - - - - 418 

--.. Pretty Peggy — By Adelaide Merriman, (Illustrated,) - 381 
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Mat for Table-Lamp — By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus- 
trated,) 172 j 

Maud's Temptation — By Gabrielle Lee, - 247 j 

Maynard Visite Mantle, (Supplement,) — By Emily H. 

May, (Illustrated,) 335 j 

Rule or Ruin— By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 63, 154, 240, 

321, 407, 491 

92 / Sofa-Cushion — By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 
404 '( So Plain a Case— By Frank Lee Benedict, - 

Miscellaneous, - 

Miss Burney's Booth — By Emily Leunox, * 

Miss Daisy's " At Home " — By Jennie Liudhall, (IUus- j Slipper : Embroidered — By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illus- 
trated,) 121 | trated,) r - - - 82 

Miss Quisenberry's Valentine— By Helen Whitney J Summer Roses, 264 

Clarke, - 161 [ " Sweetest Eyes " — By Adelaide Merriman, - - 50 


Table-Cover: in Applique— By Mrs. Jaue Weaver, 


The Broken Bank— By Helen J. Thornton, {Illustrated,) 
The Duchesse Table : in Plush— By Mrs. Jaue Weaver, 


The Oakwood Tragedy— By a New Contributor, - 385, 
The Poem That Never Was Written— By Rebecca 

Harding Davis, 

The Professional Beauty— By Frank Lee Benedict, 

42, 131, 218, 
The "Queen Anne" Styles— By J. Q. Throckmorton, 

(Illustrated,) - - ■ - ' - - 
The Snake-Charmer— By Eleanor Putnam, - 

Toilet Mat, (Illustrated,) 

To Make Afghans— By Mrs. Jane Weaver, - 

5 "Fear Not"— By Catharine Allan, 
421 Forgive and Forget— By S. E. Gordon, - 


) Give Me a Rosebud — By Aurora Vane, 

j Going to School— By Mrs. C. A. Wheelock, - 

297 In Absence— By J. Warren Chapman, - 

In the Forest— By S. Reid, - 
375 In the Poet's Garden— By Minnie Irving, 


142 I 


' I Saw You Once Again "—By Willie Brown, 

I 1 I 






; Kitty— By Herman Trefley, 


Useful Hjnts, 

Valance for Window, (Illustrated,) - - - - 420 
Venice— By Charles J. Peterson, (Illustrated,) - - 29 

Window Curtain : with Embroidered Border— By Mrs. 

Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 258 

Work-Basket: with Detail— By Mrs. Jane Weaver, 


i Long Ago— By Samuel Pascoe, 296 

' t Longing— By Agnes L. Morley, 77 

! Love, Come — By Maud Meredith, .... 303 

| Memory's Spell— By Carrie F. L. Wheeler, - 

| " Mio Passione Infelice "—By Wallace Lyon Hubbs, 

| My Lady Fair— By Mrs. Pidsley, - 

[ My Sorrow and I— By Laura H. Carpenter, 


\ Night Song — By Forrest J. Crissey, 





! Over the Hills— By Fanny Driscoll, 

- 303 


! Parted — By Mrs. Esther Louden, 

A Blossom Song— By Lucy M. Blinn, - 
A Hindoo Legend : The Lotus, - 
An Eastern Beauty— By Alexander A. Irvine, 
Angels Unawares— By Mrs. E. N. Wilson, - 
At Midnight— By Mary Middlemore, - 
Autumn Days— By Mrs. E. W. Demeritt, - 
A Woman's Decision,— By a New Contributor, 
A Woman's Heart— By Mary Middlemore, - 


C'en Est Fait— By Aurora Vane, - 
Comfort— By Agnes Finley, - 
Courtship— By Frederick Langbridge, 

231 | 

472 Quite Decided— By H. C. Gordon, - 
54 i 

384 ! 

231 ! 

234 ) Savin & Hands — B y George Weatherby, 

.- 9 I Silence— By Fanny Driscoll, - 

Snowflakes— By Anna Edwards Samuel, 
Song — By Emily Browne Powell, 
Sonnet— By John Moran, ... 
Sonnet— By William Huber, Jr., - 
Sour Grapes— By Carrie F. L. Wheeler, 





Eva Lynn— By Mattie Pearson Smith, 
Every Day— By Clara Bush, - 

\ The Angel's Message— By Genevieve Norton, 
406 \ The Dawn— By Sarah Geraldine Stork, 
164 j The Dream of the Unsent Letter— By Minnie Irving 


The Poor Man's Sheaf— By Eben E. Kexford, 
The Railway Engineer— By Clara Augusta, - 
The Tuberose — By Marie S. Ladd, 
Thistledown— By Grace Adele Pierce, - 
To a Blue China Plate— By Maude Ewell, - 

You and I— By Ella Wheeler, 

You Kissed Me— By Josephine H. Hunt, 

Venus of Melos— By Minnie Irving, 

- 225 

- 141 

- 296 : 

- 328 | 

- 153 

- 399 
■ 472 I 

468 < 

Was it an Angel's Song?— By Harriet Childe Pember- 


Why ?— By Minnie C. Ballard, 

49 | 
499 j 


" Cherry Bipe." 
Psyche First Hears the Flute. 
Fashions for January, colored. 
Going to School. 
Fashions for February, colored. 
In the Hay-Mow. 
Fashions for March, colored. 
The Modern Cinderella. 
Fashions for April, colored. 
At the Spring. 
Fashions for May, colored. 
Mistress Soft-Eyes. 
Fashions for June, colored. 



" Two Little Pussies." 

On Top of the Pyramids. 
" Forget-Me-Not." 

The Broken Bank. 

The First Soprano. 

Which is the Pet? 

\ Border for Curtain. Stripe for Chair, etc., etc. In Berlin 

^< Work. 

| Designs for D'Oyleys, for Painting on Satin, Embroidery, 

i etc. 

\ Tidy on Java Canvas : Hunting: Emblems. 

< Crewel Embroidery : Dog-Daisy. 

\ Patterns in Darned Embroidery. 

\ Designs in Hungarian Cross-Stitch. 

\ Pattern for Quilt in German Linen-Thread Embroidery. 


January Number, Fifty Engravings. 
February Number, Forty Engravings. 
March Number, Fifty-one Engravings. 
April Number, Forty-seven Engravings. 
May Number, Forty-seven Engravings. 
June Number, Forty-three Engravings. 


When the Mists Have Cleared Away. 

Some Day. 

Tell Me a Story. 

Bremen Polka. 

The Young Recruit. 

Gobbel Song and Waltz. 







Gobbel Song and Waltz. 

As published by SEP. WINNER & SON, 1007 Spring Garden St., Philadelphia. 


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No. 6. 



I HE had gone from the room to get .a wrap 

for our drive, as I had told her it had come up | 
quite cold ; and she had looked back with a 
smile as she went away. She had a slight flush 
on her fair, proud face, too ; with a deep sweet 
light in her violet eyes. 

She was very calm and cold, this love of mine, 
Rene Snowden. But I loved her the more for 
that, in contrast to my own fire and restlessness. 
1 hardly knew how I had won her. So many 
hid tried and foiled. She had always been 
indifferent and disdainful, but she was the one 
perfect woman in the world for me. No one else 
had read the pure, unsullied heart; the white, 
chill nature, that could glow to such warm tender- 
ness beneath love's magic. 

I was wandering about the room while I 
waited ; for apparently she could not find a wrap 
at once. I drummed idly on the piano ; I took 
a few turns up and down the room; and then, 
verifying the old distich about '• Satan and idle 
hands," I did an unpardonable thing — I read an 
open note lying on Rene's escritoire. I did it 
mechanically, on my word ; and had read it. 
before I realized my own impertinence. I had 
looked at it idly ; a square, heavy sheet of ivory 
paper, written over with a dashing chirography ; 
but I was brought to the vivid realities of life 
suddenly enough upon its perusal. It read thus : 

"Have I lost you, my Rene? Is all over 
> between us now ? And such a little while, since 
; we made our vows to each other ! Such a little 
; while, since you were the snow to my fire — such 
; a little while since we parted ! And now, this 
usurper has come between us ! How can I for- 
give you? And yet I must always love you. I 
I will be with you on the fifteenth. Let me have 
i you to myself for a little while ; for a little Avliile 
| be all my own, as in the old days. You owe me 

this much. Your despairing 


I read it twice. I felt blind, dumb, choking. 
I walked to the door. I heard Rene's silken 
dress swishing on the stair. I heard her voice 
call in a tone of alarm : " Felix, what is it ?" But 
I did not turn nor speak, but rushed out of the 

It must have been an hour or two after, when 
I awoke to life and the world, and found myself 
driving madly along the roads outside of the 
town, with my brain on fire. 

That night, I took the night-train, and spent 
a week rushing frantically from one place to 
another, never stopping even to sleep at any 
hotel. All the time I was saying to myself: 
« How can a woman be so false?" I had been 
a slave. From the first moment I had met Rene 




Snowden, I had been bound hand and foot. She j 
was a woman of the world — I was warned : ! 
beautiful and dazzling; and played with men's; 
hearts as a child with toys. But I had not j 

believed it. I had thought her " pure womanly." 
But now I woke from my delusion. What a fool 
I had been. I had thought — ah ! had she not 
told me, with that flush in her lily-face, with 
that light in her sapphire eyes? — that no other 
man had kissed the scarlet, tender mouth ; that 
no other man had held her in his arms ; that 
only for me had her heart awakened. 

Fool ! Did they not all say that ? Were they 
not all, every daughter of Eve, faithless and con- 

temptible? Had I wandered about the world 
all these years, to be beguiled at last by a Deli- 
lah, because her face was like a snow-flower, and 
the sunshine lay in her silken hair? But the 
proud tenderness — the reserved sweetness — the 
gracious calm ! She had chosen her weapons 
well. This fair hauteur went farther with a man 
than all the wild abandon of a less practiced, 
less artful woman. 

At last I came home. Weeks had passed. I 
was striving to get back into the old ways — to 
feel the old interests. But I was succeeding 
miserably. The morning after my return, as I 
was sauntering idly along, an elegant little turn- 
out pulled up briskly to the curb, and a light, 
gay voice greeted me. 

M Felix Hawthorne," it said, " are you coming 

to my party, to-morrow night? You have been 
very rude, for you have not answered my invi- 
tation. No one has known anything about you 
W'here have you been ? We have all wondered 
and conjectured in vain. You look a little under 
the weather. Is there anything an old friend 
can do for you?" And a frank hand was 
extended from the window, and the charming 
face looked, a little smiling, a little grave, into 

" I have been very busy," I said. "Some un- 
expected complications in business have called me 
away, and absorbed every moment of my time, 
for two or three weeks. I throw myself on your 
mercy, Mrs. Chanfrau, and if you will have such 
a worthless lounger, I wiil drop in to-morrow 



" Felix, I don't more than half believe you. j 
You don't look well," was the reply ; and as the ; 
carriage drove away, I saw the pretty, bright 
face watching me anxiously. " Dear little wo- \ 
man," I said to myself; "how kind you seem. 

Doubtless, you are as bad as the rest of them," 

I added, cynically, " if one but knew it." 

I had not looked at my letters yet, and so had 
not read her invitation. Yes ! I had looked at 

one. Rene had sent her servant with a little note, 

the very night "Phil's" 

letter had wrought such 

evil in me, and my servant 

brought it to me at once ; 

but I had returned it un- 
opened, and without a 


Next night, a little be- 
fore midnight, I sought 

Mrs. Chanfrau's house. 

Everything she did was 

perfect, in its way ; and if 

society was ever agreeable, 

it was in her artistic rooms ; 

beneath her smiles it put 

on its most honeyed look, 

and rounded off its phrases 

with an elaborateness that 

ought to have made one 

believe in them. 

As I made my way to 

her, she came forward and 

put her hand on my arm. 
'•'You do look so very 

grumpy, Felix," she said, 
''that I must introduce 

you at once to my new 
protegS. If anything can 
brighten you up, it is she. 
Everyone is in raptures 
over her. But I warn 
you : my rose has thorns. 
Ah! here she is. Miss 
Everingham, Mr. Haw- 
thorne; Felix, my new 
friend, Miss Everingham." 

I saw a piquant face, like a poppy ; dusk and ; 
rich ; with flashing dark eyes ; dark, smooth skin, ! 
and crimson lips. She was clad in sombre, bar- : 
baric draperies, and looked like some tropical 
bird, or bud, in her lithe, glowing beauty. I was 
prepared to be very amiable. But the smile 
with which she greeted me, at first, faded away 
as she caught my name ; and she bowed frigidly 
and turned to our hostess, and away from me- 
Roselle looked surprised, but rattled on, in her 
lively way. Miss Everingham answered all my 

remarks with icy monosyllables; and finally, 
when a blonde and insipid youth came to claim 
her for a dance, she left me without a word or 
look, but gave him a brilliant smile of welcome. 
By-and-by, I found myself in a quadrille, op- 
posite Miss Everingham. She did not notice me. 
I might as well have been made of wood. It 
amused me, at last, to watch her studied neglect 
and scorn of me, her brightness for everyone 
else. Yet why did she treat me in this way? I 

had never heard her name in my life before. How, 
then, could I be guilty in any way toward her? 
One thing I noticed : Rene was not there. 1 bad 
expected her r of course, as she and Roselle were 
dear friends. Once I heard some one say : "A 
party does not seem natural without Miss Snow- 
den ; it is like the play of « Hamlet,' with Hamlet 
left out, don't you know." 

" I have not seen her out, even for a drive, for 
a week or two. I wonder what new whim it is?" 

The people had begun to go. I had stepped 



into the library, seeking Mrs. Chanfrau, to make 
my adieux, when I heard a voice I recognized. 

" See if you can find my fan, please," it said. 
" I left it on the window-cushions, in the music- 
room, I think. I will wait for you here." 

The next instant, a young man brushed past 
me meekly, in search of the fan. 

Half hidden in a big chair, I saw Miss Ever- 
ingham. I went over to her, and she looked up 
scornfully, and in displeased surprise. But I was 
determined to know the reason of her conduct. 

" When a man is condemned to be hung, Miss 
Everingham," I said, coolly, "the Judge always 

distinctly states the nature of his crime, before 
administering the sentence. Have you any ob- 
jections to letting me know what I have done?'* 

She looked at me a moment very steadily, even 
contemptuously, I am constrained to say. 

"Mr. Hawthorne, when I tell you that I am 
Rene Snowden's cousin, and dearest friend, you 
can hardly ask for further information. The 
fact that no one but I will ever know of your base- 
ness, is the reason that you will still be treated as 
a gentleman by the world at large." 

Before I could reply, the young lady had swept 
from the room. 



I passed a sleepless night. What could she 
mean ? By morning I had reached a conclusion. 
I called myself weak and poor in spirit ; but I 
would go to Rene. I would, at least, hear what 
she had to say. 

The servant ushered me into the morning-room. 
It was untenanted. But I heard voices behind 
the curtains that concealed a" little inner sanctu- 
ary, that was Rene's boudoir. As I stood, un- 
certain whether to go further, and cursing the 
stupidity of the servant who had not announced 
me, I heard Rene's voice. My heart, in spite of 
myself, leaped up at the sweet, weary tones. 

" Phillys, darling," she was saying, " Papa 
has consented to go, so we need not be separated." 

" I am so glad ! '* a fervent voice answered, 
that I recognized also. " But it isn't the old 
Rene — dear, can't you forget?" 

I did not wait to hear Rene's answer. Some- 
thing within me compelled me to push back the 
portiere, and I found myself in the presence of 
Rene and Miss Everingham. 

The latter looked up at me, perfectly mutinous. 
She stepped back with a gesture of aversion, and 
stood at Rene's side as if to protect her friend. 

Rene herself started and turned pale as she 
saw me, and drew herself up coldly. 

" Mr. Hawthorne," she said, icily, "you were 
unannounced. I suppose you wish to see Papa?" 

" I wish no one in the world but you, Rene," 
I cried, the scales seeming suddenly to fall from 
my eyes. "I have been the most miserable 
wretch on the face of the earth. I could not 
live longer without you, and came this morning to 
hear your extenuation — and tell you mine. I 
have been an arrant fool, perhaps worse ; for I 
have doubted your truth." She gave another 
quick start. "But I love you — I have always 
loved you — I will love you until I die. And I ask 
you to forgive the wrong I feel I must have done 
you ; for, looking upon you now, in the face of 
everything, I know you to be high and pure." 

Her face had grown whiter and whiter, and 

her great sweet eyes were looking at me wistfully. 
Miss Everingham stood by her, but a little in ad- 
vance, and was facing me with mutinous dark eyes. 

Before Rene could speak, her friend broke 
forth, scornfully : 

"You think you can abuse and wrong the 
tenderest, purest heart that ever beat," she said, 
" and then come, jin your own sweet time, and be 
forgiven ? How dare you ? What right have you 
to be pardoned?" 

" Hush, Phil ! " 

It was Rene's low, even voice that thus broke 
in upon the other's passionate anger. 

A light all at once flashed upon me, at that 
word "Phil." 

"Listen to me, Rene," I cried, breathlessly. 
" The morning that I waited for you, the last time 
I was here, I wandered around, and finally com- 
mitted the unpardonable offense of reading a slip 
of paper on your desk — a page, filled with de- 
spairing and passionate love, signed 'Phil.' " 

Miss Everingham started violently, and then 
stepped toward me with an eager gesture. But 
I continued, passionately : 

" I had set you up so high in my soul, Rene, 
that this blow crushed me. The whole world 
was changed to me, and I believed you false. 
But I came here this morning, willing to believe 
you all that I once believed — " 

Suddenly a riant, joyous voice broke in : 

"/ am Phil," it cried ; " Rene always said I 
would get myself into trouble with my theatrical 
notes, in the days when we had sworn eternal 
maidenhood and fealty to each other. Why 
don't you speak, Rene? You won't let him go 
now dear? He has loved you all the time — and 
what if you had read a note like that, written to 
Mr. Hawthorne, and signed ' Maud ' — would not 
you have been cruelly hurt?" 

But the curtains had fallen behind Miss 
Phillys Everingham, as she swept into the other 
room, and Rene and I were alone in the boudoir. 
Rene was in my arms. 



Be still, oh wayward heart, and make no sign, 

His footstep draweth nigh ; 
Chain as with steel tbose quick'ning throbs divine, 

When he is by. 

If e'er he comes on bended knee to sne, 

I shall not turn away ; 
But till he speaks the words that lovers do, 

My heart I sway. 

Hang out no crimson signal, conscious cheek, 

For his quick eyes to see. 
Betray not what my lips are slow to speak ; 

It must not fee. 

Vol. LXXX1IL— 30. 

My wayward heart that fain would break away, 

\nd seek its very own ; 
But, foolish wayward heart, until that day 

Be thou as stone. 



C H A P T E R I 1 the tall grass contentedly. In the distance was 

One dewy Angust morning, more than twenty \ the honse, with doors and windows wide open ; 
yeaTago, a young gentleman was traveling in big and high ; with an unfinished look, suggest- 
Vimma He hod suddenly remembered, when : ive of disappointed aspirations; the wind w 
his summer vacation came, that he had some shutterless, and the great porch m front, reached 
ens ns in Fairfax County, who would doubt- by a long flight of steps, desutute of railing : «r 

ess be charmed to see him, for they had given ornament; but the creeping trumpet-vine ha 
htm more than one invitation. So he sent them j clung around it, and the acacia branches that 
a" of warning, and deciding that a horse- embraced its roof, picturesquely making np tor 
back ride was the best thing for his health, he all deficiencies, 
^ecur dall, raw-honed creature with a swift He sank upon the sofa as soon as he reached 

rot but ndsihief in her eyes, and began his ! the large and lofty, bnt desolate, parlor, and »as 
trot, but miscliiet in ner y , s < ^ ^ gurrounded by the ladies of the family. 

J ° Bring town-bred, he did not ride with much | "Quick," said one, who seemed an elder sister, 
.race or agimy • but he managed to keep his seat, addressing his late companion, "run, Anas a 
^crthek At last he saw, in the distance, and send Uncle Jack for the doctor, and cl 
aho, t rntlyisoernibl, through, wilderne.. Uther to come. Bun!" It seemed tohmithat 
of tree; and was wondering if it conld be his there was a look of pleased excitement on M- 
destina ion when there was a crackling sound, \ tress's face as she flew out of the 
fie flu ter'of something white in a thicket of room. Presently there entered a dingy, depi.- 
dlson rees near by, and his horse snddenly \ catory little gentleman, who hovered around with 
hiTfl inking off his rider; after which exploit \ the air of one not yet wakened from a d am 
smea , nin g > watching his daughter's movements with startled 

^"TiSiS r; little stony gul,y by \ eyes. L doctor was not long in coming. He 
the roadside he heard a gurgle of laughter, and also wore an expression of pleased exci ement; 
InTn" up saw two bri git eyes makfng merry and the twilight found Mr. Winston qui e com- 
over hta dL mfiture. limuLieously, a sharp [ fortable, the dingy little gent eman -rat h an d, 
Jain shot through the arm on which he had J and ^ his deters .ttrng so ftly »£ £ 

bu wtonly to sink back again, withafceling \ chopped his words off in the true old Virginia 
but it was on y 6 > fashion. " I since' ly regret-that is I'm glad— 

° f ££? ""laid a penitent voice over his | I mean-well, of con'se, not that exactly but I'm 
.ueicy . sdiu F express the pleasu'e I feel at having 

shonlder. "I'm very sorry I laughed at yon, . -ho can t express P ^ * 

sir. I didn't know you were hurt." And scram- { you heie. ^lis an w > 

bling over the fence, the speaker a young girl, | P™™^* h y d y^n, -you are 

you to see me. as u pxoitement • " yo' cousin Tom lives five 

nf thp arm and moved it up and down, and when some excitement r . 

ot the arm ana moveu P , > v relations in this 

Ssolemnl "yon'll'have to go'home with | would be. Francis IbMjM. £-££ 

r andi vrrhrcarfort::-comi'' i9ter ^£:^W^.^ 

^gol^" ^r-TentTuh he, j Wii'on-what pleasan t rec'lectimisof the past 
They soon reached a dilapidated gateway with that name brings up ! I m happy to m A yo 
stone Dillaw but no gate ; and in the neglected 'quaintance, sir." And clasping Mr. « inMon s 
avenue Mr Walton found his horse cropping hand with cousinly fervor he plunged into a 




minute explanation of the relationship between < 
them, involving the histories of several genera- \ 
tions of Winstons and Hathaways, an explana- j 
tion which had a most confusing effect on his 
hearer, who was lost in the hopeless entangle- j 
ment of names and dates. 

When the ladies appeared again they were \ 
presented to " Our cousin, my dears, Mr. Charles \ 
Wins'on;" and they greeted the newly-found j 
relative with kindly smiles that pleased and j 
touched him. Miss Frances, the eldest, was tall 
and angular, with a face that was still pretty, 
though careworn ; her eyes expressed patient i 
anxiety ; and her whole appearance showed that \ 
she was much older than the younger sister. ) 
The latter, Miss Anastasia, in face and figure \ 
was at least fifteen ; but she was dressed like a j 
child of ten, in a short frock and a long-sleeved \ 
high-necked apron. Her light-brown hair was j 
put back, and tied with a bit of faded ribbon. ( < 
Everything in the house, however, seemed faded J 
but her eyes and complexion. The quaint sim- \ 
plicity of her attire, the demure yet graceful < 
poise of the well-shaped head and shoulders, < 
pleased Mr. Winston's critical eyes; and he lay \ 
watching her from his shadowy place on the \ 
sofa, while he talked to Mr. Hathaway and Miss J 
Frances, or rather listened while they talked to \ 
him ; for Mistress Soft-Eyes, as he mentally > 
christened the younger sister, was as mute as a 
mouse, not only at first, but during all the even- 
ing. | 

The fracture of the arm proved to be a simple < 
one, and healed rapidly ; and Winston was so 
well contented with his quarters that he cheer- 
fully resigned all idea of going farther ; indeed, j 
he did not even send an explanation to his cousin \ 
Tom ; and that gentleman probably thought, \ 
if he thought of it at all, that, the visit had been \ 
given up. The whole place was surrounded by \ 
such an atmosphere of dreamy quiet ; it seemed 
so secluded among its encircling trees, that he \ 
could not shake off the feeling of being miles j 
and miles away from any other house. The I 
more he saw, meantime, of the Hathaways, the < 
better he liked them ; they were the best, the 
kindest, the most unpractical people in the 
world, he thought ; and he sighed to see the J 
evidences that they were sinking down, slowly < 
but surely, into poverty, perhaps want. The \ 
head of the house dreamed away his innocent j 
life in seeming unconsciousness that his property \ 
was slipping out of his hands ; that his house \ 
was fairly tumbling down over his head. The 
only books he read were the Spectator, Pope, 
Swift, and other writers of a hundred years ago ; 
his ancestors had bought the books when they \ 

were new, and he had never added to them. 
There was not even a newspaper. He had an 
invalid sister, Miss Margaret, and an only son, 
who had gone to try his luck in that boundless 
field of adventure vaguely called " the West." 

** He is trying to retrieve our fallen fortunes," 
said Miss Frances, with a little touch of that 
pathetic pride which has come to look on fallen 
fortunes as its just and honorable heritage. 
Miss Frances shared her father's forgetfulness 
of the flight of time ; she treated Anastasia like 
a child, and dressed her in the short frocks and 
long aprons that she had made for her five years 
ago; meanwhile the little romp of ten had 
grown tall and womanly, with the step and eyes 
of a gazelle. 

Anastasia was Winston's most constant com- 
panion during those long, pleasant, languid days, 
when he lay on the sofa, or lounged about the 
big shady garden ; for Miss Frances was busy 
with her household affairs. Our hero treated 
her in a patronizing, elder-brotherly fashion, that 
did not seem to give offense ; it pleased him to 
hear her frank childish talk ; she impressed him 
as being a charming contrast to most of the city- 
bred girls he knew. 


" Soft-Eyes," he said, one day, tavisting a 
long flexuous lock of her hair around his finger, 
with dangerous cousinly familiarity, " don't you 
ever get tired of your life in this lonely place? 
Don't you sometimes wish you could go away, 
and see something of gayety, and mix with other 

She met his inquisitive eyes with a startled 
flash of her own. 

"What makes you ask me that?" she said, 
quickly. " Do you think it so very dull and 

"Oh, no," he answered. "I like it very 
much ; but then, I have you all to talk to and 
amuse me. Besides, I'm company, you know. 
But you've lived here ever since you were born, 
and your sister and aunt are so much older — that 
I think you would want a companion — somebody 
nearer your own age, I mean." 

"No, I don't," said Anastasia, loyally, though 
something in the sudden gravity of her face told 
Winston that he had suggested a feeling not 
unknown to her, if unconfessed. "This is my 
home. I love it, and I would rather live here 
than at any other place. I don't get lonely here, 
and I don't want any young companion. Father, 
and sister, and aunt, and Uncle Jack, are my 
companions — there !" 

Her tone of defiance amused him, and he pur- 



sued his inquiries, though conscience pricked 
him, as he said : 

" But wouldn't you like to go visiting, some- 
times? Say to parties, with a white dress on, 
and — and flowers in your hair, and things like 

Here, as Mr. Winston's ideas of fashionable 
dress were of the vaguest kind, his description 
broke down ignominiously. 

"I don't know," she answered, with a little 
falter of indecision. "I never thought about it 
much. Perhaps, if I were rich, I would like it. 
But I do go out sometimes," with animated 
pride. " Sister and I go to spend the day at 
places — our neighbors, you know ; but I don't 
like that much," with a little shiver. " Oh, it's 
so tiresome to sit and listen to people talking 
over one's head ; for they never talk to me. I 
suppose it's not polite to take a book and read, 
or I might enjoy that. And I hate the girls I see 
— indeed I do — they giggle, and look at each 
other ; and I think they are laughing at me in 
my old faded frock. They have beautiful dresses, 
all sorts of pretty colors, with ribbons and 
things — nice and new ; but my frocks are always 
made out of somebody's old ones. Why, I 
declare," cried she, with the air of one suddenly 
awakened to surprise at some long familiar fact, 
"I can't remember — I don't think I ever had 
anything new in my whole life." 

Winston laughed to conceal the effect of this 
pathetic little confession. Remembering what 
Miss Frances had said about the fallen fortunes 
of the family, he was able to understand the 
cause of Anastasia's mortifying experience. 

" Nevermind, Soft-Eyes," he said, with a thrill 
of generous indignation, at sight of some tears 
that had risen in her eyes. " Beauty is beautiful 
in the shabbiest garments ; you have that for 
your consolation. And then your turn will cer- 
tainly come. When I am married, you must 
come to see *my wife and me. You and I are 
cousins, you know." 

"Are you going to be married?" asked 
Anastasia, with sudden, startled interest. 

"Yes," he answered. "Sometime — perhaps 
next year — I don't know. Do you want to see 
my sweetheart's picture?" 

He took out an ambrotype as he spoke, which 
represented a pretty coquettish face, of the pink 
and white style, looking from an aureola of 
golden curls. How different from the latent 
passion and noble outlines of that face that bent 
over it now with such attentive grace. 

"She's beautiful," said Anastasia, warmly. 
Then, drawing a little nearer: " I suppose you 
love her very much. Tell me, Cousin Charley, 

do you really feel like that ? It must be very 

"Like what?" he asked, rather shortly, and 
with a little frown. 

"Oh, like people do in books, when they are 
in love. Like Romeo — like Troilus — like Valen- 
tine, when he was in love with Sylvia. Don't 
you remember what he said?" 

And her voice took on a thrilling vibration, as 
she repeated those passionate lines — who does 
not know their beauty ? — beginning : 

" What light is light if Sylvia be not seen ? 
What joy is joy if Sylvia be not by ?" 

"Is that the way you feel, Cousin Charley?" 
she cried. "It must be very strango. Is your 
love like that?" 

"No," he answered. "I am not so unfortu- 
nate. You see, I enjoy many things in the 
absence of my fair lady. Lovers now are more 
commonplace and — less devoted, I suppose." 
J " Well, do you think people ever feel so, 
| except in books?" asked Mistress Soft-Eyes, with 
J incredulity in her tone. " It must be very sin- 
j gular — and — and inconvenient. Indeed, I don't 
', think I could ever love anyone so much." 
s "Oh, I don't know," said Winston, in his 
;> most elder-brotherly manner. " Some people 
J are more impulsive and self-forgetful than others, 
> and perhaps devotion has grown tame and cool 
\ in these degenerate days. You see, the difficul- 
i ties are not so great — fair ladies are so easily 
] won — " 

"Oh," interrupted she, with a little horrified 

start. "Easily won? But how can they be? 

Why, I would never, never let anybody think 

that I liked them — in that way," with a vivid 

\ blush, " unless I was very sure ; unless they had 

$ proved, over and over again, that they loved me 

\ better than anybody or anything else in the 

| whole world. But I don't suppose that I shall 

| ever be troubled about such things. I don't 

\ suppose anybody will try to win me," folding 

\ her hands with a soft little sigh. 

He looked at the beautiful face and smiled, 

but said nothing. The subject was distasteful to 

j him, and he was sorry to have introduced it. 

\ He looked at the picture, and somehow it had 

lost ft faint glamor that used to belong to its 

prettiness. The image of the original, that 

\ imagination once made so beautiful, seemed to 

j have grown dim and uninteresting. Winston 

j wondered to himself how he had drifted so easily 

\ into that engagement. She certainly had not 

\ been hard to win. She had somewhat resembled 

| a ripe peach, that drops unexpectedly into the 

\ idle hand that merely caresses its downy 

\ beauty. 



Suddenly, Anastasia burst into a laugh. 

M Why, how funny it would be," she cried, 
" to see you married. I cannot imagine it." 

■ < But why ?" he asked, the least bit chagrined. 

"Oh, you are so young. You don't seem so 
very much older than I am. Yo' face," dropping 
into her Virginia accent, " is smooth, and yo' 
eyes like a boy's. Oh, it would be ridiculous." 

The cool gray depths of Mr. Winston's eyes 
showed a passing breeze of irritation ; for he had 
always been sensitive about his boyish appear- 

" Do you think so?" he said. Then he made 
an effort to change the subject, " So you read 
Shakespeare," he added, "and learn the most 
romantic parts by heart — eh, Soft-Eyes?" 

"Oh, no," she answered, with a blush. "I 
don't learn it, I only read it over once or twice, 
and it comes to me afterwards. Yes, I have read 
all the plays. I like them better than anything 
else. I have read all the books in the house ; 
but I like Shakespeare best," 

Then with that womanly cleverness that some- 
times startled him, she discussed, with no small 
amount of critical insight, the relative merits 
and genius of those dull old volumes, that had 
failed to satisfy her healthy intellectual thirst, 

busy, and then she had forgotten some things ; 
and I always hated to do sums and write copies ; 
and so," she concluded, meekly, "I'm afraid I 
didn't learn as much as I ought." 

When the next day came, Miss Frances gave 
him a cousinly kiss, and a kindly invitation to 
come again. Then he turned to where Anastasia 
stood, looking very grave. 

"Good-by, Soft-Eyes," he said. "Don't for- 
get that you are to write to me ; and think of me 
when you read the books I'm going to send." 

He took her hand, as he spoke, and made a 
motion as if to kiss her ; but she snatched her 
hand away, and cried, with a sudden burst of 
tears: "I don't want to kiss you — there!" and 
rushed out of the room. Somehow, a faint elec- 
trical thrill shot through him. What did it mean ? 
He broke into a nervous little laugh, and blushed 

All that day, and for many days after, Mr. 
Winston was haunted by the memory of two 
lovely tearful eyes — Anastasia' s eyes, when they 
last met his own. It made him angry. 

"Pshaw!" thought he, "I'm surely not such 
a weak-minded fool as to fall in love with a child 
like that — when I am engaged to another woman, 
too. A man of my age, full twenty-six, ought to 

" Did you ever read any of Scott's novels ?" he < know better. It's absurd." 
asked. " Do you know anything of Byron, and \ But the haunting eyes continued to trouble 
Shelley, and Wordsworth? Or Tennyson, or \ him. He wrote to the Hathaways, and received, 
Longfellow, or Hawthorne?" J after some delay, a kind answer from Miss 

" Why, I never even heard of them," witli great j Frances, in quaint boarding-school-composition 
humility. " 1 suppose the books I have read are J style. Then he sent another letter, and the 
very old-fashioned now. I don't like novels one j books he had promised Anastasia: some of the 
bit. We have Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison ; < Waverley novels, David Copperfield, and several 
but they are so foolish and tiresome ; and as for little blue gilt-edged volumes of his favorite 
Peregrine Pickle, and Tom Jones, and all of < poetry. The thanks and acknowledgment came, 
them, I hate 'em; they are detestable." \ after awhile, in a little note, all on one side of 

" I'll send you some of my books when I go \ the paper, in a large, stiff, scrawling hand ; a 
home," he said, " some that I know you will \ very polite and ceremonious little letter, that. Mr. 
like. I go, you know, to-morrow. You must { Winston put away in his pocket-book, taking it 
write to me, Soft-Eyes, won't you?" '< out sometimes to read it, with an amused smile, 

"I can't promise," she answered. "I never? then laying the little scrap of paper tenderly 
wrote a letter in my life. You would be shocked < back again. But his next letter was not an- 
at my handwriting and bad spelling. Oh, you \ swered for a long time, and the next not at all. 
don't know how ignorant I am. I never went to j So his correspondence with the Hathaways died 

school a single day." 

a natural death, and the remembrance of his stay 

She watched him anxiously, to see the effect of: with them seemed like a dream, though a dream 
this shocking revelation ; and brightened when 5 that had made a lasting impression upon him. 
he only laughed, and said : j Meantime, his engagement had been broken. 

" Don't grieve about it, Soft-Eyes. The effect j But not by him. For while he was struggling to 
of this disadvantage has not quite uncivilized \ regain his old consistency, and wasting time in 
you. But how did it happen?" \ angry self-accusations for his indifference, there 

" We have been so poor," was her reply, $ came a letter from the lady — she had not the 
" ever since I can remember, that there was no j courage to tell him when they met, the evening 
money to send me to school. I ured to say my before, for, poor fellow, what a blow it would 
lessons to Sister Frances ; but she was always so S be to him— begging to be released from her 



promise. Ah, with what a sigh of relief he had 
read that letter. Let us tell the honest truth. 
After that visit to Virginia, he had fancied his 
fiancee changed. The chatter was tiresome to 
him, that he had once thought so amusing ; her 
songs were stale and commonplace ; and one day, 
when he detected a dash of rouge on her plump 
cheeks, rebellious memory showed him Anas- 
tasia's tender generous bloom. He was a man of 
too much honor to have broken the engagement ; 
but do you think he was sorry when it was 
broken by the lady herself? 


The next year the war broke out between the 
North and the South, and many summers and 
winters passed before Winston heard of his 
cousins in Virginia. Meantime, how had it 
fared with them ? Badly enough, heaven knows, 
especially with Anastasia. The contentment she 
had confessed to Cousin Charles left her, after 
that day when she so passionately refused to 
kiss him. Neglectful of her former duties and 
amusements, she moved with fitful steps through 
the dull house, while Miss Frances and Miss 
Margaret, noting the lustre of her eyes, the 
flickering blaze of color in her cheeks, glanced 
at each other in surprise. " How pretty she 
was," they said, with admiring exultation. 
They observed her unusual silence ; but with a 
kindly delicacy left her to herself. 

All this while she thought of Winston, with 
a shrinking consciousness that he had wounded 
her, though she would have died sooner than 
acknowledge it. The books he had sent her 
were read and re-read with keen delight. But his 
kind answer to her poor little note of thanks 
somehow made her angry, and produced one of 
those unreasonable bursts of crying that had 
lately grown common with her when alone. " I 
wish that he had never come here,'' she said to 
herself; "I wish he had never come. What 
right had he to tell me about things he knew I 
could never have ? I know he despises me, and 
looks on me as ignorant and foolish. I know he 
laughs when he thinks of me — of this place — of 
all of us. Oh, I hate him ! I wish — I wish he 
had not come." 

Miss Frances realized that her child had 
grown into a woman, when, after awhile, Ana- 
stasia left off her long aprons and arranged her \ 
dress as far as possible in more womanly fashion. \ 
The poor girl also collected some old school-books j 
and began to study them, fitfully at first, but \ 
afterwards with increasing interest and persever- j 
ance. Then, when she was growing more like | 

her old self again, only older, graver, more 
womanly, the war came on ; and for years 
nothing was thought of, North or South, but bat- 
tles, but sorrow, but desolation, but death. 
Young Hathaway hurried home from the West, 
joined the Confederate Army, and fell at Gettys- 
burg. Poor old Mr. Hathaway, when he heard 
this fatal news, was seized with a paralysis from 
which — the doctor told Miss Frances — he could 
never recover. Then, in less than a month after, 
Miss Margaret took a fever and died. When 
peace came, Miss Frances and Anastasia found 
themselves more desolate and poverty-stricken 
than ever. All the servants had long been gone, 
all except Uncle Jack, whose fidelity, not to say 
his age, forbade such an idea. Miss Frances 
devoted her days to the care of the poor helpless 
old gentleman, while Anastasia was cook, house- 
maid, washerwoman, everything; for Uncle Jack 
could render but little aid with his shaky, feeble, 
withered old hands. 

One lovely evening, m June, Anastasia found 
herself more than usually oppressed by the 
lonely silence of the house. Decay and dilapi- 
dation had made rapid progress of late about 
the premises. The clusters of roses on the lawn 
seemed to have lost heart, and courage to hold 
their own, and were yielding place to crowding 
thickets of slim young locust and alanthus trees, 
under whose shadows weeds and "brambles seemed 
killing out the grass. In the garden where 
she and Cousin Charles had loitered together, 
confusion reigned, except in one little corner 
which Uncle Jack still tried to cultivate. But 
the scene was pleasant, nevertheless; nature was 
looking her best; one could not help being 
pleased and soothed. Anastasia wandered about 
the place, lingering here and there. Presently 
the slow strokes of an axe caught her attention. 
Looking up, she beheld Uncle Jack feebly chop- 
ping on one of the three remaining logs, that 
formed their scanty wood-pile. 

"Hi, lill missis, dat you?" said the old man, 
pausing a moment as she approached; "Ps 
tryin' ter cut you some wood ; I's tryin' my bes'; 
but dis ole han' so stiff an' trimbly, dat I can't 
do much. I isn* much mo' 'count fo' dis worl, 
lill missis. Dis ole nigger mos' used up — dat's 
so. He — he — he ! " He gave a deprecatory 
chuckle and resumed his work, while Anastasia, 
seating herself on the grass near by, watched 
him with pitying eyes. How old, and weak, and 
tremulous he looked ! How inadequate to his 
task ! It seemed a painful effort for him to raise 
the axe; and the unsteady downward strokes 
made but little impression. What a pity ! What 
a shame, that he should have to work so hard I 



Why, he would soon be eighty years old, and 
here he was, trying to chop wood. 

Suddenly she sprang to her feet, with cheeks 
and eyes indignantly aflame. 

"Uncle Jack," she cried, laying hold of the 
axe with her strong young hands, " give me this, 
and let me cut the wood. I'm strong— I will do 
it_you are too old for hard work like this. I 
can see that it hurts you, all the time— here, 
give it me." 

The horror and amaze in the old man's face j 
almost made her laugh. He held on to the axe 
with all his little strength. 

« W'y, lill missis," he said, when his voice 
came back after the first shock, " now how you 
is foolishin'. White quality lady like you can't 
chop wood. You don't know how. I don't 'low 
dat — no, no." 

"I'll learn soon enough, Uncle Jack. Give 
me the axe, and let me try." 

She took it from his feebly-resistant hands 
and planting one foot on the log, as he had done, 
to keep it steady, raised the implement, with a 
little defiant fling, and began hacking away 
fiercely ; while Uncle Jack dodged around, trying 
with frantic gestures to dissuade her from what 
seemed to him the most " low-life " work she had 
yet undertaken. " 'Deed, Miss Stasy," cried he, 
with a comical accent of mortification, "'deed, 
now, don't you do dat, missy. W'at fo' you 
wan' ter do dat work? Gimme dat axe, lill 
missis; gimme it, an' let dis yeh ole Uncle 
Jack cut de wood. What else he made fo' ? 
He, he!" 

But "lill missis" was not moved by these 
entreaties, and Uncle Jack grew more and more 

"Now you can't do dat," he cried. "Now 
you dont know how. You gimme dat axe, an' go 
tend ter yo' par. I hears ? im a-hollerin' fo' you. 
Now 'deed you cut yo' foot off. Miss Stasy, you 
cut yo'se'f now— now stop dat— you hit yo'se'f 
in de eye wid de chip. Oh-h-h ! 'deed you hit 
yo'se'f in de eye — " 

She paused in sudden laughter. 
"Uncle Jack," she said, with dignified air, 
" don't you see how much faster I can do this 
than you can? It doesn't hurt me— I like it. 
You go see if my father is awake, and stay with 
him till I come — go." 

The old man hobbled off reluctantly, feeling 
that the world was coming to an end. Anastasia 
took breath awhile, and resumed her task, getting 
very red and hot, but unconsciously showing 
some splendid curves of her tall slender figure. 
What ornceful sweeping motions of her lithe arms 
and shoulders, as she alternately bent forward 

and rose upright. With what a fine high-strung 
air of determination she lifted the dull old axe ; 
and with what an aimless hack it descended ; for 
nature had not gifted her with such a genius for 
wood-cutting that her first attempt proved a 
grand success. , But by dint of perseverance, she 
chopped off several sticks before she paused for 
another rest. 

Suddenly, glancing toward the house, her 
startled eyes beheld a tall gentleman coming 
from that direction. He looked handsome, erect, 
well dressed ; but there was an indignant flush 
on his face ; and he came swiftly across the sun- 
lit grass, bareheaded, with hand outstretched, 
crying : " Anastasia." 

"Cousin Charles!" she said, quickly; but 
drew her hands down, and her head up, with a 
defensive motion. 

Good heavens," he cried, "this is too bad. 
Is it possible that you have to do such rough 
hard work ? Is it so bad as this ? Here, let. me 
do this for you." 

He spoke kindly enough, and tried to take 
hold of her axe ; but she held on to it firmly, 
waving him away. 

You don't know how it hurts me to see all 
this," he said. "I had no idea it was so bad. 
If I could have known sooner, or helped—" 

If you had known, what good would it have 
been ?" she cried, almost fiercely. " What could 
you have done? We are all ruined— ruined. 
My brother is dead ; it broke my father's heart. 
He will never be like he was before. Aunt 
Margaret is dead, too. I know it was the grief 
and trouble that killed her. We are nothing but 
beggars— beggars. The old place is hopelessly 
mortgaged. We are living here because people 
pity us and let us stay." And she broke down 
in a passion of tears. 

The tempest of grief seemed to soothe her. 
She looked up, and put out her hand graciously. 
What a strong, shapely, nervous hand it was, 
Winston thought; a hand used to work, and 
therefore not near so white as his own, but taper- 
fingered, with the slimmest wrist in the world. 

"Forgive me, Cousin Charles," said she, "I 
had no right to speak so. It was not your fault. 
It was nobody's— it was fate." 

"And now let me do this for you," he said, 
glancing at the log of wood at her feet. 

" Oh, no ! " with a flush ; " there is no need — 
I_I W as only amusing myself. Uncle Jack is 
with us still, and he does a great deal for me." 

"Oh, Soft-Eyes," thought Winston, "you are 

no better than other women. What innocent 

deceit will you not all practice, for the sake of 

; keeping up appearances." But he said nothing 



in words ; and directly they went into the house 

44 Do you want to see father?" asked Anastasia. 
" He is very much changed since you saw him 
last. He does not often know people ; but he 
might remember you." She led the way, as she 
spoke, to the room where Mr. Hathaway sat, 
propped up in a big chair, staring vacantly in 
front of him. The kind old man was helpless 
and motionless now, except, that he moved his 
head and shoulders from side to side incessantly, 
with an uncertain, restless motion. When his 
daughter announced their guest, a ghost of a 
smile lit up his face, and he nodded several 
times. " Charley Wins' on — of co'se I know him," 
he said, " of co'se. Why, Charley, it's forty 
years since I saw you — forty years — forty — yo' 
son was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, wasn't 
he? Oh, no — no, it was my son — mine — mine." 
Poor old man, his mind was gone forever. 


Winston was waiting in the tea-room for the 
re-appearance of Miss Anastasia. How the old 
times came back, as he looked about, The same 
quaint engravings of King Lear and Cymbeline 
hung on the walls. The curtains that had been 
almost brown, years ago, were now more faded 
than ever.. But all this changed when Anastasia 
entered ; a sudden flood of light, as it were, 
pouring into the room. She had changed her 
dress for an old India muslin, exquisitely fine, 
but now almost threadbare ; one that had been 
her grandmother's, and was made with a baby- 
waist., and sleeves reaching only to the elbows. 
Hearing her approach, he turned and spoke, and 
she stopped for a moment before entering. The 
door by which she came led down, by a step or 
two, to the lawn ; and she paused on one of these 
lower steps, and looked up. 

Never, to his last day, will he forget the pic- 
ture she made as she stood there, holding back 
her skirts with both hands and looking up smil- 
ingly at him, to reply. He looked at her so 
eagerly, and with such evident admiration, that 
she burst out laughing and made him a little 
courtesy, her hands still holding back her nar- 
row skirts. Then she checked herself, gravely. \ 
How long was it since she had laughed like ; 
that ? It gave her quite a guilty feeling. The j 
room seemed to him a little Paradise, 

Her tea-table was soon arranged — indeed, there 
was very little to put on it — and going out she 
presently returned with a rather shamefaced air, 
bringing a plate of hoe-cakes and a pot of tea. 
Oh, Soft-Eyes, how it hurt your pride — this 
poverty-stricken little repast ! You stood at the 

I head of the table with lofty air, but the blush 
J on your cheek was not borrowed from the sunset 
this time. No, indeed. " Come, Cousin Charles," 
| said she, "you must be tired and hungry after 
j your long walk from the station. Won't you 
have a cup of tea?" 

Of course he would. He took his place and 
watched her pour the tea out. "I'm sorry I 
can't offer you a teaspoon," she said, "but 
they're all gone, and the sugar-tongs too," with 
a gay laugh. " This tea is a great treat to me, 
cousin ; we couldn't get any for a long time, you 
know. Oh, dear ! " with a sudden little start ; " I 
quite forgot — how is your wife, Cousin Charles ?" 
He gave a little start. "Oh, confound it!" 
he said, in a great flurry ; "lam not married — 
what put that into your head?" 

44 Not married?" With her wide-open eyes 
expressing more mischief than surprise, however. 
44 Why, you told me that you — " 

44 Yes, I know," he said, and hastened to 
explain. " I did have such an idea once, but. it 
never came to anything ; it was broken oft*. My 
sweetheart jilted me ; turned me off for somebody 
else, you know : a millionaire, a great army con- 
tractor," with a laugh. 

44 What a shame!" murmured she, sympathet- 
ically. " I beg your pardon for referring to it. 
But I didn't know. I wonder that anyone should 
be so cruel." 

44 But you see I have survived it. I don't look 
as if my heart was broken, do I ?" 

That night, as Winston leaned from his bed- 
room window, enjoying a cigar and the lovely 
summer moonlight, he thought of them all with 
an unusual warmth and tenderness. An uncle 
had lately died, and left him a large fortune. 
Why not marry Anastasia, if she would have 
him ? Buy this place, and turn it into a cheerful 
well-kept summer residence? Having resolved 
thus, he determined to begin the siege as soon 
as possible. But he waited, all the next day, in 
vain, for a favorable chance to speak his mind to 
her ; it did not come till twilight, when he found 
himself alone with Anastasia, on the porch, 
watching the red moon growing smaller and 
whiter, as it climbed up over the tree-tops. 
Then, with many inward thrills and tremors, and 
some changes of color that were lost upon her in 
the dusk, he pleaded his cause, stammering a 
little, but not without some eloquence, after all. 
44 And now, Soft-Eyes, don't you think," he 
said, in conclusion, " you can be happy with me ? 
Will you try, cousin — eh?" 

The twilight was over her face like a veil ; but 
the hand he tried to take seemed quietly re- 



"I'm very sorry," she murmured, soberly, > something of the old dreamy smile on his face, 
after a little pause. " How did you ever come to that he used to wear when Winston first saw 
think of such a thing? It grieves me so much him. During the next few days of confusion 
to have to say no," (he couldn't see her smile,) J and distress, both women looked to Cousin 
" but you won't mind it much, I daresay," with \ Charles for counsel and sympathy. They found 

him as kind as a woman, and the most thoughtful 
of men. After Mr. Hathaway was laid away in 

a profound sigh. 

" Oh, don't say so," he cried, with tender 
vehemence, and another futile snatch at that 

the wilderness of a graveyard, close by, Mr. 

elusive hand. "Why, I should mind it more j Winston held long consultations with Miss 

than I ever did anything in my whole life before. 
Must you say no, Soft-Eyes? Why should it 
be no?" 

"I will never marry anybody, I think. I'll 
be an old maid, like Sister Frances. But I won- 
der at your asking me this. You know you 
wrote how ignorant I was, and how stupid, 
and — " 

"Don't talk nonsense," with a little quiver 
of impatience. "You know I don't think you 
either stupid or ignorant. I never did. You 
quite misunderstood me. You're too sensitive, 
dear. No other woman can ever suit me so well. 
I never loved anyone as I do you. Are you 

Frances, and afterward with the creditors, whose 

indulgence could not last much longer. Miss 

j Frances returned to her old anxious cares for 

$ the morrow, and Anastasia went about with a • 

grave face ; while Cousin Charles lingered on, 

| day after day. Everybody seemed taking it for 

granted that he would stay, and meantime there 

} was a certain softening of Anastasia' s manner 

| towards himself, which awakened a glow of 

delightful expectancy, that made him think this 

place the most fascinating spot on earth. 

One morning, while he was busy with some 
old yellow papers, that Miss Frances had brought 
for examination, Anastasia came softly into the 

thinking of what I told you once ? Pshaw, that room, carrying in her hand a great fragrant rose 

was all a mistake — a piece of idle folly." 

" Idle folly ? Can people put love on and off, 
like an old shoe? Don't think because I am an 
ignorant country girl that I am quite an — id — 
idiot." With almost a sob. " If it had not been 
for that, I might" — another sob — " I might have 
loved you, I might have been your wife, but 
now — " 

She shook her head decisively, while our hero 
began pleading, apologizing, explaining. But in 
the midst of his tirade, she suddenly started up 

of Damascus, whose color paled in contrast to 
that which suddenly burned on her face, as he 
looked up with an ardent glance. An intuitive 
perception made him aware that she had come to 
make a confession of some sort. 

"Well," he said, with suppressed excitement 
in his tone. 

"Well," she answered, with a little half- 
frightened laugh, " I — I want to tell you some- 
thing — I mean — " 

She faltered and paled ; but seeing him spring 

and ran into the house; ran away to her own j up, with a sudden flush and tremor, she instantly 
room, where, shutting the door behind her, she grew calm again, (it is the way with women ) 

fell into an agitation of tears and laughter ; and 
even in the summer darkness, and all alone, the 
hot blushes came and went on her face. Foolish, 
inconsequent Anastasia. Perhaps if Cousin 
Charles had seen her then, he would not have 
looked so down-hearted, when he stalked off to 

But Winston was not one to own defeat. His 
usual determination to have his own way was 

and resumed her old dignity of manner. 

"Cousin Charles," she said, "you have been 
kinder to us than we had any right to expect ; 
we never can repay your kindness." 

"You can, if you will," he cried, "you know 

She waved him to silence. "Then you have 
not changed yo' mind?" she said, very gravely. 
"You still think you would like me for yo' wife 

strengthened by a virtuous feeling that in this in spite of my being foolish, and ignorant, and 

case at least his way was the best in the world, high-tempered?" 

So, the next day, and the next, he renewed the " High-tempered? I never said it." 

attack, receiving always the same answer, though \ She went on without heeding him : " Well, I 

a certain expression of her face, that he caught j wonder at your choice. I thought you had more 

occasionally, made him think she was not so \ taste. But if you still insist— I want to pay 

obdurate as she would have him believe. But on 
the fourth day, something happened that, for the 
time, rendered love-making impossible. Miss 
Frances, going into her father's room, found 

our debt. I can't bear to owe anybody in the 
world; and I can't pay it anyway but this. 
That is," demurely, " if you will take me, sir." 
"Sweetest — take you, Soft-Eyes — take yon?" 

the poor old gentleman dead in his chair, with | And he rushed forward, with hands outstretched. 

But she retreated, putting her own hands behind 


" Don't be absurd," she said, severely ; " I feel 
it my duty to tell you now, that I don't believe 
in men loving twice. I take you because I can't 
help it, and not because I believe you love me," 
dodging behind the sofa as he pursued her. 
"And I'm high-tempered, as you said," still re- 
treating, and making a motion towards jumping 
out of ° the window as he followed; "and am 
sure to eive you a heap of trouble. I know I 
shan't like any of the people you know; city- 
. bred ladies— and I don't think they will like me ; 
and that will make you feel uncomfortable, won't 


"Oh, confound it!" said he, "I don't want 
you to like anybody but me. Don't be so tanta- 
lizing. Give me a kiss. Gracious heavens, don't 
I deserve it, Soft-Eyes? Don't I?" 

She still kept retreating. " You say, though 
I don't believe it, that you love me better than 
anything else in the world." 

"Good Lord, have I not told you so fifty 


<l But perhaps sister will object ; you must ask 
her leave," with provoking gravity. 

<< She does not object at all ; she is kinder than 
you." Cousin Charles was now on the verge of 

Suddenly her whole tone and manner changed. 
" Am I unkind ?" she said ; " I did not mean to 

be. Don't you remember I said once that I 
would be hard to win? I'll tell you something 
I would never have told anyone to save my life 
—but— but now I know you are in earnest. I 
like you— I don't know if it is love, cousin, but 
I— I have liked you so for a long time— there ! " 
During this confession she had changed sud- 
denly from a queen to a handmaid ; she grew 
red and pale by turns; her eyes were more 
lovely than ever, through the tears that filled 
them ; the hand she held out, with palm up- 
turned, in such graciousness of sweet [surrender, 
trembled shyly. The siege had been long; the 
terms of capitulation were decidedly favorable 
to the conquered ; but it was a surrender, after 
all; and doubtless Mr. Winston's heart beat 
with triumphant excitement, as he advanced to 
take formal possession of this fair fortress. 
Perhaps, too, it was not only a hand-clasp that 
she gave ; he had said that he deserved a kiss ; 
and perhaps she may have granted him one- 
just one. Who knows? 

Pshaw! Love-scenes are exceedingly tire- 
some to all but the actors themselves. Nobody 
likes to feel de trop ; it's the most disagreeable 
thing in the world, and not even atoned for by 
the gratification of one's curiosity. I wonder if 
Miss Frances felt the sensation when she paused, 
for a moment, at the parlor door; then, seeing 
what she did, decided not to go in, but went 
softly away again. 



Oh, dust of ancient Greece uprise, 
And veil your fallen idol's eyes, 
That she may not behold the sight 
Of ruined beauty, broken might. 

Her splendid temples, once that crowned 
The hills, He shattered on the ground; 
The ashes of her priests are flung 
To every wind that Homer sung. 

And weeds spring up within the halls, 
Once sacred to the oracles, 
And she from her dark hillside tomb 
Has come, but none can make her room, 

Save in some gallery long and high, 
Where she will stand till by and by. 
Across the beauty of her face 
The spider weaves a veil of lace, 

And round her, like a garment, clings 
The dust, and o'er her brood the wings. 
Like those of some black bat or bird, 
Of darkness, heavy, thick, unstirred. 

But he who thinks this later time 
Has brought the world upon its prime 

Should go as in the years agone— 
A laureled poet went alone, 

And walked amidst the columns, wrought 
Long since by men of care and thought. 
He wandered there to be apart 
From all companions, save his heart. 

And that was sad as sad could be, 
For lands that lay beyond the sea. 
It was that quiet hour when day 
Puts on a twilight robe of gray. 

The airs about began to stir; 
Uprose the star of Jupiter ; 
And like an eagle in the sky, 
The spirit of the Past swept by. 

On graceful pillars, once again, 
He saw the temples rise as when 
From her majestic throne looked down 
The city of the violet crown. 

Tho home of law and liberty, 
The stately mother of the free, 
Whose children, heroes every one, 
Fought on the field of Marathon. 




Josiah read tome, out of the Jonesville Record, > Josiah. "Wal, she had a creek in the neck, 
yesterday, that the old Archbishop of Canterbury ) She ketched it the day she helped mow the hay. 
was dead, and that the new one was going to call \ She thought it would save the hirin' another 

another council of Episcopals, they call 'em 
"Pan-Angling" ones, I believe; and this reminds 
me that the Methodists, all over the world, as 
everybody knows, held a big meetin', year before 
last, also; an Economical Council, as they called 
it. Josiah brought the news to me after it was 
all over, for, you see, we haven't a telephone in 
our house, or Injun rugs, or any of these new- 
fangled notions. 

V I wish we'd heerd of it in time," said Josiah. 

I man ; an' she overworked, an' her doctor bill 
| has cost Ebenezer over thirty dollars, besides the 
\ hired girl." 

j " Wal, it seems to me that Ebenezer had better 
| have gone to the Economical Council himself; 

he'd have saved money.'' 
| " Oh, shaw! Samantha. How simple wimmin 
| can talk. Men are as economical creeters as the 
> world ever see; they don't need to attend* Eco- 
| nomical Councils. They may make mistakes 

"Economical Councils are noble meetin' s. They \ sometimes. Ebenezer may have made a mistake 
are just what wimmin need; they are just what i in overworkin' his wife the first day; feut their 
every woman, far and near, ought to go to. I'll > principles are square an' firm ; they don't need 
tell you what I'd have done, Samantha: I'd have \ no Economical Council, for they are jist as eco- 
given you a dollar and a half towards it; I I nomical an' savin' as the day is long." 
wouldn't have begrudged money; for if they \ "Wal," says I, "I'm glad I didn't go. It 
teached wimmin half what I s'posed they did, I would have cost a great deal, an' it would have 
it would have been plenty of cash in my pocket j been a sort of a unnecessary expense." 
before the end of the year." \ " But you had better have gone," he said, and 

Now I knew that the Economical Council had \ he murmured sort o' low to himself: "I should 
been held in London village, and I knew that a have got it back agin' before the year was out." 
dollar and a half wouldn't have taken me hardly Says I: " I wouldn't have gone an' left you, 
out of sight of land. And I knew that if I had j Josiah." 

traveled till my money give out, and they put \ Says he, sort o' mad-like, and Sarin' up : 
me out of the boat, why then the solemn feelin's { 
would have come to me — how would I get back 
to shore agin? I knew I couldn't walk on the 
Atlantic Ocean — I knew I wasn't a miracle. But 
I kept my thoughts to myself, for I had a reeson 
for doin' so. 

An' Josiah went on : 

"What? Awhile ago you was all rousted up 
about goin' to New York village to see Mrs. 
Lome and the marquis. You was fairly be- 
witched to go." 

"Yes," says I, dreamily; "I did want to go. 

I hain't been there for some time. An' I felt 

) that the village might begin to feel sort o' slighted 

"Samantha," he said, "I do feel fairly bad J if I didn't go there agin'. But you know well, 

that you didn't take this tower." \ Josiah Allen, that I didn't want to go unless you 

Says I, cautiously, (principle made me say it,) : \ went too. Though I should like to have seen the 

14 What makes you feel so bad about it?" j ' 

"Why," says he, "because I heerd Deacon I 

\ Economical Council." 

' But I tell you the Economical Council wuzn't 

Ebenezer Scrimshaw tellin' old Sowerby all 
about it, this mornin' ; and he said, Ebenezer 
did, that he'd have given a ten-cent bill if his 
wife could have attended to it." 

"Wal, why didn't she? She knew it in time. 
But we live in such an out-of-the-way place — we 

held in New York village," he said, flarin' Tip. 
"Don't you s'pose I know? When did you 
ever hear of a man makin a mistake? Wimmin 
is alius wobblin' 'round, gettin' into tne wrong 
places, but you don't ketch a man doin' it. 
However, since we didn't go to the Economical 

hear nothin'. We'll not hear o' the day o' Judg- j Council, I'll take you to New York, for a tower, 
ment till the day after." \ instead." 

"And that'll be lucky for you," snickered! Now I wuz glad to get to New York; but I 



didn't like the way he talked. It's the last straw I looked dretful friendly towards her, mebby it was 
that kills the camel ; and the straw that over- because she felt so friendly towards them ; she 
came me was " wobblin'." I wuzn't goin' to be felt dretful friendly towards them, an' towards 
called a wobbler ; an' be told that my sect wob- the villages that were scattered along the side of 
bled with impunity. I never said another word the river like clusters o' daisies. 
,about where the Economical Council had been Folks generally get paid back in their own 
held, though I knew it had been in London, an' coin in this world, or in any other world I know 
not in New York village, an' had told Josiah so. \ anything about. An' folks will find what they 
But I went to work an' got ready for a tower to hunt for ; if they hunt for faults an' deformities, 
New York, and got Josiah ready. For though a they will find 'em ; if they hunt for beauty and 
man may be a woman's protector in danger, and sweetness, they will find 'em. 
her strong tower in adversity, an' a bulwark to Why, good land ! if a man takes a dog an' a 
the nation, he can't get into his best clothes gun an' goes out a-huntin' eagles, he ain't a-goin' 
without help, or find his han' kerchief an' necktie j to pay any attenshun to little pups a-barkin' 
an' hat without the aid of his devoted pardner. j at his heels, or at muskeeters a-buzzin' round 

His calls to me for help while he was a-dressin' j him, or to ginny-hens a-screechin' at him from 
in the mornin', the day we started, wuz loud an' barn-yards to "go back, go back." Good land ! 
violent. An' his frantic rushes into my room — he ain't a-goin' back because them ginny-hens 
an' his onslaughts onto my beauro-drawers — an' ' advise him to — he is out a eagle-huntin'. An' 
his wAd statements that I had took every article he ain't a-goin* to aim that gun at muskeeters 
o' his wearin' apparil an' had 'em on at that min- or pups , them ain't the kind o' game he's after, 
ute, or else had hid 'em — was frequent, an' har- { it's eagles he's after. An' he keeps his eyes 
rowin' in the extreme. \ right up a-lookin' for 'em where they're to be 

But as every married female knows by experi- ; found, up in the heavens. An' if folks want to 
ence what these sufferin's are, and every man also ; find beauty an' goodness, why they must go 
knoweth it in his heart, I will, in the language : a-huntin' after 'em; they must fix their eye on 
o' the poet, "draw a braize veil" over my suffer- j 'em, aim at 'em, an' expec' to hit 'em every time. 
in's an' his'n. An' suffice it to say, the hour o' J An' if they feel friendly towards other folks, 
8 A. M., in the forenoon, found us on the train ■ them other folks will feel friendly towards them. 
that bore us on swift towards that noble river, > An' Samantha felt so friendly towards them 
the Hudson, on which, at 11 A. M., forenoon, we \ high old mountains that they looked down upon 
embarked, and sailed onwards down the peace- \ her as if they loved her. It made her feel well, 
ful waters. < I can tell you, an' she looked well, too — I knew 

Some say that wimmin can't help talkin', that she did. She didn't look into a lookin' -glass to 
if they can't talk they must die; but I can truly see how she looked, but I knew that sech soarin* 

say, that though the surroundin' wimmin was 
numerous and permiscuss, I couldn't speak a 
word, for the Spirit o' Beauty had laid her fingers 
on the lips o' Samantha, an' she wuz dumb (for 

emoshuns as she enjoyed couldn't be goin' on 
inside her mind without her face lookin' as noble 
as ever a face looked. Yes, I know jist how her 
mean looked, as well as if I took it in my hand and 

the time bein') ; she had laid her fingers on the \ gazed on it for hours ; an' I have watched means 
eyes o' Samantha, and she wuz blind (as it were) j for years an' years, an' probably know as much 
to all about her. She didn't see none of the about 'em as anybody o' my size and heft. But 
wimmin surroundin' her, only that divine Spirit I am episodin'. 

o' Beauty, whose home is in the glory of the Sumtimes them high beautiful mountains rose 
mountains, the glory of the waters. \ up, mountain after mountain, each one a different 

Sumtimes the water would lay blue an' trankil j color, an' each one purtier than the other one, 
an' calm-like — an' then the light would lay in j away off in front of us, so it seemed as if our 
long golden ripples ; an' the vessels with their 5 path must lay right through 'em, as if the vessel 
white wings a-sailin' by would each one of 'em must sail right into 'em. But it didn't, 
make as shinin' a track as if they had sot out When we got nearer, the river would widen 
for the shinin' shore we read about. j out in front of us, an' the mountains would keep 

Sumtimes the mountains risin' up out of the { lookin' down on us. 
water would be dark-green, gorguss mantillys, Soft an' tender an' hazy the far away ones 
woven of the fresh tracery o' tree-boughs, an' I looked at me, some as if they was sorry for me 
little white villas would peer down on Samantha / — felt sort o' pitiful an' sweet towards me, an' on 
from green heights as if they felt friendly towards j some o' the highest ones soft white clouds would 
her an' wished she was inside of 'em. They \ float down the sides like snowy pennons flutterin' 



out from hands invisible but loving, in tenderest 
greeting, bidding me : " Courage, dear heart — 
keep hope — bon voyage" 

An' then we would float by 'em, an' some high 
headland would flash into sight, bathed in such 
a golden glow that it did seem that if you stood 
there on that shinin' height, you could look up 
through the waves of glorified light an' catch a 
glimpse of tke towers of the city : that divine 
sea-port, whose twelve gates are twelve pearls. 
Oh, what a time I did have in my mind ; one 
o' the beautifulest times I ever did have. 

An' Josiah Allen enjoyed that scene, too. I 
know he did. His mean showed it as he sot there 
calmly eat in' sugar cookies an' cheese. His mean 
looked purty nigh as sweet as them cookies did, 
though I made 'em more than half-an'-half — a 
cup an' a half o' sugar to a cup o' cream. 

An' his sweetness o' mean lasted all the way 
to the village ; an' he says to me after we got to 
our tavern, (a good respectable one, though 
middlin' noisy on the outside,) he says, with 
that same sweet mean, and that almost dulcet 

" Now, Samantha, since you missed that Eco- 
nomical Council, I want you to pick out any 
other place of amusement you'd like to go to, 
an' I'll go with you an' pay the bills like a man. 
Do you want to go an' hear Beecher or Talmage?" 
says he. 

Says I : " I would love to go an' hear them 
two men, Josiah Allen, for they are as elequent 
as elequent can be ; but it ain't the night for 
'em to preach." 

"No," says he, "come to think on it, it ain't. 
You will have to pick out some other place of 

Says I, coldly: "Josiah Allen, stop sech talk 
instantly and to once," says I. "You talk about 
them two noble men as if they wuz circuses." 

" Wal," says he, " aint they? I talk as other 
folks do. You know, when folks come here to 
the village, for a night or two, they'll think to 
themselves : now if I can't go to a circus, I'll go 
an' hear some big preacher." 

"Wal," says I, coldly, "you needn't foller up 
sech doins', Josiah Allen, because other folks do." 
I wouldn't encourage him by ownin' it, but I 
couldn't deny to myself that he wuz on the right 
cut. I couldn't deny that lots o' folks seemed 
to want to go to church, not to worship God, but 
to be interested and amused. That they looked 
upon the holy walls, consecrated to the worship 
o' the Almighty, same as if it wuz a tent with a 
big pole in the centre, for jimnasticks an' rope- 
walkin'. An' they viewed the minister, who 
stood between their souls an' the Most High, 

same as if he wuz a brass band or a clown. But 
jest while I wuz reveryin' this, my companion 
spoke up bold as brass, or a copper tea-kettle, or 
anything else hard an' glossy, an' says he : 
" Let's go to the theatre." 
"The theatre?" says I, risin' right up on my 
feet, " the theatre? Be you a jimnastick or ag- 
nostick, or whatever it is, Josiah Allen, or is it 
softenin' o' the brain that ails you?" 

"I hain't lunied nor softened," says he, bold 
as that tea-kettle; " I say, let's swing right out 
for once in our lives, an' go to the theatre." 

"Never," says I, firmly, "never." An' says 
I, coldly: "What would they say at Jonesville? 
Why, Deacon Scrimshaw himself is in New 
York. He'd be sure to hear on it, an' tell. He 
come on last Tuesday, to his niece's weddin'." 

" Dumb it," says Josiah, " I forgot that. But 
he'll never hear of it. His sister lives over in 
Harlem. Come on, let's go." 

But Bunker Hill never stood firmer than 
Josiah Allen's wife stood up on top of her lofty 
principles. His entreaties and arguments fell 
like the pelting raindrops on that noble statue 
of B. H. ; an' didn't melt me no more than the 
patterin' summer rain melted B. H. 

Says I : " You can go, Josiah Allen, if your 
conscience an' et-cetery will let you ; but I shall 
not go. My principles an' my backache both 

" But," says I, in a awful warnin' an' almost 
camp-meetin' tone, " if your pasture ever finds 
it out, or the deacon hears it, I shall tell no lie 
to shield you. An' it would grieve them good old 
men to the heart, to even dream that either you 
or I should go to a theatre." 

Says Josiah : " They'll never find it out. I'll 
go along with my head up in the air as if I 
wuzn't a-goin' anywhere; an' then, when I come 
to the door, I'll dodge in sudden." 

" Wal," says I, coolly, " take your own way ; 
I shan't help you any." 

Wal, he hadn't been gone more'n an hour, 
when he come back lookin' kinder meachin' an' 
kinder tickled, 'bout half-an'-half, or mebby 
there might have been a very little more tickle 
than there wuz meach. An' he said he managed 
jist as he said he should. He had dodged in 
sudden, an' jist as he dodged in, another man, 
who seemed jist as guilty an' 'fraid as he did, 
dodged in too; an' they came right up together, 
face to face, an' there it wuz the Deacon himself. 
I s'pose them two men felt as if they should 
sink. Josiah said the first thing he did, he says : 
"I wuz 'fraid I wuz goin' to have the nose-bleed, 
an' I thought I'd stop." An' he said the Deacon 
spoke up awful quick, an' says : "I wuz a-sort 



o' lookin' 'round the city, an' I kinder stopped 
here. My wife wanted me to look for some red 
woolen wrappers for her — a-U-wool." 

"Wal," says Josiah, " I guess my nose ain't 
a-goin' to bleed after all; an' I s'pose we may 
as well go on — " 

"Yes," says the Deacon, "of course. I'm all 
ready. Do you know how much good red woolen 
wrappers are — all-wool?" 

I have alius believed, to this day, that the 
Deacon did want the wrappers, and got into there 
by mistake ; but Josiah snickers at the idee. He 
says no man that wuz after all-wool wrappers 
would go a-dodgin' 'round in that way, even if 
he thought it wuz a store. "Can't pull that 
wool over my eyes," he says, try in' to joke, and 
laughin', a foolishness I didn't jine in. 

It wasn't till we left New York, that Josiah 
would believe I was right about where the Eco- 
nomical Council had been held ; but everybody 
told him ; and he had to believe 'em, though he 
hadn't believed me. 

Yes, I've seen mad men, an' disap'inrcd men; 
but I never see a madder or a disap'inteder than 
Josiah Allen, when they told him that the Eco- 
nomical Council had been held in London, an' 
not in New York village. 

"You can't blame me, Josiah," I remarked, 
"for I alius said, you know I did, that it wuz 
held in London, an' that Queen Victory, Albert's 
widder that is, presided, for they do say she's 
the most economical body of all." 

"Pshaw," says Josiah, ''that's only Jones- 
ville gossip." 

"That's what they say," says I. "I'm sure 
I don't know nothin'." 

"Wal, wal! keep on contradictin', will you?" 
he says. 

An' says I, mildly but firmly: "It wuz all 
right, for I couldn't have gone. I couldn't have 
been transported to England in a minute; an' 
without that I wouldn't have gone. I ain't a 
miracle, Josiah Allen." 

" Wal, wal ! who said you wuzf 



You kissed me ! My head dropped low on your breast, 
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest; 
While the holy emotions my tongne dare not speak 
Flashed up in a flame from my heart to my cheek. 
Your arms held me fast— oh, your arms were so bold ! 
Heart beat against heart in your passionate fold. 
Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes, 
As the sun draws the mist from the seas to the skies. 
Y r our lips clung to mine, till I prayed in my bliss, 
They might never unclasp from the rapturous kiss. 

You kissed me ! My heart and my breath and my will, 

In delirious joy, for a moment stood still. 

Life had for me then no temptation, no charms, 

No vision of happiness outside your arms. 

And were I this instant an angel, possessed 

; Of the peace and the joy that are given the blest, 
\ I would fling my white robe unrepentingly down, 
\ I would tear from my forehead its beautiful crown, 

To nestle once more in that haven of rest; 
\ Your lips upon mine, and my head on your breast. 

\ You kissed me ! My soul, in a bliss so divine, 
Reeled and swooned like a drunken man foolish with wine; 

\ And I thought 'twere delicious to die there, if death 

\ Would come while my lips were yet moist with your breath ; 

{ If my pulses would stop, if my heart might grow cold 
While your arms clasped me round in their passionate fold. 

\ And these are the questions I ask day and night: 

\ Must my lips taste no more such exquisite delight? 

\ Would you care if your breast were my shelter as then? 

5 And if you were here— would you kiss me again 



As on some night of winter storm, 

A spicy flow'r will bring 
The musky smell, the fragrance warm, 

Of gardens lush with Spring- 
So when you come, the Orient seems 

Before me with its spell ! 
Damascus with its groves and streams; 

Rebekah at the well ; 

The distant caravans that crawl 

Across the desert slow ; 
The palm-trees standing straight and tall 

Against the sunset glow ; 

The twilight plains ; the dusky heights ; 

The burning stars above — 
And all the purple passionate nights 

That throb with song and love ! 




The next morning, I descended early, before 
any of the family, I thought, would be up. To 
my surprise, I found my guardian waiting in the 
hall, and as I came down the broad stairs, he 
joined me. 

" I have been on the look-out for you, my 
child," he said. " I am afraid I frightened you 
with what I said, when we came in from our 
ride. I saw how distrait you looked at dinner ; 
and how you watched, first me, and then Norman 
De Lisle. Forget what I said. I don't know 
what came over me." 

"It was nothing," I stammered. "It didn't 
affect me — except for awhile. You see I don't 
look the least bit frightened. Do I?" And I 
smiled up at him with affected gayety. 

" You are as blooming as a rose, at any rate," 
he replied, after watching me for a moment, 
"and as plucky as Mahomet itself: that is, if I 
did alarm you. But come, forget it, as I said. 
In spite of Mrs. De Lisle, we'll have a gay time. 
I have written to invite some of the brightest 
people of Gotham here, and for the next six 
weeks the old house shall be given up to mer- 

" Oh, that will be delicious," I cried, clapping 
my hands in true girlish delight. 

" A lady," he went on to say, " who was very 
kind to me in Paris, once, when I was sick in a 
hotel, alone, has come out to America, on a visit : 
Mrs. La Croix ; and she brings her daughter, 
Eugenie, with her. I am very anxious to make 
their trip a pleasant one, as far as I can ; and so 
I bethought me, after we all parted, last night, 
that I would ask her here for awhile, and get a 
bright gay party to meet her." 

At the breakfast-table, however, when this 
announcement was made, Mrs. De Lisle looked 
severe, and would have objected, as I saw, if she 
had dared. Her son, after a surprised look at 
my guardian, amounting almost to a stare, 
resumed his meal in silence. I could not help 
again, as I had the night before, admiring his 
extraordinary beauty. He was, I thought, the 
handsomest man I had ever seen. A pure Greek 
profile ; eyes of a deep brilliant blue ; chestnut 
hair, that clustered about a forehead as white as 

5 a girl's ; and a beauty of feature that would have 

\ been almost feminine, but for the tall and pow- 

\ erful, yet lithe, frame that accompanied it. And 

J yet, with it all, there was something in his looks 

that made me shudder, as once I shuddered 

when I saw a man-eating tiger, pacing to and 

fro in his cage, yet keeping his eyes on me all 

the while, with a look that even now makes me 

I feel like faintfng, to recall. 

I " I wonder," I said to myself, " if that is what 

my guardian felt, when he warned me against 

( him. Or does he know anything evil of this 

\ leopard-like, Pagan-looking Apollo?" Then my 

j thoughts changed. Suddenly, I began to wonder 

| about those French friends of Mr. Rutherford's. 

i Why had he never mentioned them to me before ? 

A vague feeling of dislike, from that moment, 

sprang up in my heart towards • Eugenie La 


The next day but one she came. Eugenie La 

Croix was a beauty of the true Southern type, 

with long almond-shaped eyes ; curling lashes, 

j that swept a cheek whose red rivaled that of the 

most brilliant carmine ; a faint touch of languor 

in her manner ; and a bewitching softness in the 

j expression of her face : rendering her, when she 

\ thought it worth her while, one of the most fas- 

j cinating of women. There was a certain Je ne 

\ soit quoi about her, however, which confirmed me 

\ in my dislike toward her. She evidently cared 

| nothing for her own sex, reserving all her charm 

of conversation and manner for gentlemen. 

A certain patronizing manner, that she adopted 
toward me from the first, and a way she had of 
addressing me as a child, made me avoid her 
society as much as possible. She was apparently 
on the most intimate terms with Mr. Rutherford, 
claiming his escort, as if of course, in walks and 
drives, and in an innocent and beguiling way 
that made me almost hate her. It was unbear- 
able to me, at first, to see my place usurped by a 
stranger ; but as Mr. Rutherford made no effort 
to change the order of things, I finally affected 
an indifference I did not feel, and laughed, 
danced, and flirted with Norman De Lisle, in 
reckless disregard of any promise I had made. 
Oakwood was gay enough during the rest of 
the summer. A succession of visitors came and 




went. Every evening there was dancing, often 
until a late hour ; while picnics, rides, and 
drives innumerable filled up the days. 

One evening, there was a larger party than 
usual. In addition to our own guests, a Mrs. 
Coralie, who owned the country-seat next Oak- 
wood, had driven over with a party of friends. 
I was sitting in an alcove, waiting for Norman 
De Lisle, who had gone for an ice, and not far 
from me Eugenie La Croix stood, talking to my 
guardian. A faint, sick feeling came over me, 
as I watched him bending down to listen to this 
queenly brunette, who looked like some gorgeous 
tropical flower, in her black laces and brilliant 

" He has forgotten me entirely," I said to my- 
self. " He has not a single remembrance of that 
week when we were so happy. But never, never 
shall he know how much I cared." 

So, when Norman De Lisle came back, I 
chatted and laughed as gayly as if my heart was 
not breaking with wounded pride. Accepting 
his arm, we strolled out on the avenue, and 
remained there for more than an hour. When 
we returned, I looked around for Mr. Ruther- 
ford. But neither he nor Miss La Croix were 
anywhere to be seen. 

Time passed. The summer was drawing to a 
close. The guests at Oakwood were planning 
something new and original for the last week of 
their stay. All were talking of it one morning 
at breakfast, and everyone had given his or her 
opinion, save Miss La Croix. 

" And what says ma belle ?" asked Mr. Ruther- 
ford, turning to her. 

"The most delightful of entertainments," she 
answered, " would be a moonlight masquerade in 
the rose-garden. A dancer's pavilion could be 
erected near the centre, with various little arbors 
for the refreshments : you should have a band 
of music, of course ; let there be no unmasking, 
but let the guests depart as secretly as they 
came. So, having done everything under the 
rose, we can call it a rose carnival." 

"Capital, capital!" said a dozen voices. 
"What a witty conceit!" even cried one, though 
I thought it very poor wit indeed. Forthwith, 
however, costumes were discussed vigorously, 
while my guardian and Miss La Croix began 
making out a list of the invitations. 

I sat toying with my teaspoon, feeling more 
than dispirited, almost angry. Who was this 
woman that took it as of course to arrange things 
at Oakwood? Oh, how I wished I could go 
away. One of the ladies asking me what costume 
I had chosen, finally called back my wandering 

" Mariana of the Moated Grange, judging by 
her disconsolate air," said Miss La Croix, super- 
ciliously looking at me with, as 1 fancied, a sneer. 

" There is no lover, so you see Mariana is an 
impossibility," I answered, essaying to be calm. 

"No lover? Do I hear aright?" cried Mr. 
Russel, one of the handsomest of the guests. 
" And she does not even blush when she avows 
it. Ye gods ! She shall own the want no longer. 
Here, on this spot, I swear fealty to her," and 
putting his hand on his heart, he dropped on one 
knee before me, in so ludicrous an attitude that 
all burst into laughter. 

In the same gay spirit, for I was reckless, I 
accepted his vows, and we exchanged rings, amid 
the badinage of the company. Norman De Lisle 
looked on with frowning brow ; but Mr. Ruther- 
ford never raised his head ; he seemed entirely 
absorbed in Miss La Croix. At last, I could bear 
it no longer, and, rising, proposed a game of 
croquet. Half a dozen followed Mr. Russel and 
myself out to the lawn. But after one game, 
I resigned my mallet, and returned to the house. 
Half way across the hall, I met my guardian. 

" What is the matter, Elsie? You look pale," 
he said, stopping me as I was passing him hur- 

"Nothing, thank you. I am perfectly well," 
I replied, coldly. 

" Put on your habit, and see if a gallop won't 
restore you," he said, looking down at me in the 
old way. 

I should, in all probability, have done as he 
said, if Miss La Croix had not made her appear- 
ance, just then, on the stairway, in full riding- 
costume. If she was to go, I would not. 

" I don't feel in the huntor for riding, thanks 
all the same," I said, and passed on up the stair- 
way, never looking at Eugenie La Croix, as she 
brushed past me. 

A few minutes after, I heard the clatter of 
horses' hoofs on the avenue. Then I indulged in 
a good cry, and made a firm resolve to leave Oak- 
wood the very day the month expired. 

''But I will be as gay as the gaye6t, mean- 
time," I sobbed. " No one, shall know how mis- 
erable I am." 

That night we were all going to a musicale at 
Mrs. Coralie's. It was to be a full-dress affair; 
and I resolved to call in all the arts of the toilet, 
to enable me to outshine Eugenie La Croix, if 
possible: at least, to show her and others that I 
could be beautiful, too. 


I scarcely knew myself when my toilette was 
concluded. Ordinarily, I did not care much for 



dress, and generally wore white. I had heard 
Mr. Rutherford say he preferred it, and uncon- 
sciously it influenced me. So, up to this evening, 
I had not cared to wear the two or three evening- 
dresses which had been ordered from the city 
for me. 

My gown was a blue silk, cut away from the 
neck and arms, and edged with a delicate frost- 
work of lace. A long train, which made me 
appear two inches taller ; a necklace of pearls ; 
drops of the same in my ears; an aigrette con- 
fining my curls : these completed my costume. 

When I descended to the hall, I found the 
whole party assembled and waiting. Mr. Ruther- 
ford and Norman De Lisle both stepped forward, 
as I appeared, Norman reaching me first. 

" May I drive you over to Mrs. Coralie's, Miss 
Graeme?" he asked, eagerly. 

" There is a seat for you in my phaeton, Elsie," 
said my guardian, a moment after. 

What should I do? For an instant, I hesi- 
tated ; then bowing coldly to Mr. Rutherford, I 
turned to Norman De Lisle, and accepted his 
offer. Mr. Rutherford turned away, without a 

" How fearful I was that you might feel your- 
«elf bound to accept my uncle's offer," said Nor- 
man De Lisle, as we rolled down the avenue. 

" Bound?" I repeated, scornfully. 

" Well, not exactly bound. But I feared you 
thought it your duty. Mr. Rutherford, as you 
may perceive, does not bear me any good-will." 

** But what difference should that make in my 
treatment of you?" 

11 Oh, you know we always seek to mollify the 
higher powers," he returned, with a half laugh. 

" That is not my creed," I responded, coldly ; 
and then changed the subject. 

How I danced and flirted that night. Never 
had I been gayer, yet never had I been more 
wretched. Occasionally I caught my guardian's 
eye fixed upon me in displeasure, doubtless at 
the reckless way in which I was behaving. 

Near the close of the evening, Norman De Lisle 
came up to me. " How would you like to leave j 
here before the rest," he whispered, "and go 
home by the Witches' Well? It is only three 
miles further, and you have no idea how roman- : 
tic it is there in the moonlight." 

"It would be delightful," I cried, reckless 
what I did. "But have we time?" I added, 
doubtfully, after a moment. 

" Plenty. Slip upstairs and get your hat and 
cloak. I will have the horse at the gate by the 
time you are ready." 

For an instant, even then, I wavered. But 
looking around, I saw Eugenie La Croix and my 

Vol. LXXXIII.— 31. 

guardian together; her eyes were cast down, 
the long lashes sweeping the perfect oval of her 
cheek ; while Mr. Rutherford, I fancied, was 
regarding her with all the devotion of an accepted 
lover. I grew more reckless than ever at the 
sight. "Yes, I will go," I said to myself. " What 
if people do talk ? What if my guardian is angry ? 
I care little now what becomes of me." Thinking 
thus, I turned to Norman and said : " Yes, I will 
go;" and ten minutes later, we were riding in 
the direction of the Witches' Weil. 

The Witches' Well was an odd, wild sort of a 
place. The road to it led through a wood for 
some distance, when suddenly, without warning, 
one came upon an open 3pace, partly natural, and 
partly artificial. In the centre was a great rock, 
that seemed as if it had been hurled there for the 
express purpose of protecting the cool waters that 
gushed from beneath its shadow. The moonlight 
fell on the broad space, making it as light as day; 
while the tall trees seemed so many dark sentinels 
guarding the Spirit of the Spring. 

" Did you ever hear the legend attached to the • 
well?" said my companion, as he lifted me from 
the carriage ; and we turned our steps towards 
the huge rock. 

" Never. What is it?" I inquired. 

" The fable goes, that when two lovers drink' 
of its mystic waters at the witching hour of 
midnight, a spell binds them together forever, 
through weal or through woe." 

" How delightful ! I wonder if anyone has 
ever tried it?" I said, carelessly dipping my 
hand to and fro in the water that bubbled up in 
the moonlight. 

" Let us try the charm ; it is just twelve," he 
said, looking at his watch as he spoke. He took 
the cup from the shelf, dipped it full of water; 
and held it out to me. 

But I shrank back. This was becoming too > 

"No! I have no fancy for being bound," I 
cried, "I am too happy to be free." I spoke 
laughingly, but turned away from the cup. 

" But would it not be happiness to be bound to 
one who loves you, Elsie?" he said, in his 
lowest, softest tones. 

" Not if I, on my part, did not share his love," 
I responded, resolutely shaking my head. 

" Then love me, Elsie ; for I love you. I love 
you better than anyone else in the world." His 
voice was dangerously soft and sweet. The 
glamor of the hour began to take hold of me. 
The one I loved cared for another. Why should 
I not grasp the happiness that was within my 
reach ? A moment I hesitated. Then truth won; 
the day. 



" I cannot, for I have no love to give," I said, 

"No love? When I lay my heart at your 
feet?" His voice was husky with emotion. 

I shook my head sadly, but more resolutely 
than ever. 

"Then you love that black-browed uncle of 
mine," he cried, his whole manner changing. 
M You have only been playing with me. You do 
not deny it. But," sneeringly, "I happen to 
know that my uncle proposed to Miss La Croix, 
yesterday, and was accepted." 

" How dare you speak in that way to me?" I 
said, haughtily. 

" You need not turn away. I swear you shall 
marry me," with an oath I dare not repeat. " If 
I cannot have you by fair means, I will have you 
by foul." And he seized my wrists and held 
them in a grasp of steel. 

" Are you ready to go home, Elsie?" said a 
voice, coolly, at this crisis, behind me. 

Norman De Lisle dropped my wrists, at the 
sound, and we both turned. 

There stood my guardian. An angel from 
heaven could not have been more welcome to me. 

" I have a horse here you can take, Norman," 
he said; "and as for Elsie, I will assume the 
charge of her." 

With a muttered curse Norman De Lisle turned 
on his heel. I followed my guardian — oh, with 
what a glad heart. 

The drive home was very silent. I longed to 
know how much Mr. Rutherford had heard, but 
dared not ask him, his face was so stern and 
dark. When he parted from me it was without 
a good-night. 

I knew then that I had not been forgiven. Ah ! 
how different it all was from the gay ride, two j 

possibly be, when the night of the rose carnival 
came round ? 

short months ago. Then I was as light-hearted \ 
and joyous as a child ; now, my guardian and I I 
were as strangers to each other. 

I spent half the night in tears, and was con- \ 
fined to my bed next day with a nervous head- < 
ache. When I was able to go downstairs again, 
I heard Norman De Lisle had gone. He gave 
Adele a note for me, which I burned without 
opening, thankful to see him no more. 

There was much laughing badinage, when I 


It was after seven o'clock, indeed fast ap- 
proaching eight, and Adele was putting the 
finishing touches to my toilette. I had chosen 
the character of Perdita, taking the picture in 
Mr. Rutherford's studio for my model. I wore a 
dress of silver gauze, cut away from the neck 
and arms, with a blue girdle about the waist; a 
delicate wreath of rosebuds confined my curls ; 
my breast-knot was of the same ; and a garland 
of delicate white flowers fell a little below my 
waist, on the left side. 

"You look as if you had just stepped out of 
the picture, miss. If there was only someone to 
take the other, now," said Adele, as she fastened 
a knot of flowers on my crook, and surveyed me 

" No likelihood of that," I said, as I wrapped 
myself in a long cloak, and left, the house by a 
back staircase, gaining the entrance to the rose- 
garden unobserved. 

It had taken so long to arrange the flowers, 
that I was a little late, and the garden was 
already pretty well filled, when I arrived. 
A brilliant calcium light flashed from the 
dancers' pavilion, rendering everything nearly 
as light as day ; while myriads of colored lights, 
beside, shone everywhere ; looking like great 
fireflies, amid the dark-green of the shrubbery. 
The fantastic figures moving to and fro; the 
sweet strains of the orchestra ; the perfume of 
the flowers : made it seem like a chapter out of 
the Arabian Nights. I stood transfixed with 
delight. It was all so like a dream. 

Suddenly a voice spoke, beside me : 

" ' These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
Do give a life : no shepherdess ; but Flora. 
This, your carnival, is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
And you the queen on't \" 
I turned quickly. A mask, in the costume of 
the Florizel in the picture, bowed low before me. 
For an instant I was taken aback, then recol- 
lecting myself, I said : 

I Sir, my gracious lord, 
To chide at your extremes, it not becomes me.' 

made my appearance, about Norman De Lisle' s \ Come, take your flowers," and selecting, as I 
absence. Everyone knew that something had i spoke, a cluster of tea-rose buds from those on 
occurred the night of my foolish escapade, and j m y crook, I held them out to him. 

most believed it to be an engagement. The note 
Norman had taken care to leave for me, so pub- j 
licly, confirmed this suspicion. But Mr. Ruther- \ 
ford never noticed the matter, or even me. He 
was seemingly absorbed with Eugenie La Croix. \ 
Need I say that I was as wretched as I could \ 

1 When you speak, sweet, 

I'd hare you do it ever : when you do dance, I wish you 
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
Nothing but that. Each your doing 
So singular in each particular, 
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 
That all your acts are queens'," 



sighed forth Florizel, as he fastened my blossoms 

on his crook. 

■ ' Oh, Doricles, 

Your praises are too large. I would be 
Wooed with wisdom rather than flattery '," 

I returned, determined not to be outdone in quo- 
tations, and only wondering who he was, and 
how it happened that his costume corresuonded 
with mine so exactly. 

■ ' I think you have 

As little skill to fear, as I have purpose to put you to't V 

My reply was prevented by a flourish of trum- 
pets, from two heralds in rose-colored uniform, 
who ran past, crying " Make way for the Queen 
of Flowers." Five or six young girls, in rose- 
colored gauze, singing and scattering flowers as 
they went, preceded alow gilt and white chariot, 
drawn. by four milk-white goats. In the centre 
of this chariot stood a queenly Flora, her costume 
of rose-color and silver gauze completely covered 
with garlands of roses ; a chaplet of the same 
confined her flowing jetty tresses ; and in her 
hand' she held a cornucopia, from which she 
scattered flowers as she passed. A guard of 
honor, composed of five or six gentlemen, in the 
garb of Greek warriors, surrounded the chariot. 
I was certain, from the majestic form, that this 
clever chef c?' oeuvre was none other than Eugenie 
La Croix ; and I looked eagerly among the Greek 
warriors for my guardian, who I was certain 
would be near her. 

" What do your eyes seek, fair Perdita?" said 
the mask at my side, who seemed to be watching 
my every movement. 

"A mate for the Queen of Flowers," I an- 

"That would be mine host; 'tis said he bows 
oftenest at fair Flora's shrine." 

"'Tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis, 'tis true," 
I said, half unconsciously. 

"Dost pity both, or one alone?" asked the 

"That is a riddle for you to solve, mask," I 

" Then it must be our black-browed host, with 
his grim ways ; for surely one would envy, rather 
than pity, a being so bright and beautiful as yon 
Queen of Flowers." 

"Mr. Rutherford is not black-browed; and 
his ways are not grim," I said. "They are only 
real : and I would far rather deal with him than 
Eugenie La Croix's smooth tongue, with no heart 
to back it." I spoke indignantly, forgetting, for 
an instant, where I was. 

"Oho! I thought you had neither eyes nor 
ears for anyone beside that pretty Apollo, 
Norman Be Lisle, whom report says is to marry 

Mr. Rutherford's ward, thereby securing her 
fortune of a hundred thousand for his own uses, 
which, let me whisper in your ear, are various, 
and will cot all bear the light of day." 

" Report speaks wrong for once. Norman De 
Lisle is nothing to me, and never will be," I re- 
turned, hotly. 

A page approached my companion, at this 
instant, and placed a slip of paper in his hand, 
uttering the word "immediate," in a low tone. 

With a murmured "pardon," the mask drew 
near to a lamp, a little distance away. The con- 
tents of the note seemed to agitate him extremely. 
After a hurried question to the page, in so low a 
tone that I could distinguish neither question 
nor reply, he bowed profoundly to me, and disap- 
peared in the crowd. 

I watched him as far as I could see. Who 
was he, and what did he mean by his last re- 
mark? These were questions I asked myself 
over and over again. That he knew me was 
evident, and the more I thought over what, had 
passed, the more convinced I was that he had a 
secret purpose in what he had said. 

Tired at length with puzzling over it, I wan- 
dered to the other side of the garden. I was 
lonely and sad, and fairly loathed the gay scene 
before me. Almost unconsciously I stopped 
before the dog-rose. I was thinking over all 
that had passed since my arrival at Oakwood, 
and especially of the strange mystery that had 
met me at the very outset, and of which no one 
could tell me anything, when I was startled by 
a quick rush of footsteps down the laurel walk, 
and a man darted out from under the dog-rose 
and rushed into the crowd. 

He was wrapped in a Spanish cloak, and his 
face was entirely concealed by a large cavalier 
hat; but a certain peculiarity of height and gait 
made me think of Norman De Lisle. What was 
he doing in that forbidden spot ? And why did 
he seem in such haste ? Guilty haste, it almost 
seemed to me. 

Yielding to an impulse I could not define, I put 
aside the flowery screen, and hurried on toward 
the maze as if in search of something I dreaded, 
yet expected, to find. But the maze looked quiet 
enough in the white moonlight, the laurel assum- 
j ing grotesque forms in the uncertain radiance. 
More than once I started at some fancied shadow. 
At last I was on the point of turning back, when, 
as I passed a thick clump of laurel, I was startled 
by a low moan. My heart almost stood still as I 
stopped to listen. Again I heard it. Quick as 
thought I parted the bushes, and there, in a heap, 
as if she had been thrust away for concealment, 
lay the Spirit of Laurel Walk. 




Real enough was the drooping head I raised on 
my arm, and real enough the long flowing hair I 
put aside from the face and bosom, shuddering as 
I felt the tresses wet and sticky in my grasp. In- 
voluntarily I held out my hand in the moonlight. 
It was covered with a dark stain. With a horri- I 
ble dread I placed my hand on her breast. The 

With a low moan of anguish Mrs. De Lisle 
flung herself by the side of the couch. It was 
a strange midnight scene. The dimly-lighted 
chamber, with its heavy old-fashioned furniture 
and faded crimson hangings ; the slight form on 
the bed, with its blood-stained robe and long 
black hair sweeping the floor; the weeping 
woman by the bedside ; and my guardian's tall 

muslin of her dress was dripping with the life- [ figure, his face sterner and darker by contrast 
blood that was ebbing from a wound there. 

I shivered. What should I do? She might 
die there in my arms before help would reach us. 
As if in answer to my voiceless prayer, the echo 
of approaching footsteps smote my ear; and 
regardless of consequences I raised my voice and 

with the festive costume he still wove. 

I felt as if I had no right to intrude my 
presence on their grief, so I slipped noiselessly 
from the room. 

I stopped for an instant in the arched door- 
way. Afar off, I could catch the faint sweet 

called. A minute passed which seemed an hour, 1; strains of the orchestra. A step on the stairway 

and then the mask who had left me in the rose- 
garden stood before me. 

" Help ! She is wounded, dying," I gasped. 

With an exclamation of horror, the mask was 
dashed to the ground, revealing, to my amaze- 
ment, the face of Mr. Rutherford. 

11 My poor Irene, who could have harmed 
thee?" he cried, stooping over the inanimate 
form. " God help us ! Has it come to this, that 
you are to die by a murderer's hand ?" 

There was a slight quiver of the eyelids ; the 
glorious dark eyes opened once more ; the lips 
essayed to speak, but failed ; then all was over. 

My guardian's tears fell like rain as he pressed 
his lips to the pale brow. 

After a few moments he raised his face, white 

overtook me. It was Mr. Rutherford. 

" My poor child," he said, as he came up, M this 
has been a sad sight for you. Forget, if you can, 
the dark shadow which rests on Oakwood." 

I could not speak, but laid my hand on his in 
mute sympathy. 

" I know," he said, after a little, " I know we 
can trust you to keep the secret of my poor 
sister's death. As the last twelve years of her 
life were spent, so must her death be, both buried 
in utter oblivion." 

"And the murderer?" I exclaimed. 

" Is only too well known to me, I fear," and 
he showed me a stiletto, delicate as a lady's toy, 
which I recognized at once. I uttered an ex- 
clamation of horror. How often had I seen the 

and set, in the moonlight, and with the words weapon in Norman De Lisle's hand. 

"follow me," lifted the slight form in his arms "It was entangled in the folds of her dress, 

and walked'swiftly through the maze. * where it had been dropped in haste." 

I guessed where he was going, and was not \ I shivered, 
surprised when I found myself passing once \ "You tremble," said Mr. Rutherford. "No 
more through the arched doorway, up the narrow \ wonder. You should never have come to this 
stairway, into the picture-gallery. I followed ill-fated house. Here nothing thrives but sorrow, 
his rapid footsteps to the same place where the crime, and death. I would have made it different, 
shadowy form that now lay so quiet in his arms, \ But it is over now. A cloud blacker than night 
had shaken back her flowing hair and vanished j has enclosed it forever. Go. Leave us. Fly 
from my bewildered sight. away as for as you can. Otherwise it will Wast 

Touching a concealed spring, the portrait of your young life as it did mine. Go, go," he 
« Irene, youngest daughter of Neale Rutherford," repeated, almost fiercely. 

" But I do not want, to go," I said, placing my 
hand softly in his. " I am not afraid of the cloud. 
It will pass away. You will be happy yet." 
" Oh ! my darling, my darling, would I dared 
re | think so. How I have longed to tell you how I 
\ loved you, but dared not ; it was not right. Oh ! 
[t was Mrs. De Lisle, her usu- I would give worlds to win yours in return " 
ally impassive face drawn and gray with anxiety. { " You need not win it ; it is yours already, I 

"I have found her, but only to lose her. \ whispered, drawing close to him 
Some fiend has taken the wrecked life that Gad \ "This once, only this once. She will leave 
alone had a right to end," said Mr. Rutherford, [ me when she knows all," he muttered, as he 
as he laid his burden gently on the bed. I wound his arms about me. 

swung back on concealed hinges, revealing a 
narrow opening, through which we passed into 
a large square room, lighted by a single lamp. 

"Have you found her?" asked a voice from 
the far end of the room; and a tall 
sta^ered rather than walked forward, supported 



The tragedy just enacted, the mystery of the 
place, the silent form above us, were all forgotten. 
I only realized that my guardian loved me; that 
his arms were around me ; that his lips met mine. 

" It will not last. I ought not to accept the 
sacrifice," he said, directly, and raised his head, j 
looking mournfully down into my eyes. ] 

" In perfect love is perfect trust," I whispered. | 
And for answer he kissed me again and again, as 
if he would never let me go. 

Of course the ordinary guests knew nothing 
of this tragedy,, as most of them had already 
left when it occurred. It was even kept from 
Eugenie La Croix and her mother, with the other 
guests in the house, who were told the next 
morning that Mrs. De Lisle had been taken 
suddenly ill, which was true. The hint was 
enough ; they packed their trunks and were all 
gone before the dinner-hour. 

Adele had brought a note to me early in the 
morning, from Mr. Rutherford, saying that this 
was the excuse he intended to make for " speed- 
ing the departing guests;" but that he, person- 
ally, could not be present, as he had taken the 
first train- to New York, on imperative business, 
and would not return before night- fall. " Would 
I, as his and Mrs. De Lisle' s representative, 
bid good-bye to the visitors?" he said. 

I must confess I rather enjoyed Eugenie La 
Croix's contemptuous stare as I made my aunt's 
excuses. In my superlative happiness in the ; 
knowledge that I had won where she had lost, I ; 
could forgive her patronizing tone, as she bade 
me farewell. 

Before the night fell, the last of the guests 
had gone, and Oakwood was once more silent : 
silent now with the gray shadow of death. My 
guardian had said in his note that the funeral 
would take place at midnight, and at that hour 
a low knock came to my door, from Mr. Ruther- 
ford. I opened softly, and went out to him, and 
in a few moments the quiet obsequies were over. 
Still keeping hold of my hand, my guardian 
led me from the cemetery to the rose-garden ; 
and there, with the stars looking down on us, 
told me how that fair young life had been 


" I will tell you here, where everything speaks 
to me of her," he began, " the story of her sad 
life; and that story will explain why I have 

"At sixteen, my sister Irene was one of the 
fairest flowers God ever made. Talented, win- 
ning in manners, light-hearted, overflowing in 
spirits; everyone predicted a joyous future for 
her. She was our darling, our sunbeam; my 
father lived for her entirely. 

"Jane, that is, Mrs. De Lisle, as you know, 
idolized her. She was ten years the elder, and 
strove in every way to fill a mother's place te 
Irene. To me she was a delicate flower, to be 
shielded from all ills. Alas ! alas !" 

He stopped for a moment, overcome with his 

"Her greatest desire," he went on, "was te 
finish her studies abroad. Accordingly, she was 
sent to the south of France, where she remained 
three years. In the meanwhile, Jane was wooed 
and won by Norman De Lisle, a Frenchman, 
highly cultivated, with exquisite manners, but a 
man I never liked. He was as handsome as a 
Greek statue. Norman is like him, so you know 
how he looked. They were married in the 
spring, and as I was to graduate in the fall, it 
was decided to defer the bridal trip until then, 
when we could all go abroad together. 

" We were growing, meantime, anxious about 
Irene. Her letters had changed of late : they 
were constrained and cold ; they had no longer 
the charm of our playful Irene. In connection 
with this, I afterwards recalled the fact, that, 
from the first, De Lisle had not favored the trip 
to Europe. But Jane's mind was made up ; and 
so, finally, we all went. 

" Owing to some delays on the road, we did not 
see Irene until the day she graduated. It was in 
the crowded hall of the school-room that we first 
saw our darling. That pale hollow-cheeked 
creature: could that be our bright beautiful 
Irene ? She did not seem to see us, or take any 
interest in what was passing, keeping her eyes 
steadily fixed on the floor. 

" De Lisle had not gone with us to the school. 
Business had detained him ; he would join us 
later, he told us. The exercises were half over, 
when he presented himself. The noise made by 
his entrance caused Irene to raise her eyes for 
the first time. They opened wide with aston- 
ishment and horror, and with a shriek she fell 
senseless to the floor. 

" I dashed forward to raise her ; but as I passed 
De Lisle, I caught sight of his face. It was like 
that of a dead man. Like a flash, it rushed 

always considered that there was an impassable j across me, that, in some way or other, he was 
barrier between me and your love. This very connected with Irene's swoon, 
garden was laid out under her direction; she " For four long hours, Irene lay in a death-like 
selected everyone of these roses herself; the stupor, and when she recovered consciousness, it 
laurel walk and maze were fashioned for her. \ was to look vacantly around, with a low mocking 



laugh, that curdled the blood to hear, 
of reason had fled forever. 

*,' No one, meantime, was able to tell us the 
cause. Her teachers attributed it to hard study. 
When her spirits failed, awhile before, they 
thought it homesickness, and had paid but little 

The light \ beautifully-furnished rooms prepared for our 
darling were closed up, and no one ever went 
into them but my sister and Haslitt. As I said 
before. Irene was perfectly harmless, fleeing from 
the approach of strangers. She loved to wander 
in the maze and laurel walk, where Jane gener- 

attention to it. But one day, Jane was writing ally took her at twilight, thereby giving rise to 
to her husband ; for De Lisle had left for Italy, \ the story of the ghost, which served our purpose 
the very day Irene was taken sick, on sudden exactly. The fear of apparitions had no effect on 
business, as he told his wife. Accidentally, she you, we found, when you came : so we were 
let the writing-desk fall. It was one that had obliged to keep Irene, after that, more closely 
belonged to Irene. A spring of a secret door \ confined. Twice she eluded us, when Haslitt 
broke° a package of letters fell out, and then a | had charge of her. Once, on the night I came 
photograph of Norman De Lisle. When I came home: the other, last night, that of her death, 
back from a walk, I found my sister in a dead "My father never recovered from the blow, 
faint, on the floor, the proofs of her husband's \ but died within the year, exacting a promise 
villainy scattered about her. from me never to marry while Irene lived. Jane 

« Irene had met De Lisle at the house of a changed from a bright merry girl into the stern 
friend, where she was spending her vacations. j religieuse you have seen, devoted to Irene, her 

This was before De Lisle came to America, and 
met my elder sister. Under the assumed name 
of Rothermel, he persuaded her into a secret 
marriage, which was only a pretended one. 
Tiring, soon, of his pretty toy, and obliged to 
leave the country, owing to his debts, he wrote 
Irene a heartless letter, telling of the mock mar- 
riage, and sailed for America. 

"Here he met the elder sister. Jane was 
heiress to a large fortune, left her by an aunt. 
Attracted by this wealth, he paid court to her, 
and won her, too. It was a daring game, but 
succeeded for a time. He got the control of the 
property, and had already spent a considerable 
portion of it, most of it in gambling, when we 

child, and her church. 

" De Lisle, in the meantime, had made his 
escape secure. I searched far and wide for him ; 
for I had made a vow, if I met him, never to part 
from him alive. At last I found him. It was on 
a steamer, just sailing from Alexandria. I had 
dogged him to it, and went on board at the very 
moment the plank was being pulled in. He 
knew me at once, and the errand on which I had 
come. I can see him before me now, with his 
white terrified face." 

My guardian paused, for a moment, And then 
added, solemnly : 

" Thank God, I was spared being a murderer. 
He had been standing by the gangway, Mid at 
went abroad. Why he consented, even after all our \ sight of me started back, fell overboard, and was 
urgency, to go to the place where he knew Irene drowned. God had avenged us Himself. From 
wa°s, I cannot imagine : a fatality, I suppose, drew that day to this, I have never forgotten the ter- 
him to the spot; or, perhaps, he hoped that rified look in that man's eyes. 
Irene, for her own sake, would remain silent, | "Now, my darling," he said, after a pause, 
"In this he did not wholly miscalculate. \ " you know all the horrid tale, and I cannot 
Irene had kept her marriage such a profound blame you if you shrink from me and mine—" 
secret, that no one knew of the terrible disgrace. " Whither thou goest, I will go," I answered, 
Nor, but for the discovery of the letters, would interrupting him. " Where thou lodgest, I will 
we/ perhaps, have ever heard of it. We left the lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy 
place, taking Irene with us to Germany, where God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and 
we consulted the most eminent physicians. But there will I be buried : the Lord do so to me, 
it was all to no purpose. At last we decided to \ and more also, if aught but death part thee and 
return home. s me - 

« Irene was perfectly harmless, never speaking \ "Thank God," said my guardian, as ^ he 
a word; only wringing her hands, as you saw \ clasped me in his arms. "Oh! thank God." 
her, and occasionally uttering a low moan. We j For a long time we were silent. Then, raising 
loft the steamer at night, and reached Oakwood j my head, I said : " I know, now, why you went 
by a nio-ht train, unknown to anyone but Haslitt, j to New York ; it was in pursuit of Norman." 
our faithful old butler, who had dispatched the "Yes, I got a detective at once, and soon 
servants on various errands from the house, tracked him. Showing him the stiletto, I 
leaving the way open for what I had planned. \ charged him with the murder of Irene. Taken 
« For I gave out that Irene was dead. The \ by surprise, ho confessed the crime, alleging ho 

c'e n est fait. 


had been driven to it by want of money. He 
knew nothing of the conduct of his father ; but 
he was aware that Irene had money, and fancied 
that it would revert to his mother, in case of her 
death. You see the father's character was his to 
the full. A skeleton-key was fitted to the door ; 
it was unlocked ; and Irene, ever on the watch, 
walked blindly into the trap laid for her. When 
she was safely in the maze, he stabbed her, and 
concealed the body, thinking no one would sus- 
pect him. He was unconscious of the loss of the 
stiletto, until he was in New York. For his 
mother's sake I spared him, and must continue 
to spare him; but it is on the condition he leaves 
the country, never to return. My sister has no 
idea of his crime. It would kill her to know it." 

"Oh, my love," he broke forth, after a 
moment, " how can I tell you what I endured, 
when I thought you loved this cold-blooded 
gambler, who was so like his father. Again I 
beheld a fair young life ruined ; though then I 
hardly imagined Norman De Lisle would be a 
murderer. His mother's fortune is gone entirely, 
lost at the gaming-table ; she has nothing beyond 
the annuity I give her." 

"I thought you loved Eugenie La Croix," I 
said. "Norman De Lisle told me you were 
engaged to her." 

"The villain, the double-dyed villain," said 
my guardian, and he clasped me closer to him. 
" I little thought," he went on, " that the slight 
young girl whom I met in the park, the day of 
my return, would be the guiding-star of my ex- 
istence. The indignant way you spoke of me 
first moved me to see if I could not make you 
like me. You know what followed. At the 
beginning, I enjoyed your society, as I would 
that of a bright intelligent child, amusing myself 
by gratifying every fancy and whim that seized 

you, and enjoying life with a zest I had not 
known for years. But all this time, I never 
thought of falling in love with you. My first 
awakening was an intense jealousy of Norman 
De Lisle. Then the recollection of our seemingly 
doomed family, and of my vow never to marry 
while Irene lived, rushed over me with over- 
whelming force. I treated you as indifferently 
as I could, devoting myself to Eugenie La Croix. 
Yet I could not let you fall a victim to Norman 
De Lisle. I must, I said to myself, prevent that. 

" When you left Mrs. Coralie's with him, that 
night, I was afraid he might persuade you into 
an elopement. Mr. Russel, who overheard the 
conversation, told me where you had gone. I 
followed. When I saw him holding your hands 
in his, my heart died within me. There was 
nothing for me to do but to put a bold face on the 
matter, and carry you off; hence the abruptness 
with which I burst in. 

" Before Norman left, the next day, he told me 
that you returned his love, and had promised to 
marry him. I told him I could never, as your 
guardian, consent to it, and forbade him the 
house, at least while you were in it. The night 
of the carnival, I determined to warn you of your 
danger. From Adele I forced the secret of your 
costume. The rest you know." 

The red sun was rising over the distant hills 
before this recital was finished. 

** After the night comes the morning," I said, 
pointing to the rosy light that was rising, and 
broadening, and deepening in the sky. 

"Amen!" answered my guardian, and he 
looked at the sky, and then stooped and kissed 
me reverently. " Please God, our future life 

shall be as bright as that." 

It was now my turn to say " Amen. M 
it with tears in my eyes. 

I said 



I love thee, dear, come back to me, 
My weary heart cries out for thee, 
To see thy soft eyes radiant shine 
With their old lovelight, rare, divine; 
Aud hear thy lips so tenderly 
Speak low and lovingly to me— 
My heart it cries with bitter pain, 
For that will ne'er occur again. 

The blossoms, beautiful and sweet, 
That you so often brought to greet 
Me, with their beauty and perfumes, 
White roses, lilies, orange-blooms, 

And pansies, with their hearts of gold ; 
The bliss they gave is all untold. 
Why brought you not to me the while, 
One lotus of the far-off Nile ? 

That I might eat it and forget 
My loss of thee, the toil, the fret, 
The cares of life; for I would cast 
The memory of the far-off past 
Away ; for naught can bring to me 
Thee, with thy voice of melody — 

God above, aloue can know 

1 loved you so, I loved you so I 



The two young men were standing at their 
easels in the large and rather bare studio, which 
they shared together, in the artist-favored town 
of Munich. 

"Wolfgang Verner, the younger of the pair, a 
handsome, dreamy-eyed fellow of six and twen- 
ty, was deeply absorbed in his work, perhaps 
spurred on by the consciousness that the winter 
was passing rapidly, and that during the later 
weeks his efforts had been more spasmodic and 
broken than was wise or right. His companion 
had laid down his palette and mahl-stick, and 
with his hands in his pockets, was regarding his 
newly-finished picture through the clouds of 
Bmoke emitted from his meerschaum. Sometimes 
he nodded his head in a satisfied fashion as he 
studied the details of his landscape, bit by bit ; 
sometimes he frowned, waving a finger threaten- 
ingly at certain portions as if inclined even yet 
to pick up his brushes and paint them out. At 
length, however, the smile which curled his lip 
under its long drooping mustache showed that he 
had decided to follow the advice of the old proverb, 
and "leave well enough alone." The smile was 
rather. sarcastic, though, as if he were mocking his 
own self-complacency ; but then, most people 
thought that Gilbert Bradley mocked at every- 
thing ; and he certainly did, at many things. 

With far less regular features than his notice- 
ably handsome friend, his face was very strik- 
ing : full of talent and energy ; though in addition 
to that ironical smile, the dark eyes had a pierc- 
ing keenness which was not always agreeable. 
Often it seemed as if he were looking straight- 
through one ; and there are few persons who like 
to feel they are undergoing that operation. He 
was better-hearted, however, than he looked. 
He had reached thirty-one now; had acquired 
considerable reputation in his native land, 
America; and was held in high estimation among 
the art circles of Munich. 

He had come back, late in the autumn, to the 
Bavarian capital, after an absence of more than 
a twelvemonth, and had joined Verner in his 
studio, an acceptable arrangement for both their 
slender purses. People considered them intimate 
friends ; but handsome Wolfgang often felt that 
the intimacy consisted in Bradley's knowing 
him thoroughly ; and deeply as he enjoyed his 
society and esteemed him as an artist and a man, 

there were moments when he was puzzled to 
decide whether he liked or detested his com- 
panion. He was romantic and enthusiastic, and 
Bradley laughed harshly at both qualities- — 
laughed too at generosity, and even friendship- 

Yet Wolfgang knew from personal experience 
that his friend could be kind ; for their acquaint- 
ance had begun two years before, in Switzerland, 
by Bradley's nursing him, then a stranger, 
through a fever. 

"I say," exclaimed Brndley, suddenly, as ho 
turned away from the easel and glanced at his 
watch, "that puffed-up Croesus, old Keppel, is 
keeping me waiting, to show his importance. 
He promised to be here at half-past one, to look 
at my picture ; and it is nearly three — confound 
his impudence !" 

"That's a nice way to talk of one of our lead- 
ing burghers," said Verner. 

"I can tell him one thing: for every five 
minutes longer he keeps me waiting, I'll add five 
Friedrich-d'or to the piece." 

"I advise you not to frighten him off. You 
especially want this money. Besides, his ill-will 
could do you harm — and he can be savage enough 
when he is crossed." 

" And how does it happen you know so much 
about him? I was not aware you were even 

"Oh, yes, I know him," said Verner, laugh- 
ing with a certain bitterness, though his tone 
and words were playful. " I had once a friendly 
little interview with him that ended in his turn- 
ing me, metaphorically, out of doors." 

" What the deuce was it all about?" 

" It was just a fortnight before you came back 
from Paris," said Verner, still going on with his 
work. " He had given a ball, that I was invited 
to. I had danced a little with his daughter, 
chatted with her a little more, taken her down 
to supper — and — -and in the end I lost my head 
a little—" 

" Ah !" interrupted Bradley. " His daughter 
— I'd forgotten he had one." 

" She only came home from boarding-school 
J this autumn; she's barely eighteen," answered 
> Verner. 

\ " So ! And you fell in love with her?" 
\ "Well, I believe I did. And what was more, 
\ I mentioned the fact to her that night." 



"Ah!" said liis friend. "And how did she 
take it?" 

" She went to her father, the next morning, 
and told the whole story," said Verner, painting 
diligently on, without looking up. 

"Oh!" ejaculated Bradley. Then, directly, 

he added : V Have you followed up the matter?" 

"Do you think I have been wrong to try?" 

asked Verner, anxiously, still looking persistently 

at his picture, and painting busily away. 

"Virtuous young painter!" cried Bradley, 
striking an attitude. " Why don't you carry off 
old Croesus' treasure?" 

" God forbid that I should ever ask her to do 

such a thing," exclaimed Verner, excitedly. "I 

am as poor as a rat. How could I support her?" 

'Let her support you," returned Bradley, 


" Mephistopheles !" cried Verner, half vexed, 
half laughing. 

"Well, yes, for the nonce. I mean to play the 
part for Herr Keppel's benefit," said Bradley, 

" Not an easy thing, you will find," answered 

" We shall discover," returned the American, 
nodding his head emphatically. 

At this instant there came a knock at the 
door ; it opened ; and a quick, rather pompous, 
but not unpleasant, voice called: "Too hard at 
work to hear, Herr Bradley; that's right, that's 
right, so I'll let myself in." 

W 7 ith the words, Johann Keppel entered, with 
the air of a person who felt that he was of suffi- 
ciem consequence to enter where he pleased, 
and be certain of a welcome when he had done 
so. He was short, but he atoned for this by his 
breadth ; and had a red, rather truculent face, 
lighted up by a pair of small black eyes, which 
made amends for their size by their shrewdness. 
A vain, arrogant, opinionated man in every feat- 
ure, look, and movement, but as evidently a very 
intelligent, one; not a bad-hearted man either, 
though assuredly he would be able to show him- 
self very unpleasant to deal with, if opposed or 
thwarted, or, above all, if any lack of deference 
were shown ; would, too, be much more techy 
and obstinate in a small matter than a large. 

"Good-morning, Herr Keppel," said Bradley, 
politely enough, but certainly with slight show 
of cordiality, and less of deference. 

"Good-morning — good-morning," rejoined the 
visitor, affably. " I am a little late. That, would 
be unpardonable in a young fellow like you ; but 
I have earned the right to be excused ; besides, 
if I am ever behind-hand, I have a good reason. 
Had you given me up?" 

" I had not noticed that it was past the hour 
you set," said Bradley, nettled into a deliberate 
falsehood by what he considered the other's in- 
sufferable air of patronage and consequence. 

" I had a note from the Grand Chamberlain tt> 
answer ; an unexpected visit from the new rail- 
way directors; and, just as I was setting out, 
there came a telegram from the Berlin Bourse," 
said Herr Keppel, in his turn nettled into more 
boastfulness than usual, by his host's speech. 

" Is it cold cut?" asked Bradley. 

Keppel had caught sight of Wolfgang Verner, 
and looked surprised to see him there ; not 
pleased, either. He contented himself with a 
short nod and a muttered salutation, to which 
Verner responded by bowing with elaborate 

" I didn't forget, you," said Herr Keppel, turn- 
ing to Bradley, "you are a rising man — a rising 
man : an example to all our young German artists. 
Pity some of them wouldn't imitate you. And 
now where is this picture? Ha! That is it, eh?" 
going up to the easel and bringing his gold- 
rimmed eye-glasses to bear upon the painting. 
"Pretty — really very pretty! Good feeling. 
Good tone throughout. Execution excellent. Ah ! 
that group of chestnuts is remarkably well done. 
I recognize the scene at a glance : Salzkammer- 

| gut." 

" It is a bit from the Stischthal, below Trent," 
said Bradley. 

"Stischthal — Trent? Nonsense! Salzkam- 
mergut, plain enough. The hills, the vegeta- 
tion, the great chestnut trees." 

"I have the original sketch, Herr Keppel, 
that I made in the South Tyrol," persisted 

" No doubt, no doubt you made a sketch' there ; 
but this isn't it. You've mixed up the two in 
your mind — very easily done — you painter-chaps 
are always so absent-minded." 

" W T hy !" retorted Bradley, " the chestnuts are 
proof enough; that kind don't grow anywhere 
near Salzkammergut." 

"Don't grow there? Took my coffee every 
morning for a month under just such a group !" 
cried Keppel. 

" In a garden or park, perhaps — planted ; they 
don't grow wild there." 

They contradicted each other pretty fr^?ly for 
some seconds, then suddenly, old Keppel, red as 
a turkey-cock, caught firm hold of his dignity, 
and said, in a series of gasps : 

" You are right, of course, and I'm wrong, Herr 
Bradley! South Tyrol, eh, the scene? Of 
course, of course. Very pretty, the thing is ; 
only unfortunately it won't do for me. I've half 



a dozen South Tyrol landscapes in my collection ; 
already. Send it to Hart el's Permanent Exhi- 
bition. I'll speak a good word for you." 

He walked away from the infuriated Bradley, 
waddled up to Verner's easel, stared at the 
woolly waterfall, and said: "Capital, capital — 
good feeling — excellent tone — make the middle 
sweep of the fall darker — good, very good." 

In three minutes more he had gone, leaving 
Bradley choking with anger, and Verner nearly 
suffocated from laughter. 

" He turned the tables on your Mephisto- 
phelean plan with a vengeance," cried Wolfgang. 
" He played with you — he corrected you — and if 
he didn't use you, he used you up ! " 

"Did he?" shouted Bradley. "Will you 
lay a wager, that before three months go by, I 
don't have him begging, almost on his knees, to 
have a picture from me at any terms?" 

"That's ridiculous," said Verner. 

"Perhaps it is," said Bradley, and changed 
the subject- 
Half an hour later, Verner prepared to go out, 
arraying himself with great care to do so. 

" Upon my word, you are a handsome chap," 
observed Bradley. " Ah, that old turtle said he 
had to drive out of town. You hope to meet 
Miss — Marguerite, is it? — on the promenade. 
By the way, show me her photograph." 

" I haven't one." 

*' Go tell that to the marines. Come, out with 
it — you can trust me." 

He had to coax a good while; but at last 
Verner produced the photograph from an inside 

" By Jove ! she is a lovely creature," exclaimed 
Bradley, after a moment's inspection of the card. 
"What eyes, what hair, what a heavenly smile; 
a Marguerite indeed." 

The praises were sweet in Verner's ears, but 
he had the fear of missing the original, so he 
caught up his hat and demanded his treasure, 
which Bradley declared he could not give up yet. 

" Let me keep it till you come back ; nobody 
shall ever know. Oh, Jupiter ! she is pretty." 

It ended in his having his way ; and when 
Verner was gone, Bradley sat studying the face, 
while a malicious smile gathered about his 
mouth. "I'll do it," he muttered. "I can get 
a photo from the shop : I know young Fessel 
well. I'll do it. Beg on his knees, the old sala- 
mander, for a painting? Indeed he shall. 
What's more, he shall give his daughter to Wolf- 
gang Verner. The pair were meant for each 
other ; such beauties, both. They call me a 
Mephistopheles, but, by Jove, I'll bring about 
a happy marriage." 

Verner haunted every place where he was 
likely to meet the young girl, and sometimes 
Bradley accompanied him ; and if he had been in 
love with the pretty creature himself, he could 
not have studied every look and lineament more 
closely than he did. Then he took a trick of 
coming to the studio late ; of going away early ; 
often not coming at all. But Verner was too full 
of his own matters to notice. Marguerite had 
vowed that if she could not marry him, she 
would never marry ; and between letters, plans 
for meeting, hours of dreams, and so on, he had 
little leisure to spend in observing his friend. 

About a month later, Keppel and Bradley met, 
one evening, at the Artists' Club, the first time 
they had encountered each other since the old 
gentleman's visit to the studio, he having been 
absent for a time, and afterward confined to the 
house by a bad cold. 

"Ah, Herr Bradley," said the pompous 
burgher, " have you yet learned the difference 
between Salzkammergut and the Stischthal?" 

"Oh, yes," replied Bradley; "and to prove 
it, I am painting a new Salzkammergut picture 
on purpose for you." 

"Ah, so? Do you expect to force a picture 
on me?" cried Keppel. 

"Force? Oh, no; you will buy it without 
persuasion," said Bradley; and went his way, 
leaving Keppel in a rage at such presumption, as 
he called it. 

"The most impertinent puppy I ever met," 
said he, to an old Professor standing near. 

"Got lots of talent to match it," replied his 

"If he had double of both, he should never 
sell me one of his things. The hangman take him 
— and me too, if ever I were such a fool," fumed 

A few mornings later, as Bradley and Verner 
were in their studio, the house-porter brought 
up a letter for the latter, which he opened, 
hastily read, and exclaimed : 

" From Count Zimmerman. He is one of the 

Directors at the Polytechnic in II . A good 

friend of mine. He says he considers my elec- 
tion almost certain ; but he wants me to send a 
picture for their exhibition. I've nothing, how- 
ever, but the waterfall." 

"Which isn't finished," added Bradley. 

"Three or four days' work would do it." 

" It would take more time than that to dis- 
solve that wool into water," said Bradley. 

"Oh, confound your insolence. But. I've 
nothing else. I must send it; I can't refuse," 
cried Wolfgang, in despair at once. " Come and 
look at it; I think I've bettered it. You see it 



is most important I should comply with the 
request. Now, satire aside, what do you think?" 
" Well, it's not one of your best, but it must 
go, I suppose," replied Bradley. " For any sake, 
make that water less fleecy." 

"I must go and post a letter," said Verner, 
"but I'll come back immediately, and buckle to 
it with a will 

He was, however, gone for nearly an hour, 
during which time Bradley sat working and 
whistling. Two or three times he paused in the 
latter exercise, to laugh in a tone of very heart- 
felt and very malicious enjoyment. 

The door opened suddenly, and Wolfgang 
Verner dashed into the studio with a precipi- 
tation which would have startled a nervous 
person. But Bradley painted diligently on. 

♦'Bradley," exclaimed Verner, his voice half 
choked with anger and pain; "what have you 
d on e_in heaven's name, what have you done?" 
"Well, what have I done?" returned Bradley, 
with a coolness and unconcern which roused 
Verner to absolute fury. He was close to the 
easel now, his hand extended in a threatening 
gesture, as if ready to take his companion by the 
throat. But Bradley looked up at him with a 
perfectly unchanged face, and asked again: 
"What is this I have done, Verner?" 

"The most abominable, the most atrocious ac 
tion any man ever committed !" gasped Wolfgang. 
a You — you — that picture you have had hung up 
to-day in Hartel's rooms; a Tuesday chosen, be 
cause there's always a crowd on this day, so that 
the whole town might know about it before night." 
He paused, from sheer inability to articulate, 
so choked was he by passion. 

"Oh, the genre picture I have been trying my 
hand at," returned Bradley, unmoved. " I don't 
see why you should be in such a state of excite- 
ment about it. 

"You don't see— you don't see?" repeated 
Verner, absolutely foaming at the mouth. "When 
you paint a man kneeling at a girl's feet ; she 
holding out a laurel wreath to crown him ; and 
make the faces Marguerite Keppel's and mine 
portraits — actual portraits ! " 

"Bo you think the likenesses good?" asked 
Bradley, quietly. 

"Heartless, infamous!" pursued Verner. "To 
have people join our names ; to stare at us, and 
gossip about us." 

«' Bah ! Let them gossip or be silent. Remem- 
ber what Goethe says — < a man must never con- 
cern himself about the public if he wants to 
preserve his mind.' And I say, a painter must 
follow his inspirations. I do it, and care little 
what is said." 

You don't care, indeed. But Keppel, don't 
you think he cares? He has already heard; 
made a horrible scene with Marguerite; vows 
that I wanted it done in order to force him to 
consent to our engagement." 

" He's an old fool, as usual," responded Brad- 

"And you: you are — are — oh, a malicious, 
treacherous, heartless, soulless rascal," shouted 

"I'm glad you didn't say I was a poor painter. 
I should have considered that personal," said 
Bradley, growing more careless and provoking 
as the other's passion increased. " Why, when 
a man could get two such handsome creatures as 
models, it would have been a crying shame to 
neglect the opportunity." 

"That wasn't your reason. It's a falsehood 
to give it. You painted it—" 

"In order to do you a favor," interrupted 
; Bradley. " You couldn't soften old Keppel's 
heart; but he will be manageable now." 

Ah, this is too.much. You joke— you mock 
me. You are a miserable egotist. I'll waste no 
more words on you," cried Verner. "What I 
demand, what I insist on, is, that you go to 
Hartel's and order the picture taken down at 


"It isn't necessary. Before to-morrow noon, 
old Keppel will have bought it. He shall pay 
a hundred Friedrich-d'or too," said Bradley. 

"Ah, that was your reason ; to win your bet; 
to force him to buy one of your pictures," 
exclaimed Verner. " Meaner and meaner. To 
choose such an artifice, regardless of the poor 
girl's feelings, of the injury you were doing the 
man you called your friend. Base— base— vile 
—oh, there are no words to express your 

"Those are strong enough, and you needn't 
use any more of them, just at present," said 
Bradley, quietly, as he squeezed some fresh 
paint out upon his palette. 

If you don't like them, I'm ready to afford 
you satisfaction, and take it," retorted Verner. 

"That sounds rather like a challenge, my 
young friend," said Bradley. 

"Consider it such ; it is one," hissed Verner. 
''Very well; then that ends the first act," 
said Bradley, resuming his brush ; " the talking 
part is finished." 

Verner dared not trust himself to remain an 
instant longer in the room. He was actually 
afraid of committing some murderous assault, 
before the object of his wrath could defend him- 
self. The pair did not meet again, until they 
stood face to face, in the early dawn of the next 



morning, armed with the pistols which had been 
the weapon selected by Bradley. Verner missed 
his aim; Bradley fired in the air. But, in 
obedience to his principal's order, Verner' s 
second insisted upon another shot. This time, 
Verner' s bullet passed through his opponent's 
hat, and he himself received a wound in the left 
shoulder, and was carried senseless from the 

Of course the secret of the duel was kept as 
all such secrets are : supposed to be unheard of 
by the officers of the law, but known to half the 
town before nightfall. Verner' s hurt was pro- 
nounced much less severe than the physicians 
at first feared ; in fact, they declared that if he 
could be kept from fever during forty-eight 
hours, he would be completely beyond danger. 
On the third morning after the encounter, 
Verner was lying propped up among his pillows. 
The doctor bad only that moment left him, satis- 
fied with his condition, and cheering his patient 
by the information that he should be allowed to 
leave his bed within a fortnight. The door 
opened again ; Verner supposed the physician 
had come back, but as he looked down the 
shadowy room he saw Bradley approaching the 

"You?" he exclaimed, more in wonder than 
wrath. " You here?" 

" Why of course I am," returned Bradley, 
calmly. "The doctor said I might venture in ; 
we had to have our closing scene." 
"Closing scene?" repeated Verner. 
" Naturally. First the duel ; now the recon- 
ciliation ; then we shall be all in order," said 
Bradley. " My hitting you was an accident. I 
tore my hair in anguish. But since you will so 
soon be all right again, it's no matter — makes 
you more interesting." 

" Mephistopheles ! " exclaimed Verner, and 
for the life of him he could not help laughing, 
even in the midst of his anger. " Have you 
taken the picture away?" 

" Sent word yesterday to Hartel to take it 
down. I was so anxious about you I forgot it 
till then," said Bradley, laughing, but with a 
little quiver in his voice. " I am, as you said, 
a selfish, cold-blooded egotist; but I've some- 
thing that does duty for a heart, when you 
can manage to touch it. Apropos of pictures, 
yours ought to have gone before now, to the 

exhibition at H ." 

" It had slipped my mind. It will be too late 
if it doesn't o;et there to-morrow ! " cried Verner. 
""Would you ring — " 

" I have already put it up in the packing-case; 
you will trust me to send it?" 

"It is very kind of you," faltered Verner. 
"The address is — " 

" Oh, I know. I would have sent it last night, 
but wanted your permission ; it will go at noon." 
Verner tried to murmur further thanks, but 
Bradley interrupted him. " Can I be of any use 
here? I'm not a bad nurse." 

" No, thank you ; the old woman of the house 
does everything for me," said Verner. " I — I — 
can't quite forgive you, Bradley, but I appreciate 
your showing that you are sorry for the wrong — '' 
"Don't mistake," interrupted Bradley; "I'm 
sorry you got hit, but for nothing else. There, 
there, it's bad for you to excite yourself, so I am 
off; " and he took his departure. 

Verner lay perplexing his mind over the 
incomprehensible ins and outs of his former 
friend's character, unable, as he recalled many 
proofs of his kindness, to be as angry as the 
treachery in regard to the picture deserved ; then 
fell fast asleep for a long hour. 

When he woke and looked towards the foot of 
the bed, he thought he must be dreaming still, 
for he saw Herr Keppel sitting there. 

" Ah, my boy, you have had a fine nap," said 
the old gentleman. 

"Herr Keppel, Herr Keppel I How good of 
you to come; how can I thank you for your 
kindness?" exclaimed Verner. 

" I have come to thank you'' said the visitor. 
"Only you must keep perfectly quiet, else I 
can't stop. The doctor made me promise." 

Verner stretched out his hand. His eyes were 
filled with tears, and he tried to speak, but could 

"There, there, it's all right," cried Keppel, 
unsteadily. " You are a splendid fellow, Verner; 
I did you an injustice. I have come to say so. 
I thought you and that scamp had hatched that 
accursed picture-plot between you." 

" Great heavens, do you think I would have 
| so hurt the being I love better than my life— oh, 
1 1 beg your pardon, but I must say it ! " 

" You needn't beg pardon of me," returned old 

Keppel, with an odd smile. " Let me finish. I 

thank you ; you have behaved nobly. If only 

that bullet had gone into that rascal's gullet, 

\ instead of your shoulder." 

"Oh, Herr Keppel. he has been here. He 
says the painting has been put out of sight." 

" No such thing ; it still hangs in the gallery." 

"Why, then, he is worse than I thought!" 

"He couldn't be," said Keppel. "But it's 
not his fault that the picture is there. I wouldn't 
let it be taken down." 

" I don't understand." 

" I do. That rogue thought to force me into 



buying it. No, indeed. Let it be seen. I'll 
show him that he can't drive Johann Keppel. 
I say, I heard yesterday that you are pretty 

certain to get the vacant professorship at H . 

When does the election come oft?" 

" In about a week." 

"Good! I have influence there: it will be 
used," said Keppel. " You may consider your- 
self safe." 

" You are too good to me — too good." 

" The salary is a fair one," said Keppel. " You 
can support a wife on it, and so you and Mar- 
guerite shall have your way ; and that devil of 
a Bradley shall see that his malice was wasted." 

In his weakened state, the bewildering joy those 
words gave was more than Verner could bear: he 
could only cover his face with his hands, gasp 
broken words, and shake from head to foot, in an 
excitement which frightened old Keppel terribly. 

H But you must be quiet — you'll do yourself a 
mischief," said Keppel. 

*• I can't be quiet till — till I have seen her," 
cried Verner. 

"Then I'll go fetch her," said Keppel; and 
he did. 

Ten days later, Bradley was sitting at work in 
his studio, unusually cheerful from having heard 
that Verner was able to sit up. Bradley had not 
repeated his visit. He had done all he could. 
When Verner recovered, he must himself decide 
what their future relations were to be. Mean- 
time, Bradley had heard of the engagement be- 
tween the young couple. On the previous even- 
ing, also, a telegram from H had apprized 

him of Verner's election to the professorship. 

"After all," said Bradley, half aloud, "Meph- 
istopheles doesn't make a bad friend. I dare 
say he will never forgive me, and certainly his 
future wife and her father never will- But that's 
no matter. I don't know of any other mischief 
I can do in this dull old town, so I think I shall 
go to Paris, and perhaps on to America." 

His reverie was interrupted by the opening of 
the door, unheralded by the ceremony of a knock, j 
or any request to be allowed to enter. He looked 
up. Old Keppel was bouncing into the room, 
nearly breathless from the haste with which he 
had mounted the stairs, and so red in the face 
that he looked as if illuminated by a Bengal 
light. He flung himself into a chair, without 
removing his hat ; leaned both hands on his 
knees ; bent forward, and stared at Bradley. 

Bradley, in return, stared at him. 

" You're a devil, Herr American — a regular 
devil," panted the old gentleman, though he was 
half laughing, in spite of the fierceness of his 

" Are you expecting your declaration to bring 
on an assault upon your person, Herr Keppel?" 
asked Bradley. 

" An assault ? No — why ?" 

" Because you cover your venerable head so 
carefully," replied Bradley. 

" I've something to do besides think of cere- 
mony," cried the old man. 

He took off his hat, nevertheless, deposited it 
on a table near, and continued: "No, no, I didn't 
come to assault, or be assaulted. You have 
beaten me, and I have come to say so, and ask 
for peace. Young man, you have beaten Johann 
Keppel, and you are the first person who ever 
did that." 

" I am quite in ignorance of having done so, 
Herr Keppel," said Bradley, with a bow. 

"Nonsense!" retorted Keppel. "You said 
you would force me to buy your picture. Well, 
you have. I've come to do it. Now, what's the 

As he spoke, he took out of his pocket two 
small rolls, which to the initiated eye evidently 
held gold pieces. 

" I don't happen to have a picture to v sell, at 
present," said Bradley. 

" In fact, I have come to pay for two," pursued 
Keppel, unheeding. 

"Since I haven't even one — " responded the 

" See here, Bradley, it's of no use. I have 
just come from H ; I went over, yesterday." 

"You had a pleasant day for your journey," 
said Bradley. 

Keppel shook his fist at him, and proceeded : 

"I went over because the election for the 
professorship w r as to take place, and I wanted to 
use my influence in Wolfgang's favor. I called 
on my old friend, the President, and he told me 
I might have spared myself the trouble. The 
committee had been so much pleased with the 
picture Verner sent to their exhibition, that they 
had come to a unanimous decision, in advance, 
to offer him the position." 

" How unlucky that I aimed so badly," said 
Bradley. "If I'd killed him I might have got 
naturalized and gone in for the post myself." 

"So then," pursued Keppel, with another 
shake of his fist, " I thought I would stroll into 
the gallery and have a peep at the boy's picture." 

" I hope you liked it," said Bradley. 

" I got the catalogue ; hunted up the number ; 
went into the second room ; and there, with 
Wolfgang Verner' s name in the corner, I found 
that landscape of yours, that we quarreled over 
in this very studio, a few months ago. Your 
landscape I " 



" Verner' s landscape. It had become his," 
replied Bradley. 

" And now you must let me pay for it and get 
it away." 

" You can't pay me for what isn't mine, Herr 
Keppel," said Bradley. "Stop — hear me out — 
there must be no discussion. The only picture 
Wolfgang had to send was not worthy of him, 
for he has a great deal of talent ; and it was 
all your fault. You had driven the poor fellow 
half distracted by separating him from your ; 
daughter ; and work, so as to do himself justice, 
he could not. I knew my picture was a good one, 
so as Verner was safe in bed, thanks to me, I 
put aside his woolly waterfall and sent that." 

" Will you let me thank you ?" 

"There's no reason, since I didn't do it on 
your account." 

Keppel rubbed his nose violently, then said : 

" But the picture can't stay there. If Wolf- 
gang saw it he would refuse the professorship, 
and insist on another duel into the bargain. You 
can see that." 

" You've a head for business. I suppose you 
have a plan?" 

"Yes; to pay you for the picture; also to 
send a check for fifty Friedrich-d'or to the secre- 
tary, ordering the painting to be sent at once to 
— to — well, say Henry Stuart, Glasgow, Scot- 

" Do it," said Bradley. " But let there be no 
talk about paying me, else we shall quarrel." 

His face showed that he was in earnest ; and 
Keppel had to accept the situation. 

" Well, what is the price of the figure-piece at 
Hartel's?" he asked. 

"Oh, that," said Bradley. "I painted it in 
order to secure Verner his wife ; and I shall send 
it to him as a wedding-present." 

"Come, don't completely overwhelm me," 
cried Keppel. " As you are strong, be merciful. 
I want the picture. Name any price." 

"The price is what I set on it at first: a 
hundred Friedrich-d'or; and in addition, your 
written declaration that I sold it to you at your 
urgent request," said Bradley. 

"Here's your money," cried Keppel, eagerly, 

laying down a rouleau of gold. " Give me pen 
and paper." 

He wrote the declaration. Bradley read it and 
laid it aside. Then the two men stood for an 
instant looking in each other's face. Keppel' s 
was red and angry, but after choking and puffing 
in an extraordinary fashion, lie said with a laugh : 

" I don't suppose I shall ever forgive you, but 
I thank you heartily, all the same." 

The first day Verner was permitted to go out of 
doors he went to his future father-in-law's house. 
Before he left, he was taken by old Keppel into the 
picture-gallery, where, to his unbounded surprise, 
he saw Bradley's production that had been the 
cause of so much distress and so much happiness. 

" I thought, after all, that as the rogue had 
done us a good turn, I'd better let him win his 
wager," said Keppel. "Besides, both portraits 
are very good." 

In a fortnight more, Verner went over to 

H to spend the day ; and was received with 

great deference by professors and pupils. Per- 
haps the knowledge that within the month he 
was to become the son-in-law of one of the richest 
men in Munich had something to do with their 
enthusiasm. But Verner was too happy to think 
of that. 

" I want to go into the exhibition-gallery and 
see how you have hung my landscape," he said 
to the secretary, as he was standing in that 
gentleman's office. 

" It is no longer there," replied the urbane 
official. " I wanted to write to you, but as we 
knew you were coming so soon, the President 
advised me to leave the matter, so as to make 
a pleasant item in your visit." 

"Why, what has been done with it?" asked 

"It is seld, and on its way to Scotland," re- 
joined the secretary. "The money has been 
paid in, and is at your disposition, if you will 
kindly sign this receipt." 

" Sold !" thought Verner, as he walked away 
on air. " Sold ! And that old Mephistopheles, 
who laughed at what he called my woolly water- 
fall. I'll write to him to Paris, to-morrow, and 
give him the news." 



The threads, they cross, they tangle, break ; 

The pattern runs awry. 
Yet patience I Web can never make, 

But unddr God's owu eye. 

The mighty engine throbs and strains, 

The cars they jerk and reel. 
Fear not! For God, He rules and reigns, 

He holds the driving-wheel. 



I sat down on the velvet cushion, at mamma's 
feet, rumpling her snowy wrapper in the attempt '■ 
to put my head in her lap. 

Mamma passed her soft small hand over my 
long disordered hair, and parted the curling ; 
black fringe across my forehead, to press a kiss 
there, before she spoke. 

" What is the matter, my child?" she asked. 

'* I think it is this picture," I said, tossing a 
photograph into her lap. I had just received it 
in a letter. " I can't look at it without envying 
Laura Desmond." 

"But why? You surely do not envy Laura 
her appearance?" 

" But I do, mother. I don't like to be called 
dark and piquant. I want to be fair, and calm, 
and quiet." 

"Why, Ada, I am amazed. Don't you know 
that a certain gentleman admires brunettes ? 
Must I remind you of the lines I heard him re- 
peat, as describing you : 

* She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes; 

Just mellowed to that tender light, 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.' " 

She stooped to kiss me. But I hid my face in 
her dress, like a pettish child. 

"Don't quote Theo Rounsaville to me," I 
said, shortly. " Who cares for his opinion?" 

Now the truth was, I did care for his opinion, 
and cared for it a great deal too much. At one : 
time he had been very attentive to me, and I had 
been flattered by it, as any girl would have been ; 
for he was not only the handsomest and wealth- 
iest, but also the most accomplished bachelor in 
the neighborhood. But with the perversity of! 
my sex, I had affected to be indifferent to him, 
until, tired of my coquetry, he had transferred 
his attentions elsewhere. A month, now, had 
passed since he had visited me. A few evenings 
before, I had met him at a ball, and he had not ; 
even once asked me to dance ; but had devoted 
his time, almost exclusively, to Jennie Charlton, 
who was a great heiress, as well as a celebrated 
blonde beauty. If the truth must be told, I had 
been, ever since that night, devoured by jealousy. 
It was this that made me so miserably unhappy 

" But we were talking of Laura," I said, 

changing the subject. " She has every luxury, 
and I am so dependent." 

"You know, my dear," said mother, in a 
grave, troubled voice, " that Uncle Adam's home 
is yours, as long as you choose to remain here ; 
and that he never wounds us by speaking of our 

" But he expects me to marry, and it galls me 
to know that he expects me to relieve him of a 
burden in that way. Now, Laura Desmond — " 

" Hush, Ada, hush. Laura confesses that her 
father wishes her to marry a man whom she dis- 
likes. There is no such necessity for you." 

" Not at present, mother. But Laura is not 
compelled to marry at all. She has a plenty to 
support her, and I must have somebody to take 
care of me." 

"I do not wish you to marry, my daughter, 
except for love." 

"Fiddlesticks!" said I, inelegantly. "I tell 
you, nine women out of ten marry for homes, or 
for fear of being old maids. I believe Uncle 
Adam is miserly. If he would die and leave me 
a legacy, or give me a few thousands, I would 
live single all the days of my life." 

A door opened at that moment, and Uncle 
Adam walked straight into the room. Uncle 
Adam was a rather old gentleman, but always 
good-natured. Even now he did not look the 
least bit offended, though he must have heard all 
I had said. I jumped up, thoroughly ashamed 
of myself. But he only said : 

"Come, come, my little girl, this is pretty 
hard on your old uncle. I'm sorry you think 
me such a miser." 

"Oh, uncle," I pleaded, "please forgive me. 
I didn't mean that, at all. I'm out of spirits, 
and that makes me unjust." 

"Well, never mind," said Uncle Adam, bust- 
ling across the room and taking a seat. " Come 
here, Miss Ada. I have a proposition to make. 
I don't want to be poisoned for a legacy — don't 
interrupt me, my dear — so I am going to give 
you a little present, instead. Suppose I bribe 
you to be an old maid, eh? I will settle ten 
thousand dollars on you now, on condition you 
live and die Ada Lyon, spinster. There ! " 

" If you will forgive and forget all my ugly 
speeches, uncle," said I, "I'll agree to the con- 
dition with pleasure/' 




" Ada ! " said mother, faintly. " What will you say to Uncle Adam ?" 

"Let her alone, Agnes, let her alone," said "Never mind, I'll fix it," I answered, gayly. 

Uncle Adam, with a majestic wave of the hand. "I'll either coax him or scare him." 

« She shall take the matter into due considera- I laughed all the way down to the study, until 

tion. See here, Ada, we must have a clear by the time I reached the door my eyes were 

understanding. There is to be no drawing back, full of tears. I let them stay, paused to collect 

If you sign the necessary paper, the money is my ideas and compose my face, then tapped at 

yours at once; but should you ever marry, you J the door in a subdued way and, went slowly in. 

forfeit every cent. Are you ready to ratify the 

" Yes, uncle, at once ; and I will show that I 
am in earnest." 

"Stop, stop— not at once. I'll # give you till 
night to think about it. Don't be rash. In order 
to escape being called a miser I'll bribe heavily." 
And Uncle Adam unceremoniously marched out 
of the room. 

I turned to mother, flushed with triumph. She 
was still sitting by the window, looking pale and 

" Ada, come here," she said, almost in a whis- 
per. " Look out. Isn't that Theo Rounsaville ?" 

I sprang to her side. An open landau, drawn 
by two superb gray horses in gold-mounted 
harness, had just been driven up the avenue. 
Their master, throwing the reins to a servant, 
now descended. 

" He has come to ask you to drive with him," 
said my mother ; " at least it looks so." 

I blushed furiously. " Do you think so, moth- 
er?" I said. The moment after, our visitor was 

What a delightful day that was ! Wc drove 
down to the beach ; the solemn ocean monotone j his chair, and took my hands from my face, 
poemed changed to joyous music. Then we went j " Ada," he said, severely, " tell me instantly, 
round through the pine woods. Then we came \ straight up and down— whom do you love?" 
home, while the western sky blazed with the " Mr. Rounsaville," said I, solemnly, 
sunset, and the gray twilight had set in. My "You are a foolish child," said Uncle Adam, 
accepted lover, for he had proposed and I had gently patting my head. *< I knew Rounsa- 
accepted him, bade me good-bye at the door and ville was coming here to-day, and so I wouldn't 
went down the avenue. \ let you bind yourself by any promise until he 

I ran upstairs and into my mother's room, 
stopping only to throw off my hat and gloves. 

" Well, Ada?" was mamma's inquiry. 

"All's well, mamma," I answered, laughing 
a-nd blushing. 

Uncle Adam had taken the shade off the read- 
ing-lamp, laid his meerschaum down by it, and 
was busily writing. 

"Take a seat, take a seat," he said, without 
looking up. "I'll have everything ready in a 
few minutes. What is your conclusion?" 

I seated myself in a great arm-chair close to 
him, sighed deeply. 

"I'll sign it, uncle," I said, and sighed again. 

"Well, what's the matter?" he said, looking 
round at me. 

"I'm afraid it will make me very unhappy," 
I said, with another sigh. 

"Why, Ada," he said, in a puzzled way, "I 
thought it was the very thing to make you 
happy. What do you mean?" 

"Yes, Uncle Adam," I said, having recourse 
to my handkerchief; "but then I don't want to 
live single." 

"Oho!" said he. "You've changed your 
mind. You don't want the money ?" 

"Yes, I do," I exclaimed, with a hysterical 
little sob. "I love him; but I won't marry 
without anything of my own. I'm ashamed." 

Uncle Adam never could stand tears. He left 

But when I had finished my little confidences, 
she said, still smiling, however: 

" You will be a portionless bride, remember, 
my darling." 

'For the first time, I thought of that odious 

"Do you suppose Uncle Adam meant all 

"I don't doubt it," she replied; "and you 
promised to arrange it finally, to-night, Ada." 

I jumped up. "I am going now," I said. 

came. But what absurd nonsense is this ? Come, 
child, I won't bribe you to live single. If you 
marry Rounsaville, I'll give you ten thousand 

" Will you, uncle?" I cried, in ecstasy. 

" Don't cry any more, then," he said, almost 
tenderly. " Kiss me, my dear, and go tell your 

I ran upstairs. 

" Mamma," I called, " I've taken the bribe." 

I frightened her dreadfully, but soon ex- 

And Uncle Adam gave me, on my wedding- 
day, the ten thousand dollar check, with which, 
originally, he had Bribed Mb to be an Old 



[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by Miss Ann Stephens, in the Office of the Librarian of 

Congress, at Washington, 1). C] 



The great Council-fire was quenehed, the as- 
semblage over, and to the north, south, and west, 
the sachems of the Six Nations made their way 
homeward, fired with a new war-spirit, laden 
with presents, and inspired by a new treaty to 
stand side by side with their English allies to 
the death. 

But the Cayuga chiefs were less contented 
than their brethren, for the pride of their nation 
had been left behind ; and both Dahionet and 
Father Meda sat, laden with thought, in their 
canoes, sad and sorrowful, because of their loss ; 
for Angela and Okalona were to journey down 
the Hudson, with Governor Clinton and his 

Even to his own mind, Father Meda could 
hardly answer for the impulse of self-abnegation 
that had seemed to enforce his consent to this 
separation from his grandchild, who was to him 
as the best blood of his heart. Only the day be- 
fore Clinton broke up his little court, Grace had 
come to the missionary, with eager longing in 
her face, and, though proud to everyone else, 
was so humble with the old man, that, uncon- 
scious of the act, she fell upon her knees by his 
chair, and with such affectionate pleading as no 
man could have resisted, besought him to let 
Angela go with her down to the city, where she 
might see a little of the world, and, for the time, 
be with her as a sister. 

This fair young patrician did not dream of the 
shock which this request gave to the old man ; 
but she saw that he turned deadly white, and a 
gleam of almost angry doubt came into his eyes. 

Did he feel, at this moment, as if circumstances 
were enthralling his will, and forcing him into 
a path from which every impulse of his nature 
retreated ? How could he refuse this young girl 
the right to seek happiness in her own innocent 
way? How could he part with her, or thrall 
her freedom by his authority ? What spirit of j 
good or evil had brought this fair girl to his 
feet, with a petition that seemed to be wringing 
the life from his heart? 

"Why do you come here to ask this?" he 

Vol. LXXXIII.—32. 

said. "Angela has never been away from me 
in her life. I tell you she is content in the 
forest. She loves her duties, and she has always 
Okalona for a companion." 

"But that is not enough," said Grace; "be- 
sides, we will take the pretty wild bird also, if 
she will go. It will be like taming an oriole. 
By and by you shall have them back again." 

"But how? But how?" questioned the old 
man, with painful anxiety burning in his usually 
mild eyes. " Is it that you wish to make my 
child like the English woman who has come 
among us?" 

" Heaven help us, no," cried Grace, with a 
gesture of passionate disdain. "It is partly to 
avoid her that I wish to have Angela with us. 
She is resolved to go with her, back to your 
home on the lake, and Angela trembles at the 
thought. She turns pale when my lady speaks 
of it." 

"Well she may," muttered the missionary, 
under his breath, while a choking sensation 
came into his throat. 

" You are troubled, I see that. You shrink 
from this lady as she does — as I do. With her, 
alone in the wilderness, it will be horrible. You 
could not refuse her shelter in your lodge, nor 
always be there to soften this unnatural compan- 

The old man listened ; he seemed to be making 
up his mind to something that must be painful, 
turn which way he would ; all the sweet serenity 
of his character seemed broken up. He was like 
a man hunted down by some enemy. 

" I have always put the idea of destiny aside," 
he muttered, shaking his head as if the idea 
stung his brain; "but it is upon me now. It 
brought me here ; it is dragging me out of my 
solitude: for where she goes, I must follow — will 
follow, as long as this evil creature is near." 

The old man seemed to be wandering. Grace 
could not comprehend the meaning of his words. 
He saw her amazement, and sought to compose 

"Are you sure this lady means to join the 
Cayugas in their route home?" he questioned. 




" Yes ; she told me so herself. Sir William 
Johnson has provided an escort for her. John 
Roach, the fur-trader, answers for her safety, 
and will go with her." 

" He too?" exclaimed the missionary. 
"That is why Okalona will be best with us," 
said Grace, hesitating a little. " If the pretty 
sprite can be induced to go." 

The old man was greatly disturbed. 
"Does Angela know of this?" he said. "Is 
it her wish you are urging?" 

" She only knows that I desire it above all 
things, and that the Governor has set his heart 
on having her with us for a time." . 

There was something else the old man wished 
to say, but he could not force himself to speak 
of Lord Fausbrook. Perhaps Grace understood 
his hesitation. 

"Lord Fausbrook has tried to dissuade his 
mother from this undertaking," she said, "but 
proposes to go with her if she persists." 

A look of partial relief came into the old man's 

"You will let her go with us?" exclaimed 
Grace, reading the change in his countenance 
almost as a consent. 

" It would be ungracious to refuse, and per- 
haps unwise. Give me a little time, lady, to 
think of it. Angela is a fortunate girl in having 
so sweet a friend. Believe me, I am grateful." 

Grace, feeling that her case was almost won, 
stooped forward and kissed the old man's hand 
with reverent affection, as if he had been her 
own father. Then she left him alone, thoughtful 
and greatly troubled by what he had heard ; 
while Grace Morton, flushed with almost assured 
success, went at once to Angela's room, where 
she found the young lady seated on a stiff high- 
backed settee, cushioned with crimson stuff, and 
inlaid with different colored woods in the elabo- 
rate Dutch style, that is resurrected in fragments 
by curiosity-hunters up to this day. She looked 
up eagerly as Grace came in, and a flush of 
expectation made her countenance beautiful with 
the stsange new life that had dawned upon it of 
late. She did not speak, but no language could 
have been more eloquent than that look. 

" It is almost settled," said Grace, seating her- 
self upon the crimson cushion of the settee. 
"The dear old man hesitates; looks perplexed; 
is going to think himself miserably lonesome ; 
but the Governor will throw in a word of persua- 
sion, and to-morrow or next day we shall be on 
ship-board, sailing down the great river, on our 
way to the world which you have only seen in 
gleams and ffashes up here." 

"But my grandfather will not go with us?" 


questioned Angela, and the flush of color died 
out of her face. "Oh, Grace! I could not let 
him go back yonder alone. Our cabin on the 
lake would be like the nest of a dead bird to 

" But there is Okalona," said Grace, casting a 
mischievous look on the Indian girl, who lay 
with her slender limbs outstretched on a rug of 
beaver-skins that she had dragged to Angela's 
feet. The pretty savage started, and rested on 
her elbow, with her bright face and flashing 
eyes uplifted eagerly. 

" Where Angela goes, I go," she said. 

Grace smiled, but shook her head as if this 
idea disturbed her. She knew well enough that 
any suggestion she might make would arouse 
opposition in the young creature, and adroitly 
guided it according to her own wishes. 

"That is impossible," said Angela, aiding her 
friend's tactics with perfect unconsciousness. 
" Dahionet would never consent." 

" And you have no care. It is her you wish 
to be with ; for this you send Okalona, like a 
wild bird, back into the woods ; but she will not 
go — she will not go ! " 

The girl sprang up, and stamped her foot on 
the fur mat with passionate violence. Her eyes 
flashed through tears ; her mouth quivered, and 
underneath the lips her small teeth clinched. 

"But you do not like white people," said 

" No ! " answered Okalona, flashing back a look 
of defiance; "I hate white people. They take 
Angela from me ; they charm us with sweet 
words, and hide their tomahawks under their 
blankets, smiling as they strike." 

"But not all. You do not say this of John 
Roach, for instance?" 

A flood of crimson swept Okalona' s dusky 
cheeks. She stood a moment with bowed head, 
and then sank slowly to a sitting posture on her 

Angela was so accustomed to the wild flights 
of this young creature that she scarcely observed 
this change in her demeanor ; but Grace under- 
stood it clearly. 

" He — I mean this fur-trader — is going with 
Lady Fausbrook into the Cayuga country," she 

"With that she-fox?" whispered Okalona, 
through her shut teeth. 

"And the daughter of Dahionet can go with 
them, and help paddle my lady's canoe," said 
Grace, relentlessly. 

" The daughter of Dahionet goes with Angela 
down to the white man's city," answered the 
girl, drawing up her slender form till it looked 

almost queenly. " Without Okalona, she shall 
not go at all ; I have said it. 

"Is it certain? Will Lady Fausbrook really 
venture into the woods so far?" asked Angela, 
with renewed anxiety. " She does not love my 
grandfather ; why then does she care to follow 
him or me? 

" That is what perplexes us all," said Grace ; 
" but never mind her motive : it will at any rate 
take her in one direction while we go another ; 
for go with us to New York you must and phall : 
for a month at least you shall live in the world." 

Grace Morton, as she spoke, reached out her 

Fausbrook and her son would set forth immedi- 

; ately on their route for Cayuga ; but there was 

; some delay. My lady had her caprices, and was 

not yet quite ready for the saddle. The presence 

I of Angela and her Indian friend, after Father 

Meda's departure, puzzled her; and she was not 

willing to depart on her expedition until quite 

I assured of their destination. It had been Grace 

, Morton's policy to keep this a secret; and it was 

| only a few hours before the two vessels in the 

river lifted anchor, that Roach became aware 

that both Angela and Okalona, the two chief 

I objects of his interest, were about to sail for New 

urace Morton, as sue spune, icatucu vuu uv^ > VWJ v,v,v« v * ^ ~ — , ■■ 

hand, but the Indian girl put hers behind her York, with Governor Clinton and his party. Up 
back 'and retreated slowly. to this period, the young man had been greatly 

« You will say nothing to anyone about the j occupied in preparing for the expedition to 
things we have talked of," said Grace, almost ^ Cayuga ; his time had been mostly spent with Sir 
provoked by the girl's persistent dislike. " Noth- j William Johnson, at his residence, some distance 
>■ la ftnrft vpt » from the city. This made it almost impossible 

lllg Is SUic vet. <; ' -I-11 

« Savages know how to keep silent," was the for him to form plans for what seemed accidental 

sullen answer • and with that the strange creat- meetings with Okalona, or to see the missionary's 

ure went out 'of the room. daughter by real accident, as he had sometimes 

-I should think you would be afraid of her," done when the Council was in progress, 
said Grace with a slight shrug of the shoulders. The evening before the Governor had arranged 

-Sometime when the wild blood in her veins to leave Albany, which was to be the signal for 
takes fire, she may prove a dangerous companion." I Lady Fausbrook's departure for the Indian coun- 

" Afraid of Okalona?" said Angela, with a 
bright smile. " I should have more fear of the 
humming-bird that shakes perfume from the wild 

vines at our cabin window, than of Okalona.' 

try, he lingered about the grounds, almost within 
the lights of that old Dutch mansion, hoping to 
catch a glimpse of Okalona. 4 

At last his vigilance was rewarded. He saw \ 
her come out of the open hall-door and pause 

CHAPTER XVI. \ u P on tne ste P s > with a li & hi from a lamp ' swin S" 

It is not strange that both the missionary and ing from the ceiling within, falling richly on her 
Dahionet were grave and anxious, as they joined \ picturesque costume and wildly beautiful head, 
the little fleet of canoes that made its way up the \ She stood some minutes gazing out into the 
Mohawk It is true they had not as yet been s s shadows thrown by a clouded moon, then ran 
ioined by my lady and her escort; but that } down the steps, startled by some sound that 
seemed by no means singular, as these had might have been imperceptible to another, but 
arranged to travel on horseback, and keep a trail \ which brought the breath quickly to her lips-a 
parallel with the river. Of course they could not sound so faint that it seemed like the chirp of a 
know anything of the progress or number of J nested bird calling to its mate. Swift as the 
those who formed my lady's escort, and might \ listening bird might fly, Okalona darted into the 
not expect to meet them before they reached \ thick of the shrubbery and found John Roach 
Skaniateles, or one of the two other lakes on standing there. 

which various tribes of the nation had erected -At last," he said, reaching out his hand, as 
their villages and castles ; but down in Albany, \ if to draw her towards him. « At last you have 
the whites assembled there were somewhat better \ come to me. Night after night I have watched 
informed They had been not a little surprised \ for you, till the moon went down ; but you have 
when tribe after tribe swept away into the not cared. You have learned to sleep soundrv 
wilderness, after the great Council; and when j in the white man's house." ,,, 

all were gone, that one strange girl, bright as a j Okalona drew back from the treacherous hand 
flamingo and wild as a hawk, should be left; outstretched for her. 

behind with the missionary's daughter, after the « That is not true," she said, with the auda- 
old man himself had gone side by side with cious frankness of her race. « Each night have 
Dahionet and entered the last canoe of the little { been here all alone, wandering through the 
fleet like mourners at a funeral. bushes, calling softly with no one to answer ; 

Of course these men fully believed that Lady j for my heart was made heavy by words from. the 



white lady in yonder, and I wanted to ask the 
truth of you." 

" What truth is it that you want, Okalona?" 

" Is it true that you go to the lands of my peo- 
ple with that white lady, with eyes like a robin's 
egg that has grown cold in the nest, and a mouth 
full of whispered lies ? That is what I ask." 

" I go to the lodges of the Cayugas that I may 
see Okalona every day ; shoot birds with her in 
the woods ; hook fish with her in the lake ; read 
to her when she is tired of that, and love her 
always, better than any other woman that ever 
lived. That is why my horses are saddled and 
my men armed for a journey to-morrow. Will 
you come with me, Okalona — will you come?" 

" Then the white lady is a lie. It was not for 
her you saddled the horses," said the girl, with 
a sudden burst of exultation. 

" Not for her, no. No, Okalona, she will ride 
among the men Sir William Johnson has sent as 
escort for her. You and I will ricle by ourselves, 
in advance or behind. We shall have days and 
days together, with nothing but the songs of 
waters and whispering leaves to listen, when I 
say how, much I love you, or you answer back as 
the birds do." 

Still Okalona held herself erectly, and drew 

" But this white woman has ears." 

" Yes ; but you and I will keep away from 

"'And eyes that look sideways, like a trout's, 
when he turns from a bait he does not bite. I 
will not go with this woman ; no, not if she were 
miles before or behind." 

" Okalona, you do not love me." 

"Well," answered the girl, haughtily. 

"This lady is old." 

" Our old women do not travel in the woods." 

" She does not love me. Indeed, loves no one 
but herself." 

" Then why does she ride with you, day after 
day, in the great wilderness, with nothing but 
whispering leaves to tell what you say, and 
waters to sing to you ?" 

"Ah! that is a question I cannot answer. 
Before we leave the Cayugas, perhaps, we may 
find out." 

"What does the lady seek up yonder?" 

" She goe3 to join the missionary and his 

The man's voice faltered a little as he spoke 
thus with apparent indifference of Angela. The 
quick perception of the girl received this change 
of intonation with a fresh thrill of jealousy, and, 
forgetting the charge of silence given her, she 
answered, quickly : 

" But Angela stays behind." 

" Stays behind ? But where ?" 

Roach forgot to conceal the anxiety he felt. 
Okalona laughed with savage enjoyment, till her 
teeth glistened in the moonlight. 

" Ah ! you thought that she, too, would be on 
the trail, riding, like Okalona, behind the grand 
white lady. But Angela knows better. She will 
go down the great water-path." 

" Down the great water-path ? When ? With 

"With her own people, where she will be a 

" Tell me, you mischievous witch, tell me what 
all this is about. I do not believe you." 

" Okalona never lies. She has no white blood 
in her heart," said the girl, stung into dignity 
by his words. 

" But what you say is impossible. Angela goes 
with her grandfather, back to Skaniateles. And 

"Go with her down the great water-path, in 
a big canoe that lies down yonder, like an eagle 
with its wings folded." 

Roach seized the girl by the arm, half angrily; 
but assuming an air of rude playfulness. 

" Okalona, you are vexed with me — you are 

"Jealous? What is that?" questioned the 
girl, shaking herself loose from his hold. " More 
lies that you find on my lips?" 

" No — no. Only all women are alike, and you 
the most exasperating of the sex. You see that 
it would break my heart if these white people 
took you away from me, and love to torture me 
after the Indian fashion." 

"After the Indian fashion? No — no. You 
white men know how to give a keener pain than 
we know of. We only torture the limbs. You 
wring the life out here. That is what you are 
doing when you take this proud white woman to 
the lodges of our people, that she may scoff at us 
among her own." 

As Okalona spoke she pressed both hands upon 
her heart, and her great black eyes were full of 
the pain she described. 

Men do exist to whom the passionate struggle 
of doubt and hope in a woman's soul is sweet 
incense to their own overweening vanity. With 
Roach this feeling was blended with a degree of 
astonishment that human passions could be so 
much alike in the palace and in the forest. To 
him this bright beautiful creature was a marvel 
of contradictions, that aroused all that was simply 
human in his own nature to action. If he could 
have loved any human being on earth better 
than his own interests, it would have been this 

wild, half-tamed Indian girl, who stood in all 
her stormy beauty before him. He had told her 
no more than the truth, when he assured her 
that her company on his journey would make it 
a delightful pleasure-trip, and her announce 
ment that she would take no share in it stung 
him with keen disappointment. Nay, more than 
that : it threatened to demoralize all the arrange- 
ments which had been so adroitly made with 
Lady Fausbrook. He stood a moment, staring in 
pale anger at the girl, hardly able to believe her 
"Is this the truth?" he said at last. "Can 
that sweet-faced girl have been plotting to deceive 
us all this time? Is she going with the Gov- 
ernor's party— or is all this said because of your 
senseless anger? Tell me the truth, Okalona ! " 
Okalona drew herself up and walked away 
towards the house without vouchsafing look or j 
word in answer to his appeal. j 

For some minutes Roach stood among the j 
shadows, reviewing the position he was in with j 
swift calculation. At last he resolved on the; 
first step to be taken, and as Okalona disappeared ! 
in the hall, he took the same direction himself. j 
Nothing could have been more composed than 
his appearance when he addressed a servant at 
the door, spoke of the hour being late, but desired 
that Lady Fausbrook should be informed that a 
person was waiting to deliver a message to her 
from Sir William Johnson. 

The servant disappeared, and returned with a 
request that Roach should follow him up to her 
ladyship' s apartments. My lady was quite alone, 
seated by a window and looking out upon the 
dusky clearing that lay between her and the 
woods, which lengthened out like a vast black 
ocean far beyond her powers of sight. She was 
pale, and looked anxious, for the expedition she 
had planned might well have taxed the nerves of 
a braver woman. 

"You have come to inform me that all is 
ready?" she said, with a look that seemed almost 
to solicit a contradiction. " After all, it is a fear 
ful undertaking. When I look on that weird 
plain of darkness, that the clouded moonlight 
only sufiices to make more gloomy ; when I think 
that I must sleep in it to-morrow night, it — it 
almost terrifies me." 

" I do not wonder that your resolution gives way 
a little, " said Roach, approaching the window. 

The lady looked up, and saw the anxiety in his 

a No— no, I do not mean that ; of course I go 
— must go ! " 

"But there is some change— Dahionet and 
Father Meda have already gone westward with 
the tribe." 

• Leaving the girl and— as you seemed anxious 
about that— her savage attendant to go on with 
me. I have managed to arrange that it should 
be so." 

But, my lady, they do not join our party; 
but will go down the Hudson to-morrow, with 
Governor Clinton." 

Down the Hudson? My good man, you 
must be mistaken! " 
" I am afraid not." 
" But who told you this?" 
Roach hesitated an instant ; then a disagree- 
able smile came to his lips, and he answered: 
I got it from the young Indian girl her- 


And you have seen her to-night? I under- 
stand 1 " said my lady, with a smile kindred to 
that still lingering around the young man's lips. 

m Yes your information must be correct." 

» If the object of your journey was in any way 
dependent on the movements of the missionary's 
daughter, I thought perhaps—" 

Lady Fausbrook lifted her hand, as if his 
words disturbed some train of thought that 
possessed her. 

"You are right," she said, after a while; 
" without this girl Angela, this journey would 
be miserably lonely, and far more dangerous; 
for I had depended on her popularity with the 
Indians to secure their welcome. Still, some- 
thing can be done. You kave the old mission- 
ary's confidence?" 

" Yes ; he almost recognized me as a relative." 
"Took you into his cabin, perhaps?" 
"Not exactly; the presence of his grand- 
daughter was in the way— but I was there often." 
Again Lady Fausbrook fell into thought ; the 
evil spirit within her was hard at work. 

" These lodges— are they closed with locks and 
keys, like our houses?" she questioned. 
Roach laughed a litfle. 

" A wooden latch, lifted by a leather string 

that dangles through a gimlet-hole in the door, 

is the nearest approach to a lock that I have 

ever seen among the tribes ; and they are only 

found in the abodes of the missionaries. I 

remember there is one at Father Meda's lodge." 

" Then you have only to knock, and walk in?" 

"Or walk in without knocking," answered 

Roach, who read more in my lady's countenance 

than appeared in her words. "While Miss 

; Angela is absent, the cabin will be almost always 

I empty ; for her grandfather has established 

| schools', not only in Skaniateles, but in other 

villages on the two lakes, and sometimes is away 

j from his lodge days together." 

\ "When the young lady is absent, he might, 



perhaps, invite you to share his lodge," sug- 
gested the lady. 

" I have no doubt of it." 

" And you read Italian?" 

Roach hesitated. 

" Oh, I see," continued my lady ; " that is an 
accomplishment we do not often find among 
the trading-classes ; but without that you might 
perhaps save me from this long ride in the 

" Pray explain. I would do anything on earth 
to oblige you," said Roach, drawing a chair close 
to the window where my lady sat, and leaning 
toward her with a degree of familiarity that 
made the patrician blood mount to her cheeks. 

"Oh, it is only a caprice," she answered, with 
a light laugh, but drawing herself back a little. 
" I have been told that this old missionary 
brought a quantity of rare books into this coun- 
try, especially a splendid old Bible and some 
illuminated missals, such as cannot be bought 
anywhere. I have a passion for such things ; 
they interest me as nothing else in art can. It 
was to examine these books, and offer the old 
man a sum large enough to give broader scope 
to his Christian charities, that I intended to 
make this journey among the Cayugas ; but now 
that the only white woman among them stays 
behind, the danger seems too great. If I could 
only get a competent person to undertake the risk, 
and examine this rare collection for me, I too 
would accept Governor Clinton's invitation, and 
go back to New York, for a time at least." 

John Roach listened to all this with downcast 
eyes and a faint smile on his lips. 'The lamps in 
those days shed but imperfect radiance through 
the rooms, even of a palace, or my lady might 
have seen gleams of triumphant consciousness 
come and go in his eyes, as if her words were 
opening new ideas to him. 

" For my brother's sake — " he was beginning 
to say, but she interrupted him : 

" Your brother would have found me a liberal 
patroness had he known how deeply his future 
might have been blended with my interests — 
may be yet." 

The look which accompanied these words 
brought a singular smile to the young man's 

" My brother and myself are as one person." 

" I know it ! " said the lady, with a swift flash 
of the eye. 

41 So far as your ladyship is concerned, I mean 
to say." 

"Oh, certainly." 

"I may not possess all the knowledge requi- 
site to a just estimate of the antique treasures 

\ you wish to possess, but all that I have is at 
your service. The escort is ready. At daybreak 
I can be at its head, anxious to do my best in 
your behalf." 

"And you will take all this trouble to please 

"Oh, that will be nothing. Remember I am 
at home in the woods, and have no greater 
ambition than that of serving you." 

Lady Fausbrook held out her hand ; its slender 
fingers wound themselves closely around his. 

" It is of no consequence that you are ignorant 
of the language in which these books may be 
written," she said, in her sweetest accents. 
"There will be writing in them — annotations, 
perhaps — that will indicate the subject and 
authorship. Besides, you sketch with the pen, 
and can copy the old black letters of the title- 
pages, but more especially every word of the 

" Yes ; I understand." 

" And you will do this ?" 

"By daylight I will be in the saddle." 

"One thing more: there may be papers — old 
fragments of manuscripts, for which I have an 
equal value — p 

" Which I will copy or bring to you." 

"Such things men like the missionary keep 
without understanding the value more cultivated 
people put upon them; but to me they would 
prove treasures." 

"There shall not be a scrap of paper that 
will escape me." 

" Ah, how can I thank you?" 

" Be my friend, as I will be your slave — de- 
votedly, blindly — by forgetting the immeasur- 
able distance between hs that makes even a 
slave's homage presumption." 

The faded coquette neither took her hand from 
the clasp that held it, nor frowned upon the man. 
Such women feed on flattery with greater eager- 
ness as they feel all claim to genuine admiration 
\ passing out of their meretricious lives. 

The young fur-dealer scoffed at her puerile 
vanity in his heart, but bent reverently over her 
hand as he resigned it. When he was gone, 
Lady Fausbrook rose from her chair and moved 
up and down the room, rearranging her plans, 
and sometimes laughing softly to herself. 

" There has been some underhand movement 
here," she thought, with a thrill of satisfaction 
that she had escaped the necessity of a long and 
perilous journey, winch had taxed all her courage 
in anticipation, and secured a certain espionage 
over the girl she both feared and hated, amid 
scenes far more congenial to her taste than a 
series of camp-fires in the wilderness. 



"Yes, they will find ine of their party," she 
thought; "an unexpected delight to some of 
them, I dare say. Ah ! that is Fausbrook's ! 

The lady was right. Fausbrook came into the 
room, with a clouded and auxious face, which 
changed but little when his mother came forward 
with both hands extended, bright and smiling. 

"I have come to take your commands," he 
said. " At what hour will it please you that we 
should be ready to start on this wild expedition?" 

" My dear Arthur, and you really intend to 
be my escort ? I shall never, never forget this ; 
for it proves that you really love me still. But 
you do not care to go. It is a great sacrifice you 
are making for your mother." 

"No, no. Let that pass," answered the young 
man, dropping the hands she had offered him, 
with a constrained bow. 

" But you think me selfish, exacting, stubborn 
in my own self-will." 

"Why should you say this, mother? No one 
accuses you." 

" In your heart you condemn all that I am 
doing. This longing to see the Indians in their 
• own homes seems like a madness." 

" Something like it, I must confess," answered 
the young man, softened by her caressing man- 
ner so fiir that a faint forbearing smile came to 
his lips. " I do assure you, mother, the danger 
is great." 

" For you as well as for me." 

" Soldiers are not apt to calculate upon danger 
to themselves. It is of you I am thinking." 

" How good of you ; but all the more reason 
that others should think of the danger that 
must not extinguish a great race for this caprice 
of mine. No, my son, I will not exact this of ; 
you. My heart is stronger than my fancies, and : 
love of my only son more powerful than any- : 
thing else. I will neither drag you through the 
fatigue and peril of this wild project, nor en- : 
counter them myself. For once, dear, your j 
judgment has conquered mine. To-morrow ; 
morning the young man Roach, who w^s to lead ; 
our Indian escort, will depart without me." ; 

The cloud was swept from Fausbrook's face; : 
his eyes brightened, his lips smiled ; this time ! 
his hands sought those of the mother. ! 

" Are you in earnest ? Have you really seen ' 
the madness of this project?" 

" I have seen how impossible it is to set up ; 
my own will against yours, my Arthur. Oh, ; 
how much more would I give up to be sure that : 
you love me as you did before that awful night." : 

As she said this, the woman's voice was full of 
tears; Irer arms stole around the young man's 

neck, and she held up her mouth to be kissed, 
as a sensitive child seeks conciliation. 

Fausbrook's heart warmed toward the woman 
he had once loved so dearly ; he kissed her with 
something of the old tender reverence, and whtn 
she withdrew softly from his arms, tears stood 
in his eyes. 


Again and again that great roomy coach, with 
its white body and painted panels, its deeply- 
fringed hammer-cloth, and heavy wheels, went 
up and down that long steep street that ran from 
the Governor's temporary mansion, on the hill, 
to the wharf of heavy logs that ran into the 
Hudson, where the Huron, a noble vessel, for 
the times, lay, dipping her bow to the stream, 
ready to convey Clinton and his guests to the 
Empire City. 

As the carriage, with its four proud horses 
curveting under their crested harness, drew up 
on the wharf, and the gay inmates came tripping 
down its iron steps, that rattled like chains un- 
der their light feet, a boat lay ready to trans- 
fer them to the Huron. Then, with a great dash 
of hoofs, and groaning of wheels, the ponder- 
ous vehicle swept around on the wharf and 
dashed up the hill for a fresh load, followed by 
curious eyes from the citizens gathered on the 
door-steps and at the windows, open-mouthed 
with admiration of this great display. Last of 
all, the coach came lurching and -swinging down 
the hill with Governor Clinton in the back seat 
and Lady Fausbrook by his side. The middle 
seat was occupied by Grace Morton and Angela, 
and in front Okalona crouched, laughing glee- 
fully as the jerk or upheaval of the coach sent 
her headlong into the lap of my lady's maid, 
who sat, prim and majestic, in another corner of 
the seat, with her back to the horses. 

On either side of the carriage an escort of 
mounted horsemen from Colonel Fausbrook' s regi- 
ment fairly kindled up the street with their 
scarlet coats, and lent a wild clatter of hoofs to 
that of the four horses in harness. 

At the wharf Lord Fausbrook dismounted and 
stood ready to escort the ladies to a barge. A few 
words of whispered farewell to Angela, which 
Miss Morton took good care not to interrupt, 
and Lady Fausbrook beheld with cold, sidelong 
glance, and he saw the barge put off with a pur- 
pose in his mind that one person in the boat, at 
least, comprehended ; for Grace answered the 
farewell gesture of his hand with an encouraging 
smile, and waved her handkerchief long after 
she joined the merry group on ship-board, that 
hailed their approach with silvery laughter and 



waving hands. Fausbrook stood on the extreme \ can see them moving. They are wondering over 
edge of the wharf, following the barge with this big canoe with its great white wings. How 
wistful interest, till Governor Clinton stepped on little they know that the daughter of Dahionet 
board the Huron. Then came the thunders of a j is here. Ah, if I could but leap ashore." 
salute from the fort ; the " yo, heave V of sailors j " But you cannot," said the Governor, looking 
lifting the anchor ; and the hoisting of sails that down upon the wild eagerness of the girl with 
quivered and napped like eagles' wings as they good-natured admiration. " You belong to us 
took the wind. < now." 

When the Huron gave her bow to the stream ] "No, no. I am an Indian, all Indian; a 
a crowd of the citizens stood upon the wharf, \ savage— that is what the lady calls me, and I 
and groups were scattered along the street, watch- j hate her." 

ing her progress down the river. Foremost of all, "Hate my lady? Oh, Okalona, that is bad 
Grace Morton and Angela, who had kept their j taste. I cannot permit you to hate my lady, for 
place, at the stern of the vessel, saw a gleam it] she is too sweet-tempered to avenge herself; be- 
scarlet against the black surroundings, and knew j sides, she takes great interest in your people." 
that Fausbrook was watching them to the last, j "Oh, yes ! she wishes to go among them and 

Grace looked at her friend as the crowd j 
melted away in the distance, and saw that her 

eyes were full of tears, then turned away, smil- 
ing at her own thoughts. Lady Fausbrook, also, 
who had found a seat close by, and was made 
comfortable under the folds of an India shawl, 

learn their ways. Just make this canoe shut its 
wings, send her up yonder, tell them that she 
delights in taunting Okalona, and they will teach 
her their ways, never fear." 

Here the girl broke into a fit of laughter, and 
her little feet began to move upon the deck, 

carefully arranged by her maid, eyed the girl's j taking the first steps of a war-dance, while she 
face with soft, cautious glances, such as a patient j Aung her hands out towards the Indian village as 
cat gives to the mouse that she is not quite ready j if eager then and there to begin the education of 
to pounce upon. Lady Fausbrook. 

Then the Huron glided down the dense solitude The Governor was a little shocked, but could 
of the stream, as a swan breasts the crystal not deal severely with the mischievous creature, 
waves of a lake fed by mountain springs, with and only shook his head in smiling reproof, while 
the forests on either side opening out here and he went to the top of the cabin-stairs and called 
there in slopes of grass and ferny hollows, each j out : 
a picture in itself, or broken up by clearings, 

in which a few houses were scattered, which now 
form the towns and villages that people the 
great river to its source. The season was very 
beautiful ; for, though tlve Indian summer was 
only approaching with its balmy breath and drop- 
ping nuts, the early frosts of September were 
each day burning bright tints among the trees. 

As the vessel came sweeping past the Catskill 
Mountains, clothed with grand old trees, and 
lifting their peaks from the dark bosom of the 
forest to the blue of the skies, a cloud of smoke, 

Come — come on deck, my lady ; here is some- 
thing you are longing to see ! " 

The bevy of ladies who were amusing them- 
selves in the cabin came swarming up the steps, 
eager for any novelty that might present itself; 
and among the foremost was Lady Fausbrook. 

" There, my lady," said Clinton, pointing to 
the ravine, "you have all the romance of savage 
life at a single view. Yonder uncouth square of 
logs you can see just withia the jaws of that 
mountain gorge is an Indian castle, and those 
conical affairs that look so much like hay-stacks, 

issuing from a ravine that cleft two vast hills with smoke coming out of the top, are the dwell- 
asunder and sloped roughly down to the water's ings you were so anxious to occupy." 
edge, broke up their solitary grandeur ; for there Lady Fausbrook shaded her eyes with one 
a tribe of River Indians had built their rude hand while she looked towards the mountains in 
castle of logs and crowded their wigwams up the search of the objects that Clinton was pointing 
ravine, in a straggling village, wild as it was \ out to her with a glow of good-natured sarcasm 
picturesque. on his kindly face. 

Governor Clinton was on deck when this nest \ My lady gazed a moment on the wild scene, 
of savages came in view, and was turning to j then drew back shuddering, but proudly refusing 
summon his guests, when his arm was grasped to admit the consternation she felt, 
by two eager hands, and the dusky face of Oka- " It was for a sight like this that you were 
lona, all aglow with enthusiasm, was lifted to his. willing to travel days and weeks in the wilder- 

" Look, look! they are wigwams. That is a j ness : crouching in canoes; jostling through 
castle. Some of our people are up yonder ; you I swamps and trees, on horseback or on foot ; 




through an undergrowth full of serpents, and 
by the dens of wild beasts." 

"No, no! I did not expect to encounter all 
that!" said my lady. "Besides, other women 
have taken such journeys." 

" From a sense of duty, and in order to aid 
their fellow-men," said Grace Morton, glancing at 
her friend Angela, on whom my lady's eyes had 
fallen invidiously. "Such women stake their 
lives on the issue." 

11 But they are safe — always safe," cried Oka- 
lona, dashing into the little crowd. "The medi- 
cine-men of our tribes are not more sacred than 
the missionaries that come among us, when they 
are good — when they are good. The wild beasts 
seem to know about it, and keep away from them. 
Angela is never afraid ; but this lady — wouldn't 
the rattle of a snake make her jump? Wouldn't 
the sight of a hungry, wolf, loping over the sward 
with his eyes on fire and his blood-red tongue 
swaying from his mouth, frighten the life out of ; 
her? Or a great bear, ready to hug her to death ? 
They would swallow her, red-heeled shoes and 

Lady Fausbrook turned upon the little savage, 
pale and frightened, but with a proud lift of her 
hand, thinking to awe the creature into silence; 
but suppression with Okalona was impossible ; 

her eyes danced with malicious joy when she saw 
that these words had frightened the blood from 
the woman's face. But, just then, a soft hand 
was laid upon her arm, and turning she saw the 
face of Angela bent on her with a look of almost 
stern reproval. Under that light touch the girl 
lost all her savage fire, and shrunk away from 
the group. 

The Huron had drifted by the ravine, and the 
Indian village was out of sight; the group of 
guests broke up and was scattered about the deck ; 
when Okalona was discovered in the seat Lady 
Fausbrook usually occupied, with the shawl, 
that had been carelessly left there, gathered 
around her like a blanket, out of which her 
dusky face appeared, audacious and bright with 
rebellious laughter. 

Grace Morton saw this and turned away her 
head, that no one might see a smile that hospi- 
tality to her uncle's guest forbade. Lady Faus- 
brook saw it also, and, for a moment, was struck 
dumb with astonishment ; then with a faint scorn- 
ful smile she turned to her maid. 

" When that young person has done with my 

shawl, you can cast it overboard," she said, and 

descended into the cabin, without appearing to 

give the subject another moment's consideration. 

[to be continued.] 



Smile again, thou cold deeeiver, 

Just one sweet smile ere we part. 
Smile on thy poor weeping lover, 

Thou alone canst heal his heart ! 
Smile again, thou cold deceiver, 

For all love your soul denios. 
Hide, oh, hide, the word heart-rending, 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 

You say, sweet girl, " I've insulted !" 

Is it insult to love thee ? 
Let me worship thee, my angel, 

I'd die for thee, happy be ! 

But this heart, warm in my bosom, 

You delight to torture so ; 
Smile again, oh ! cruel maiden, 

On this sad heart, then 'twould glow. 

Not the bird upon the heather, 

Proudly flies o'er sunny toon ; 
Nor the small wee dancing fairy, 

Underneath the autumn moon ; 
Nor the poet, when the blindness 

Of successes fills his e'e, 
Feels divine and saintly rapture, 

That your smiles would furnish me. 

W H Y ? 


I cannot tell you why I love you. 

Ask the dewdrop on thi» rose 
Why it falls and rests so softly, 

Ere the lovely leaves unclose. 

I cannot tell you why 1 love you. 
Ask the bird who sweetly sings 

"Why he trills his tender carol, 
List the answer which he brings. 

I cannot tell you why I love you. 

Love were lost if it could speak. 
But your voice is as the bird-song, 

As the dewy rose your cheek. 



N a 1 — Is a morning-dress, of plain and 
checked sateen, trimmed with muslin embroid- 
ery. The jacket of the checked sateen has a 
waistcoat of the plain sateen, and is trimmed 
with a ruffle of the plain material, edged with 
the embroidery. The skirt is of the checked 

; with many narrow knife-plaited ruffles ; and the 
| jacket-basque, which is plain in front, has 
I drapery at the back, which is looped up and 

No. 2. 

material, with flounces, edged with the embroid- j confined by bows of black satin ribbon and jet 
ery and with knife-plait ings of the plain. buckles. Steel, pearl, or gilt buckles would look 

No 2— Is a walking or house costume, made \ very well, but not really so stylish as the jet. 
of black striped grenadine. The skirt is trimmed \ The collar is of black lace, beaded with jet. 



No. 3 — Is a walking or house-dress, of gray \ or shell-trimmings ; the tunic is apron-shaped in 
batiste ; the skirt is laid in lengthwise plaits, front, and is edged with one of the many pretty 
and at the bottom is trimmed with embroidery ; < and inexpensive laces so much the fashion now ; 
above this is a band of the batiste, then a j a second row of the lace is placed on higher up, 

t« simulate a double tunic ; the drapery at the 
back is very long, and then doubled up to show 
I the wrong side : this should be lined with silk or 
I satin, either white or of some delicate color ; 
j the waist, which is pointed back and front, is 
| fastened with small round pearl-buttons, and 

No. 3. 

band of narrow insertion, which is laid in with 
the plaits ; a very narrow knife-plaiting should 
be placed under the embroidery at the bottom, to 
protest it from the dust. The tunic is closed part 
way down the front, is then drawn back and 
carelessly looped at the back : it is edged with 
embroidery ; the waist is round and plain, and 
a leather belt and buckle is worn with it. 

No. 4 — Is a house or visiting-dress, of white 
pine-apple gauze ; the skirt is trimmed with a ; 
gathered ruffle, above which are two full-quilled 

trimmed with lace, which narrows down at the 

No. 5 — Is a frock, for a little girl, and is 
made of cream-white or of colored bunting. It 



the front of the frock, form the sleeves, and a 
bertha around the neck, and two frills around the 
skirt. With this dress, a high white bodice, with 
long sleeves, should be worn underneath. 

Nos. 6 and 7 — Are the front and back of a bod- 
ice for house and evening-wear. It is made of 
summer brocatelle, opening in front over a waist- 
coat formed of rows of lace, and is confined in 
front, at the waist, by .two straps ; the collar- 
revers are of plain silk or satin, to correspond 
with the color of the dress with which the bodice 

is trimmed with bands, on which pink and blue 
flowers are embroidered. These bands ornament 

No. 6. 

is worn. The sleeves reach to below the elbow, 
and have a lace ruffle which is turned back from 
the arm. The back of the bodice is laid in short, 
broad plaits ; or it can be made to open in the 
back, over a puffed skirt. A bodice of this kind 
is economical : as with it, old skirts may be re- 
arranged and worn ; or it itself may be made of 
an old dress-skirt. If not of good material, how- 
ever, but little lace should be used in front. In 
that case it might be made quite close, or else 
made with a plain silk or satin vest. 



No. 8— Is a summer-suit, for a little boy. It I No. 11— Is a costume of blue albatross, for a 
may be made of any color, but blue flannel is < little girl ; the upper garment is just long enough 
exceedingly pretty for cool days. Hollands, ; 
piques, and plain chintzes are very suitable for j 
wash-dresses. The skirt is kilt-plaited, and i 
trimmed with several rows of white worsted j 
braid ; the very long blouse buttons down the 
front, and the collar and cuffs are trimmed with < 
white worsted braid ; the skirt-piece underneath ] 
has crosswise trimmings of the braid. 

No. 9 — Is a boy's suit, of red, blue, or cream- j 


to reach the embroidered ruffle at the bottom of 
> the dress ; or the ruffle can be attached to the 
I bottom of the albatross garment. It is made to 

No. 8. 

colored serge, or of white pique* ; it has a plaited 
skirt, a blouse-waist, and a sailor-collar, which 
is very deep at the back, and is trimmed with 
five rows of braid. The collar in front comes in 
a deep point down to the bottom of the blouse- l 
waist, and opens over a striped Jersey ; or there 
might be a piece of the serge inserted, and j 
braided crosswise, not lengthwise. 

No. 10— Is a frock of white jaconet, for a little j 
child; the skirt is almost formed by the two; 

rows of embroidery. The front, collar, and cuffs fall straight but closely in front, and at the back 
are trimmed with the embroidery. i has several seams to fit it to the figure. 




collar is of linen, edged with embroidery ; and 
there is a wide bow of ribbon at the back of the 


Any stj r le in this number will be sent by mail on receipt 
of full price for corresponding article in price list below. 
Patterns will be put together and plainly marked. Patterns 
designed to order. 

Princess Dress : Plain 50 

" " with drapery and trimming, . . . .1.00 

Polonaise, -50 

Combination Walking Suits, 1.00 

Trimmed Skirts 60 

Watteau Wrapper, 50 

Plain or Gored Wrappers, *jo 

Basques, 35 

Coats, «JJ 

" with vests or skirts cut off, 50 

Overskirts, 35 

Talmas and Dolmans, 35 < 

Waterproofs and Circulars, 35 < 

Ulsters, 35 j 


Dresses: Plain, . . 
Combination Suits, . 
Skirts and Overskirts, 
Polonaise: Plain, . . 
" Fancy, . 

.25 ! Basques and Coats, . . .25 
.35 1 Coats & Vests or Cut Skirts .35 

.25 Wrappers, 25 

.25 Waterproofs, Circulars 
.35| and Ulsters, 25 


Jackets, 25 1 Wrappers,. 25 

p ants 20 Gents' Shirts, 50 

Vests,' . 20 1 " Wrappers, . . . .30 

Ulsters, 30 1 

In sending orders for Patterns, please send the number 
and month of Magazine, also No. of page or figure or any- 
thing definite, and also whether for lady or child. Address, 
Mrs M. A. Jones, 28 South Eighth Street, Philadelphia. 

No. 11. 



We give, in the front of the number, a double- 
size pattern, printed in colors, for a Quilt in 
German linen-thread embroidery. This t>ld Ger- 
man linen-work recommends itself by its rich, 
glossy effect, produced by a variety of stitches, 
as well as by the simplicity of the materials em- 
ployed. The materials required are Russian 
crash of very coarse texture, white linen thread, 
and. silks of various colors. The designs are 
worked in a variety of stitrches, comprising stem- 
stitch, feather-stitch, cross-stitch, all the vari- 
ous- stitches known, background-stitches, crewel- 
stitch, satin-stitch, French knots, and their 
combinations. By altering the direction of the 
several stitches, and also by a modified arrange- 
ment of them, entirely different effects can be 
produced in the same design, and every oppor- 
tunity is thus given to a clever worker for dis- 
playing taste and ingenuity. It is not necessary, 
however, to use all tn€se stitches; excellent 
effects can be produced by a very few ; you need 

not know all these fancy stitches to secure nice 
work. Besides being of thorough artistic ap- 
pearance, this linen-work stands any reasonable 
amount of washing and hard wear, and is, there- 
fore, specially suitable for quilts, toilette-covers, 
sideboard-cloths, chair-backs, and similar articles. 
We give only a portion of the Quilt in our 
colored plate, but enough for the purpose, for it 
is worked in separate squares (one of which we 
give complete), and joined afterwards by inser- 
tion of drawn-work. On two subsequent pages, 
at the tops of the pages, we give two designs for 
oorders for this Quilt, to be executed in repeats, 
and the whole finished by a smooth or knotted 
fringe made of unraveled threads. For stitch- 
ing the thick and coarse material, which it is 
necessary to use for the foundation of the quilt, 
a very strong and well-tempered needle ought to 
be chosen, and the thread used double. Notice 
where the drawn-work comes in, around the cen- 
tre of each of the squares. It should be borne 



in mind that the lines of drawn-work and ihe 
borders of continuous design contribute much to 
the artistic appearance of the work, if their 
positions are judiciously chosen. 

The same style of work can also be adapted to 
silk embroidery on fine linen, as shown in the 
two designs for D'oyleys, on the same page as the 
borders. Colors may be introduced in the 
D'oyleys if wished, at the taste of the person 

, working them. The silk must be very fine and 
smooth, and the colors ingrain. Squares worked 

\ in this manner, and on various colors, can be 
joined to small coverlets, mats, chair-backs, and 
intersected by strips of drawn-work, or of lace, 
if preferred. 

The articles thus composed present a very 
refined appearance, and, if furnished with a 
stout lining, wear well. 



The frame of this novel and tasteful watch- 
Btand is in plush, either crimson, peacock-blue, 
or moss-green, embroidered with trails in colored 
silks or gold thread. A hook receives the watch, 

; and a cardboard panel, fitted into the hollow, is 
; covered with silk, and finished by an embroidered 
: pocket, set on with flutes, as shown in the side 
I view of the watch-stand. 


On the Supplement, folded in with this number, 
are two very new and beautiful designs for the 

f . Bunch of Pink Geraniums in embroidery. 
The geraniums are of the hue termed Christine, 
pink with white centres ; the green leaves are : 
Of the brightest golden-green ; and the zonal 

stripes of a shade darker. The stems a green- 
brown tint ; the veinings of the leaves green and 
brown ; the latter to match the stems. 

II. Border for Curtain. The birds are to 
be worked in Kensingten-stitch, or satin-stitch. 
The scroll-work may be in braiding, or Kensing- 
ton-stitch, or outline-stitch. 



We give, here, two illustrations for a Girl's 
Frock. The frock is the same, in both cases, in 
all its material features, and therefore the same 
patterns, to cut it out by, will do for both. On 
a Supplement, folded in with 'this number, we 
give the patterns for it, full size. They are six 
in number, viz. : 

No. 1. — First Piece for Front. 
No. 2. — Second Piece for Front. 
No. 3. — First Piece for Back. 
No. 4. — Second Piece for Back. 
No. 5. — Half of Sleeve. 
No. 6. — Quarter of Width of Skirt. 
The two frocks are called respectively the 
Princess frock and the Saxon frock, the latter 
from the ornamentation in front resembling that 
worn by the old Anglo-Saxons. They are suit- 
able for a little girl of from six to eight years of 

The Princess is illustrated by the back view, 

and the Saxon by the front view. Our pattern 
is lettered, showing how the parts are put to- 
gether. No. 5, the piece for the skirt, shows 
the length from G to H, and one-quarter of the 
width from H to K. Of course the length of the 
skirt must be determined by the size of the child. 
Make a two-inch hem on the skirt. 

For the Saxon frock the plastron is a straight 
piece fulled on, and it is ornamented with feather 
or honey-comb stitches, worked in silk ; or in- 
grain cotton if for a wash-dress. The sleeves 
are done in the same manner. Cashmere, serge, 
surah silk, pongee, are all suitable, as well as all 
washing fabrics. Of the latter, the self-colored 
satins or fine-checked ginghams are the prettiest. 
A wide sash of the material ties in a large bow 
and ends at the back. 

We also give, on the Supplement, two beautiful 
designs in embroidery, which are described in 
another place. 



Run lace, as it was called, was a favorite trim- j can be embellished by a few fancy stitches and 
ming with our grandmothers, and has of late ', fillings, as indicated in our wood-cut. Colored 
made its reappearance amongst fashionable laces, j thread or silk has also a good effect on a white 
It is easy of execution, the threads being run or black net. The pattern we give, by being re- 
through the meshes of machine-made net to \ peated, will make a strip of lace of any length ; 
form the outline of the designs, which afterwards * it is a very effective one. 



Summer is approaching, and traveling-bags 
will be more than ever in use. We give, here, 
a design by which an old traveling-bag, if not 
broken, may be "made as good as new." This 
is done by covering it with dark-faded green 
plush, on which a suitable bunch of flowers is 
worked in cross-stitch over canvas, which is 
afterwards drawn out, The case is cut to fit the 

Vol. LXXX1IL— 33. 

bag, and when embroidered, joined together, so 
as to slip the bag in. Small straps fasten the 
case across the top. Leather handles can be 
bought and attached to the rings on the steel or 
iron band. During tKe past two years we have 
given several designs, any one of which would 
do for the bunch of flowers, and we shall give 
others during the present year. 



Hints On How To Dress.— A famous London doctor j 
said, in a recent lecture, that "dress should be to the body 
what language is to the mind." In other words, it should be, 
to a certain extent, the exponent of one's individuality. 
.Slavishly to copy the fashions, we have always condemned. 
Our advice has been to learn, in the first place, what the 
prevailing fashions were, and then, in the second place, to 
adapt them to your person, style, complexion, etc. 

To achieve this object, a lady must study two things, viz: 
form and color, at least as regards herself: form, in refer- 
ence to her height and breadth, as compared with others ; 
and color, in respect to complexion, hair, eyes, etc. In 
regard to form, there are certain rules which must never be 
neglected. Thus, a stout woman should avoid perpendicular 
stripes in dress, as, although they give height, they increase 
fullness; and horizontal stripes should be avoided by short 
or very stout people. Large patterns should be discarded by 
shoit people, and left to the tall ones, who can manage to 
carry them off gracefully. The former must also beware of 
wearing double skirts, or tunics short and bunchy in shape, 
and also of lines made across the figure by flounces or trim- 
mings, which cut it in the centre. The short and stout 
must also dress the hair high : at least, as much bo as the 
fashion of the time will allow. 

A dress cut high behind, or high on the shoulders, gives 
the benefit of the whole height of the figure, and a hori- 
zontal line of trimming across the neck, bust, or shoulders 
decreases the apparent height of the wearer. Full and 
puffed sleeves are an improvement to most figures, except 
very stout ones, to which the plain coat-sleeve, not cut too 
tight, is more suitable. Very light colors should be avoided 
by those who are stout, as their size is thereby much in- 
creased, whereas by wearing black materials it is diminished. 
Any attempt to increase the height by a very high or large 
head-dress should be avoided, as such an enlargement of the 
head dwarfs the figure. A lady with a prominent or large 
nose should beware of wearing a small bonnet, and no one 
over thirty years of age can afford to have a shadow thrown 
on her face from too large a hat or bonnet, as that increases 
the apparent age. 

In making dresses for young girls, when they happen to 
be very thin, great attention should be paid to the fact, and 
every endeavor made to hide deficiencies by means of extra 
fullness of trimming in the bodice and skirt. They are 
often made fun of for this, as they are for a little extra 
stoutness, which is very cruel and foolish. One of their 
great troubles is usually very skeleton-like arms. This 
defect shows itself in a very painful manner, and both elbows 
and shoulder-bones are " quite too " visible, even in a thick 
dress. This was remedied by a wise mother of our acquaint- 
ance by placing a little layer of wadding between the lining 
and the material of the dress, which gave an extra thickness 
to the sleeve, and hid all deficiencies of contour. In the 
opposite case, that of over-stoutness, the young girls' dresses 
should all be made in the "Princess" style, as the long, 
straight, flowing lines downwards reduce the apparent 
breadth. The back-drapery should be full, but very narrow, 
and not too high up. 

With these general rules borne in mind, any lady, who 
takes a good fashion magazine, can always dress well ; for 
she must, of course, know first what the fashions are, before 
she can adapt them to herself. 

Decorating Supper Tables, Etc.— We are often asked, by 
subscribers living remote from the great cities, what is the 
latest style for decorating supper-tables, dinner-tables, etc. 
We answer that there are almost as many ways as persons, 
and that individual taste is often better than mere fashion. 
Nevertheless, we mention a few styles, which, at least, may 
serve as hints. For example : low baskets, with or without 
handles, may be placed down the centre of the table, filled 
with white flowers and maidenhair, each basket tied round 
with white ribbon. Between the flowers, high dishes with 
fruit and fancy cakes may break the line. Or a table may 
be arranged with maidenhair fern, laid flat on the table 
round the base of every dish, and various flowering plants 
standing in glass or china vases down the centre. Wreaths 
of roses of every color may encircle a plateau of looking- 
glass, on which baskets or vases are placed ; and if the table 
is very large, baskets filled with flowers are certainly the 
prettiest decoration ; but for effect the flowers should be of 
the same sort and color. A white table, with masses of yel- 
low blossoms, alamanda, chrysanthemums, or even daffodils 
or primroses, is most effective. Violets intermixed with the 
latter are admissible. White azaleas, or bright rose-colored 
rhododendrons, look well until the summer season provides 
the queen of flowers, when roses can be used ad libitum. A 
single flower, for the buttonhole, at each plate, is a pretty 
attention to the male guests. If flowers are scarce, the fine 
trails of the small ivy can be trellised all over the table 
with excellent effect ; but to insure success in all table-deco- 
ration, there is no doubt that one color alone should be 
\ chosen and kept to. It is wonderful how prettily a table 
can be dressed with the blue and white china now so easily 
\ procured at small cost, provided good shapes are chosen and 
J suitable flowers used. Bowls full of pink roses, common 
\ garden-flowers, or wild ones, are alike effective. Blue china 
\ goes well with wall-flowers or chrysanthemums. Laburnum 
\ blossom may be very well arranged as a fringe to baskets or 
< bowls, and if white china be used, lilac blossom looks well, 
though its shade is not really bright or gay enough for 
a wedding breakfast. Wild-flowers, especially, are very 
pretty, and if gathered immediately before being used, will 
generally last through the entertainment. The great point 
in using these, as in everything else, is to be original and 
individual, provided always taste reigns paramount. 

A Permanent Pattern For a Dress is what every lady 
should have. Every girl, especially, who makes her own 
dresses, should have one. Such girls, in some respects, are 
greatly to be envied They almost invariably fit themselves 
well. We think all those, however, should have a " perma- 
nent pattern," and make all their own bodices at least. The 
skirts can be bought ready-made, or can be given to a dress- 
maker to make and trim. But what is a " permanent pat- 
tern?" you will ask. It is a bodice of thick linen, cut to 
I one's exact measurement, and made to fit perfectly, and 
\ then all taken to pieces ready to serve as a pattern for all 
\ future drosses. Of course, a good dressmaker must make it 
\ first for you. 

\ * 

\ A New Volume of this magazine begins with the July 
i number. To those, not wishing back numbers, now, there- 
\ fore, is an excellent opportunity to subscribe. The copy- 
> right novelet, " A Romance of Fifth Avenue," will be begun 
\ in the July number. 



Oito Unrivaled Premiums For 1883. — Our premium.8 ' Additions To Clubs may be made, at the price paid by 

for getting up clubs for this year are unusually fine, j the rest of the club, at any time during tlus year. And 

One is the steel-engraving, (27 inches by 20,) " Christ ' when enough additional subscribers have been sent, you 

Before Pilate," tlie most wonderful picture of the century, as will be entitled to another premium, or premiums, pre- 

i.s everywhere admitted. The enterprise of " Peterson," in \ cisely as if it were a new club. Go on, therefore, adding 

engraving this magnificent work of art, at a cost* that ; to your clubs and earning premiums. Back numbers, to 

would stagger ordinary publishers, is conceded, on all ; January, inclusive, can be had, if desired. 

hands, to be beyond precedent. Every family in the land j 

owjht to have a copy of this superb engraving. I "Sparkling and Brilliant."— The Horticultural (Col.) 

But as there are some persons who already have their < ( Press says of the last number of this magazine : " It is 

walls covered with engravings, or may prefer something \ sparkling and brilliant as usual, every page full of just the 

else, we offer, in place of the "Christ Before Pilate," either < kind of reading to make glad the heart of the weary wife 

our Illustrated Quarto Album, a very beautiful ornament ) and mother, when she sits down for the evening to rest, 

for the centre-table, or a handsome Photograph Album. In < after the little ones are safely tucked in bed." 
all such cases, however, say which Album is preferred. 

For many clubs, an extra copy of the magazine will be < 
sent. For others, and larger ones, a copy of the engraving j 
or either of the Albums. The inducements to get up clubs < 
were never before so great, and probably will never be so ; 
great again. See offers on second page of cover. Specimens I 
are sent, gratis, if written for, to get up clubs with. 

Old Lace Is Much more valuable than new, for this 


TJie Admiral's Daughter. By Mrs. Alexander. 1 vol., 12mo. 
New York : Henry Hoyt & Co. — It is a little curious that a 
lady who has written two such capital novels as " Her Dear- 
est Foe " and " The Wooing O't," could write — or even having 
written, could consent to publish — so prosy a story as this 

r^aspn, among others, that it is generally all woven in \ " Admiral's Daughter." The plot, in the first place, has no 
'* lost " patterns. It is frequently as fine as a spider's film \ originality, but is substantially the same old one that has 
and cannot be reproduced. The loss of patterns was a severe J been worn thread-bare long ago. In the second place, 
check to lace-making in France and Belgium, and was < granting the author had worn out her inventive faculty, 
occasioned by the French Revolution. Before that time \ and had no new material, she would have made a much 
whole villages supported themselves by lace-making, and ( more tolerable novel if she had told her tale in half the corn- 
patterns were handed down from one generation to another, pass. Her last story, " The Freres," inferior as it was to her 
They were valuable heirlooms, for the most celebrated \ earlier ones, was yet vastly better than this, which is really 
weavers always had as many orders as they could execute \ s P un out beyond all example, and has hardly a redeeming 
in a lifetime, and they were bound by an oath taken on the feature in it. 

Four Gospels to work only for certain dealers. When the j 
Reign of Terror began, all business of this sort was inter- ] 
rupted for a time. After the storm subsided, the dealers ; 
and workers were far apart — some dead, some lost, and some I 
escaped to foreign lands; and such of the women as re- | 
mained, were bound by their oath to work for but one. And 1 
this oath, in spite of Robespierre's doctrines, was held by '< 
the poorest of them to be binding, and there are instances \ 
where they suffered actual want, rather than break their ! 
word. Some, however, taught their children and their < 
grandchildren, and many patterns were in this way pre- < 

Gideon Fleyce. By Henry M. Lucy. 1 vol., 12mo. New 
York: Henry Holt <& Co. — We have here a new claimant for 
popular favor, and one who may be said to have " won his 
spurs " in his very first tourney. The plot of the book is 
quite novel. It turns on the secret assassination of an old 
miser, but is so artistically managed that the reader does 
not suspect the real culprit until the very end. Considering 
how difficult it is to invent anything new in the way of a 
plot, this is very high praise ; but it is not the only merit of 
the book, for the characters are forcibly drawn, and some of 
the scenes are depicted with great power. We recall few 

served. Some of the daintiest and finest patterns were \ thiugs, in fact, so powerful as the chapter in which the- dead 

man sits in his chair alone all night, with the dagger stick- 
ing in him. It is quite in the manner of Dickens. 

Boole of Health and Humor for the Million. 1 vol., 12w?o. 
Baltimore: The Charles A. Vogeler Co. — A very excellent 
compilation, by Mr. H. D. Umbstaetter, of original, copy- 
righted, humorous articles from such racy writers as " Uncle 

never recovered, and to-day specimens of these laces are i 
known to be worth their weight in diamonds. 

Ornaments For The Hair are of all kinds. Large jet 
butterflies, mounted on quivering wire, are among the latest 
novelties for fair hair. Very little ornament is worn in the ; 

hair, however, as a general rule, and the fashion of frizzy j E e muSj » the editors of the "Texas Sittings," "Spoopen- 
heads is slowly vanishing. It has been the custom, lately, ,jyke,* f the Brooklyn Eagle, etc., etc. It is copiously 
for young girls and ladies to cut their hair short, and very and characteristically illustrated, and is in every way a 
slightly wave it, if there is no natural curl or wave. There no teworthy publication. The taste, in fact, which can put 
is usually the centre parting; but the hair is cut on the \ together a collection like this, is almost as rare and envi- 
forehead. It may be a good thing, when the hair is weak [ able a qua lity as the original humor itself, 
and thin, but it is not a generally becoming fashion, and the S ^^ Q ,^ ^ ft,^ B j. Hartelius, M. D. 

eye turns with pleasure to a shapely head, with its rich coils % ^ 12mo> PMa delphia: J. B. UppincoU & 0>.-This is 
of hair low on the neck. a treatifle on the p re6e rvation and Restoration of Health in 

Compare the Colored Fashions in this magazine with \ Children, and young and old of both sexes. It is profusely 
those in any other. Ours are engraved on steel, and printed \ illustrated, which adds greatly to the value of the text, 
from the steel-plates, and then afterwards colored bv hand. \ ^cause it enables the reader more thoroughly to understand 
The rest of the magazines either give no colored fashions, \ **• The work originally appeared in Swedish. It seems to 
or give lithographed ones, or colored wood-cuts, in every J us <l uite tne ^ of lts kin(L 

way inferior to ours, and net costing half as much. < FanchetU. " Round Robin Series." 1 vol., 12mo. Boston : 
\ J. R. Osgood & Co. — The scene of part of this tale is laid 

It Is Impossible to give all the patterns, etc., etc., asked < in Washington ; the rest of it on the Eastern Shore of 
for by subscribers. We would have to print a magazine \ Maryland. The story is full of vivacity, and is carried on 
ten times as big to do it. But we give those that seem to be < from beginning to end without break, as Wilkie Collins, no 
most in request, thus obliging as many as possible. \ mean judge in such matters, says all novels ought to be. 




Not Fob Yeaes has the demand for " Peterson " been so 
active as this year. We are in receipt of hundreds of 
letters explaining this. One lady sends a club, and adds : 
" This makes twenty-three years I have got up a club for 
1 Peterson.' " Another says : " There is not anything else 
which can take its place." Another : " We thought we would 
do without ' Peterson ' this year, but find we cannot, so I 
send a club again." Another : " [ now enter on my twenty- 
ninth year of subscription to your magazine." Other so- 
called lady's books are merely the advertising sheets of 
New York or Philadelphia dry-goods dealers, or dress- 
makers. " Peterson " is the only one that is really what it 
professes to be, and has no pecuniary interest in recommend- 
ing any particular styles. What it says, therefore, about the 
fashions, can always be relied on. 

Imitation Baking Powders —To The Public : The pub- 
lic is cautioned against the practice of many grocers who 
sell what they claim to be Royal Baking Powder, loose or 
in bulk, without label or trade-mark. All such powders are 
base imitations. Analyses of hundreds of samples of bak- 
ing powders sold in bulk to parties asking for Royal have 
shown them all to be largely adulterated, mostly with alum, 
dangerous for use in food, and comparatively valueless for 
leavening purposes. 

The public is too well aware of the injurious effect of \ 
alum upon the system, to need further caution agaiust the 
use of any baking powders known to be made from this 
drug ; but the dealer's assurance, " Oh, it's just as good as 
Royal," or " it's the genuine Royal, only we buy it by the 
barrel to save expense of can," etc., is apt to mislead the 
unsuspecting consumers into buying an article which they 
woirid not knowingly use in their food under any consider- 
ation. The only safety from such practices is in buying 
baking powder only in the original package, of a well- 
known brand, and a thoroughly established reputation. 

The Royal Baking Powder is sold only in cans, securely 
closed with the Company's trade-mark label, and the weight 
of package stamped on each cover. It is never sold in bulk, 
by the barrel, or loose by weight or measure, and all such 
offered the public under any pretense are imitations. 

If consumers will bear these facts in mind, and also see 
that the package purchased is properly labeled, and the 
label unbroken, they will be always sure of using a baking 
powder perfectly pure and wholesome, and of the highest 
test strength in the market. J. C. Hoagland, President, 
Royal Baking Powder Co., N. Y. 

Horsford's Acid Phosphate in seasickness, is of great 
value. Its action on the nerves of the disturbed stomach is 
soothing and effective. 

Tested By Time. — For throat diseases, colds and coughs, 
Brown's Bronchial Troches have proved their efficacy by a 
test of many years. Price twenty-five cents. 


/fc5f* Everything relating to this department should be 
addressed "Puzzle Editor," Peterson's Magazine, Lock 
Box 437, Marblehead, Mass. 

No. 195.— Central Acrostic. 
Words of three letters. 
1. A morsel. 2 An animal. 3. Ancient. 
5. An Insect. 6 The goddess of revenge. 
8. A marsh. 

The centrals, read downward, name an opera, 
3Iarblehead, Mass. 

No. 196.— Hidden Trees. 

1. Did Mr. Melrose woo Dora? 

2. Where is the map? Let me see it. 

3. Pshaw ! I'll owe it to you. 

4. A bee chased Carrie all around the garden. 

5. Tom, spin Enoch's top for him. 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Martin H. Marchant. 

Answers Next Month. 

Answers to Puzzles in the May Number. 

No. 193. 


Dover, Doter. 


Brave, Breve. 


Delay, Decay. 


Revel, Rebel. 


Creak, Croak. 

No. 194. 


M T I 


E 3 


I R I C 



M I 

N A R E 



T E S 

4. A vessel. 
7. A female. 



J$j$=-Every Receipt in this Cook-Book has been tested by a 
practical housekeeper. 


Irish Stew is an economical dish, yet it is not everyone 
who thinks of making the stew of the remains of a joint ; 
that is to say, of the bone when nearly all the meat has 
been taken from it. Cut the meat off in as neat pieces as 
may be, fat and lean together. Break up the bone and put 
it with the meat, then put all into a saucepan with plenty 
of sliced onion, twice as much raw potato peeled and sliced, 
and cold water or stock to cover. Simmer all gently for 
two or three hours, season liberally with pepper and salt, 
and serve in a soup tureen. If necessary, a little flour may 
be added to thicken the stew, but it is probable that this 
will not be required. 

Mutton-Steak Pie.— Cut the steak in small pieces ; to two 
steaks, put one pint of water, salt and pepper; stew until 
the meat is tender; keep it tightly covered; add one onion 
sliced. When the meat is done, stir in the gravy two table- 
spoons of butter rolled in one tablespoon of browned flour. 
Cut up one large-sized Irish potato into small pieces, and 
slice two hard-boiled eggs. Pour this into a dish lined with 
crust; cover with crust that has a small hole in the centre 
of it ; bake for half an hour, and serve. 

To Fricassee Old Cliickens.—'First stew them until tender. 
With a sharp knife remove the largest bones; flour the 
pieces, and fry them a light-brown color, and pour into a 
frying-pan a tumblerful of the broth they were stewed in. 
Dredge in an even tablespoonful of flour, cover the pan with 
a lid, and stew until the gravy is thick enough. Pour this 
over the fowl, and serve hot. Onion shred fine may be used 
if the flavor is relished, and parsley chopped fine. 


\ Potato Loaves.— Potato loaves are very nice when eaten 
{ with roast beef or mutton, and are made of any portion of 
| the mashed roots, prepared without milk, by mixing with 
I them a good quantity of very finely minced raw shallot, 


powdered with pepper and salt; then beating up the whole 
with a lump of butter to bind it, and dividing it into small 
loaves of a conical form, and placing them under the meat 
to brown, that is, when it is so nearly done as to impart some 
of the gravy along with the tat. 

Fried Tomatoes.— Wash and halve your tomatoes. Dredge 

and is gathered at the waist; the bands at the throat and 
across the bust are of the silk, as well as the pointed cuffs. 
Figs, vi and vn.— Back and Front of Dress, of Blue 
Sateen. The bottom is edged with two narrow knife-plait- 
ings of the blue sateen ; the skirt is trimmed with three 
kilt-plaitings edged with lace, embroidered with blue ; the 

ilightly crossed in front, and the drapery at the 
each half with a little flour, pepper, and salt Have the ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ edged ^ the lace; 
lard hot, and fry them brown on both sides. Place the to- ^ ^^ ^.^ ^ & ^.^ ^^ ^ ^ gkirt; cream . 
matoe S inadish,pourthe grease from the pan, add cream colored fichu collar> worke d in blue; the lace-trimming 
or milk, and let it boil up like fried chicken gravy. Pour | ^^ ^^ ^ ^^ Qf ^ ^.^ ^ gleeyeg terminate 
over the tomatoes, and serve hot. j ^.^ puffingg to match the collar> Cream-colored torchon 

Cucumber Puree— Peel the cucumbers, cut them into dice, j Jace ^^ ^ a dregg of this kind beautifully. We have 

and put them on the fire, very early in the morning, with j algQ geeQ thig gtyle of dregs in dark-red. 

vinegar, cayenne pepper, salt, a small onion, and a few \ FiGg VIII an( j \ x .— Back and Front of a Black Grena- 

celery-seeds. Stew gently until dinner-time. J dine Dress. The skirt is laid in wide kilts; the short 

miscellaneous. round tunic is draped as a scarf, and falls in a point at the 

Bread ^ce.-Pour half a pint of boiling milk on a tea- back ; the panier body is edged with iblRck French lac* and 
.cupful of fine breadcrumb, add a small onion stuck with has a lace plastron gathered at the .a tte «h eml at cloves, a small blade of mace, a few peppercorns, and j the back are trimmed with lace like the pmie , * ej^e 
salt to taste let the sauce simmer five minutes, add a small j on the sleeves is carried to the elbow ; a thick double luche 

piece of fresh butter, and at the time of serving remove 
the onion and mace. 


Yiq, i. Visiting-Dress, of Figured Purple Foulard. 

The bottom of the skirt is trimmed with surah silk of the 

of lace encircles the throat. Nuu's-veiling or albatro*s- 
cloth, of any color, trimmed with lace or embroidery, looks 
well made after this pattern. 

Figs, x and xi.— Back and Front of Jacket, made of 
Thin White Lady's-Cloth. The close-fitting jacket has 
a plaited basque added, which is headed by a band of myrtle- 
green velvet; the same material is used as a band, front and 
back, and also forms the collar and cuffs. 

Fig. xii.— Hat, of Light-Brown Straw, trimmed with 

The bottom of the skirt is trimmed with surah silK oi tne *ig. xii.-jiat, or ««™«mw« «-— -, ~ — 

color of the foulard, and edged with ecru lace; the deep- feathers of the same color, and faced and trimmed with 
pointed tunic is edged with two rows of lace, and above these satin of a much darker shade. 

are two other rows to simulate a second tunic ; the waist is \ Fig. xiii.-Marie-de-Medici Jacket, of Almond-Colored 
Princess with paniers edged with ecru lace, and the drapery \ Lady's-Cloth. The basque is cut in quite long tabs, which 
. . i - ., . r. «•„. +v.„ „„o* ,•«, r., Q ^ a nf aural, rilk. \ »r A linpH with chestnut-brown velvet, and turned up to form 

at the back falls in soft puffs ; the vest is made of surah silk, 
slightly gathered, the bodice being trimmed with ecru lace; 
bonnet of purple straw, trimmed with ecru lace and yellow 

Fig. ii.— House-Dress, of Fine Plaid Percale. The 
bottom of the skirt is trimmed with a narrow ruffle; the 
left side of the skirt falls in long straight plaits; the dress 

are lined with chestnut-brown velvet, and turned up to form 
loops; the sleeves and cuffs are of the brown velvet; large 
brown-velvet buttons. Hat of almond-colored straw, and 
plumes of the same color, faced with chestnut-brown velvet. 
Fig. xiv— Basquine Jacket, of Black Brocaded Satin, 
trimmed with black lace. The basque is laid in plaits, 
where it opens, up the centre of the back; the collar and 

left side of the skirt falls in long straight piaiis; uie urew , wnere i* open*, up m C ^„.„ , — 

is Princess, the bodice buttoning from the right to the left j cascade in front are of lace, put on as a jabot, and the 
. ' ... ai-_ _i„j*:..«. n ^A ia o-afViovAfi l T>n/>i-ota onri wiffs nrft of erathered lace. 

side, and the skirt opens over the plaiting, and is gathered 
high up on the hip on the left side; the straight side is 
finished with large buttons, which form a continuous row 
from the neck of the dress down to the bottom of the skirt; 
the Princess back is laid in large full plaits underneath, 
ike an ulster; the open-pointed neck of the bodice has a 
large cut-work collar, and the half-sleeves are trimmed with 
the same kind of embroidery. 
Fig. hi.— Walking or House-Dress, of Black and 

pockets and cuffs are of gathered lace. 

Fig. xv.— Hat, of Coarse White Straw, trimmed with 
apple-green surah silk, and apple-blossoms. 

Fig. xvi.— Bonnet, of White English Straw, trimmed 
with clusters of large variegated pansies, the elastic stems 
of which pass under a band of the lilac ribbon which trims 
the bonnet, and which is tied in a bow back of the right 
ear; a quilling of the ribbon is placed at the back. 

Fig. xvii.— Garden-Hat, of Coarse Straw, either brown, 

Fig hi— Walking or ±1ouse-l»ress, or d^au^ a^ ri W .A^—««- -i - 

White Shepheed'e Plaid. The bottom of the skirt is white, or black, trimmed with field-flowers,, and 
Wmmed w h one deep gathered raffle, ornamented with ! daisies; a large gauze veil to ma*h the straw covers the 

rl rows of black velvet ribbon; the rounded apron- hat, and is fastened to the hat or hair behind. 
tZ is trimmed n the II wav, and the drapery falls low I* xviii.-Bosnet, op Mvetle-Geeen Steaw, covered 
Ind oseaT«,e back ; black silk jacket-waist, finished with with rows of cream-colored lace The trimming — o 
a series of tab. around the bottom, and ornamented uown J twc .loose ^s one o, myrtle-green^nd ^otber of 

^JSS?. Chamo,— W -L ends; these rosettes are placed nearly on the top of 

figured with small cocks in a darker shade. The dress is 
Princess, and falls in a long point in front, and is gathered 
high up on the hips ; at the back it is in looped drapery, 

the bonnet; strings of myrtle-green satin ribbon. 

Fro. xix.— Hat, of Coabse Black Steaw, trimmed with 
lace and yellow daffodils. 

high up on the hips ; at the back it is in loopea arapery, > .«"> »"- j«»«" — ., . aha .,h,telv new in 

which does not fall very low; the underskirt is of plain ; Gekeeal EEMAEKS-There is "»"> *^ te " ™ f 
sateen, kilt-plaits. Hat of dar,b,ue straw, trimmed with J^*~^£££ SSSjJSS 
'StS^Si OE White Alhateose. The skirt hut this -bio" is optional. " Pinking w.ich^ so very 
is edged with a narrow box-plaited ruffle; above this is an faahionable a few years ^o, .-gmn^ . fa o. Tl. 
appliCne design in ememld-green silk-embroidery in ij a ,»££ y J^^^T^uL^ 



but now long ones are dividing popular favor, and these 
latter are usually more becoming to short persons. 
But see, for general fashions, our Paris letter. 


Rue des Petits Champs. 
I do not think I have ever seen a season in which there 
were so few marked changes in the fashions. Perhaps this 
arises from the fact that the styles, for at least a year past, 
have been eclectic ; that is to say, every la.'y has worn the 
shapes and colors that best suited her particular physiog- 
nomy. The most prominent difference, so far, has been in 
the shape and size of the new hats and bonnets. The very 
large hats are rapidly disappearing, though one sees here 
and there, at a fashionable milliner's, a very big Gains- 
borough in colored straw, elaborately trimmed and loaded 
with ostrich plumes. Such hats are less and less seen on the 
heads of the elegant Parisienues, however. The baby, or 
Kate Greenaway shape, is still worn, but with the warmer 
weather even that is being replaced more and more by the 
close coquettish capote, which is made smaller than ever. 
It now fits the head as closely as a nutshell does its kernel. 
Colored straws are the rage, comparatively few white ones 
being worn. They are of the fine English braid, and are 
shown in all the fashionable dark colors, such as navy-blue, 
olive-green, garnet, and seal-brown. They are usually 
trimmed with flowers in contrasting hues, massed around 
the edge of the bonnet both in front and at the back. Some 
of the newest braids show a mixture of dead-gold or old- 
silver that is very tasteful. A braid of gray silk and old- 
silver, trimmed with large rosettes of pale-blue velvet ribbon, 
has a very stylish effect. Fruit is a good deal used on the 
small-sized poke bonnets, cherries and plums being the 
most fashionable, though small lemons and oranges are 
used with good effect. Yelvet geraniums, arranged in 
shaded wreaths of three shades of red, are exceedingly 
effective and rich-looking. They are placed around the 
crown of a straw bonnet in a band three flowers deep, the I 
top row being of the brightest shade cf red. Gold braid 
bonnets are shown for evening-wear; the gold is bright 
and glistening, and the bonnet is trimmed around the brim 
with single loose-petaled roses in crimson and scarlet velvet, 
the strings being in dark-red corded ribbon. A. very novel 
style of bonnet is made of a thick bias piping, or rather 
cording, of dull-pink surah. The cording is sewn round 
and round on the small capote frame till it meets the front, 
which is formed of two ruffles of narrow white Spanish 
lace over dull-pink surah. A cluster of ostrich-tips, in the 
same color, is placed at one side of this very odd and co- 
quettish little . headgear. A now kind of tulle, called Per- 
sian net, has been introduced for summer bonnets. It is 
firmer and more durable than the ordinary tulle. A capote 
made of this net, put on very full over the frame and 
trimmed with white lilacs around the brim, forms a delicious 
dress-bonnet. The strings are plaited scarfs of the tulle. 
Black Spanish lace is a favorite material for dress-bonnets 
for elderly ladies. These bonnets are now ornamented with 
the head and neck of some brilliant tropical bird, usually 
with bright orange plumage, which is placed at one side. 
Clusters of marigolds or of dandelions are also employed, 
yellow being the favorite hue for such trimmings. 

Worth is employing some very small figured brocades 
with changeable grounds, and also small-patterned brocaded 
satins for his recent costumes. Long straight polonaises in 
black silk, with trimmings of jet in the sleeves and corsage, 
are worn over elaborately-trimmed skirts in black brocaded 
surahs or gauzes. One curious style that ho has introduced 
is that of confining the plaits of a short full overskirt 
around the waist with points of velvet like those on tho 
interior of a backgammon board, a similar series of points 

extending upward on the waist. He is now making the 
trains of ball-dresses in brocade and satin with a breadth of 
brocade extending down the centre of the train, which is 
cut square at the end, the side-breadths being in satin. The 
corsage is in brocade, and the skirt-front in graceful scarf- 
draperies of brocade and satin. The corsage is made with 
very deep points, well stiffened with whalebone, and half- 
long coat-sleeves, fitting the arm closely. Very full dra- 
peries of velvet and lace, or of satin and lace, border tho 
square opening. 

Worth's favorite colors for evening-wear this season are 
a new faint-lilac which he trims profusely with white lace, 
a delicate reddish-mauvo which ho combines with the new 
Alicant-red (a shade much resembling the hue of old sherry), 
and a brilliant gold-yellow. This last is, of course, only 
suitable for brunettes ; but in tulle, embroidered with silver 
and made up with a satin train of the same color, it is ex- 
tremely effective. 

For walking-costumes, full plaited Bkirts in cashmere, 
with flat breadths of velvet set under the plaits, are niuch 
worn, as are also full plaited cashmere skirts made short 
enough to show three rows of satin gathered flounces set 
under the edge of the plaits. A band of ecru embroidery 
forms a handsome finish for the upper skirt. 

Mantles in jetted silk gauze, or in brocaded gauze, trim- 
med with Spanish laco, are very fashionable. A very beau- 
tiful new trimming is a finger-wide silk lace in pale tapestry 
tints, intermixed witli gold and silver. 

The new fans of tho season are large, with plain violet 
wood sticks, the loaf being on gold gauze edged around the 
top with gold lace. A spray of flowers is fastened to one of 
the outer sticks. 

, The newest parasols aro very largo, are dome-shaped, and 
are composed of black or white lace put on very full over 
a coloi-ed silk lining, and edged tvith a frill of lace. A 
cluster of flowers is attached to ono side. A rather absurd 
novelty is the unlined parasol of white lace, which is dome- 
shaped, has an ivory handle, and is decorated at the top with 
a large bow of cream-white satin ribbon. Of course this 
pretty dressy trifle makes no pretense at sheltering the lady 
who carries it. Sometimes the laco is dotted with pearls, 
and the satin bow fringed with pearls. 

Besides the Alicant-red (which is a tint between brown 
and crimson), the new colors are thohaunetou (cockchafer), 
a delicate bistre-brown, with silvery reflections, and the 
Gobelin pinks, blues, and greens, which are faded old- 
tapestry shades of those colors. 

Lucy H. Hooper. 


Fig. i.— Boy's Suit, of Dark-Blue Flannel. The trousers 
are rather close-fitting to the knee; the blouse is confined 
below tho waist by a narrow leather belt; tho long collar is 
fastened by a ribbon at the point in front ; the vest, which 
fastens at tho side, is of the flannel. Blue Scotch cap. 

Fig. ii.— Girl's Dress, of White and Dark-Blue Bunt- 
ing. The lower part of the skirt is of the blue bunting, 
plaited ; above this is a kilt-plaiting of white bunting , the 
long blouse-waist is of white bunting, with collar and cuffs of 
the dark-blue bunting, trimmed with white braid ; the vest 
is of blue and white bunting, striped crosswise. White hat, 
trimmed with white feathers and faced with dark-blue silk. 
Dark -blue stockings. 

Fig. hi.— Girl's Drfss, of Pink Percale. The skirt and 
waist are cut in one, and tho dress is gathered front and back 
to fit the figure loosely ; at the bottom of the skirt are two 
ruffles of the percale, edged with white embroidery ; above 
these ruffles is a sash or band laid in loose plaits, and tied at 
the back, with the ends trimmed with the embroidery. The 
large collar and cuffs are also trimmed with the embroidery. 
White chip hat, trimmed with white feathers and pink surah. 




Hello! How are you? I am glad at last your eyes hare 
fallen upon me. Now that we have met, pray cultivate the 
acquaintance ; for it ia my purpose to interest and to serve 
you. Between you and I, though only a magazine article, 
I am ambitious. Having a portentous message for all 
mankind, if it be cordially received, its import truly 
realized and acted upon, I shall bo considered a world's 
benefactor. Could have no higher ambition, you will 

A misanthrope, of ample means, determined to end his 
lifo by drowning himself. Gorng to the banks of the canal, 
found tho time not favorable for the purpose, a number of 
persons being in the vicinity, and daylight still present. 
He concluded to walk along the tow-path until it was dark. 
While doing so, he heard piteous cries issuing from the door 
of a hovel near by, and unconsciously walked over to the 
place, and found a poor family, consisting of a mother, sur- 
rounded by several children, who told him of their suffer- 
ings for food. He took from his pocket his wallet, and 
handed it to the woman, reasoning with himself that he 
would not need it. The grateful thanks and praises that ho 
received from the recipients of his bounty awoke emotions 
within his breast, of such a pleasurable character, that 
he changed his suicidal intent, and decided to live for others. 
His future life became replete with good deeds; many a 
dark home and heart were made bright by his presence. 

Well, my appearance in these columns springs simply 
from a desire on the part of those I represent to benefit 
your news-devouring race. My province is to help you, 
your friends, your relations — aye, even your mother-in-law, 
if that interesting lady be not already far beyond the pale 
of good influences. 

T am sent among men to bear tidings of a discovery that 
marks an epoch as important to the health of mankind as 
Newton's apple and Franklin's kite were to natural science. 
The sick, the discouraged, the dejected, the broken down, 
and the despairing, may now all find a cure, certain as the 
Jordan proved to the Syrian leper. It is only necessary, 
as in the case of that sufferer of old, to follow directions. 

The agent which I herald builds up the system, sweeps 
the cobwebs from the brain, and sends pure invigorating 
blood dancing through the arteries, to the music of happy 

The gloomy, worn-out man of business, by proper use of 
this wonderful medicine, will be enabled to meet trouble 
and reverses like a man. Then, in perfect health, he will 
not have abnormal views of the " Vicissitudes of fortune, 
which spares neither man nor the proudest of his works, 
which buries empires and cities in a common grave." 

The weak and nervous woman, just able to drag herself, 
in "moping melancholy,'* through duties of the day, may 
steal the bloom from blush-roses, and have eyes bright and 
sparkling as the dewdrops nestling in their leaves ; and the 
poor little baby, now disfigured with pimples and scabby 
sores, may be made sweet, cool, and wholesome as — " that 
youngster of Mrs. Blank's, across the way, whose family is 

always in a glow of health." Don't you know the reason ? 
" No." Then I will tell you. For years, your neighbor 
has never been without Doctor Pierce's Golden Medical Dis- 

This remedy is a medicine, not a beverage, and is to be 
taken according to full and perfectly plain directions 
accompanying each bottle. It is specific, but not a patent 
medicine, and contains no vile narcotics, or viler liquor. It 
is a prescription, used for years by the well-known physi- 
cian, Doctor R. V. Pierce, of Buffalo, N. T., whose name is 
a household word in innumerable homes all over our own 
and foreign lands. The Golden Medical Discovery is pre- 
pared and offered to the public by the World's Dispensary 
Medical Association, a body corporate, existing by and 
under the laws of the State of New York ; its president is 
Doctor Pierce, the great specialist in chronic diseases. The 
doctor has devoted the best years of a very busy and won- 
derfully successful life to the relief and cure of his suffering 
fellow-men ; and at a time when high political honors lay 
broadly open before him, Doctor Pierce resigned his seat in 
the Congress of the United States, simply from a sense of 
duty towards others. His associates in {he great sanitarium 
represented to the doctor that the immense business of their 
Association demanded that his personal attention should be 
paid to the great army of patients crowding upon them from 
every clime. Doctor Pierce is also the founder of tho 
Invalids' Hotel, at Buffalo, N. Y. This establishment, pos- 
sessing all the comforts and luxuries of a first-class 
American hotel, has in addition the daily attendance of a 
large faculty of eminent specialists, whose practices collec- 
tively cover the whole field of surgery and chronic diseases. 
The laboratory in which Doctor Pierce's Golden Medical 
Discovery is prepared is an object of interest and wonder. 
It has a frontage of one hundred feet, a depth of one hun- 
dred and twenty-fivo feet, and is six stories high. In this 
mammoth and palatial workshop, two hundred persons are 
constantly employed in putting up Doctor Pierce's medi- 

While the Golden Medical Discovery's curative effects are 
almost immediately felt, it is not merely a temporary stim- 
ulant, but is as certainly a safe and complete cure, in all 
cases for which it is recommended, as it is that certain 
misery and death will follow their neglect. Doctor Pierce's 
Golden Medical Discovery will not cure club-foet, will not 
refurnish armless or legless unfortunates with new and 
perfect limbs, and it is not guaranteed that even a dozen 
bottles, applied to any stray portion of a second-hand 
skeleton, will develop such member into an animate human 
form divine (?). In brief, it is not asserted that this medi- 
cine will, or can, counteract tho decrees of Providence. But 
in all cases where a high state of civilization and cultiva- 
tion has engendered disease and suffering, whereby God's 
natural man has become a nervous artificial being, the 
Golden Medical Discovery will positively restore to him tho 
strong, vigorous, self-asserting lifo, from which, almost 
unconsciously, he had drifted far, and perhaps hopelessly 



away. It is claimed, and guaranteed, if this medicine be 
used as prescribed, and faithfully persevered in a reasonable 
time, it will 'permanently cure liver complaint, and the various 
blood disorders consequent upon torpor of the liver, in all 
their various forms and ramifications, including bronchitis, 
consumption, which is scrofula of the lungs, dyspepsia, cos- 
tiveness, sick-headache, skin diseases, fever and ague, 
malaria, and other disorders arising from poisoned or 
deteriorated blood. 

This wonderful medicine cures all humors, from the 
worst scrofula to a common blotch, pimple, or eruption. 
Erysipelas, salt-rheum, fever-sores, scaly or rough skin— In 
short, all diseases caused by bad blood — are conquered by this 
powerful, purifying, and invigorating medicine. Great 
eating ulcers rapidly heal under its benign influences. 
Especially has it manifested its potency in curing tetter, 
boils, carbuncles, scrofulous sores and swellings, white 
swellings, goitro or thick neck, and enlarged glands. Con- 
sumption, which is scrofulous disease of the lungs, is 
promptly and positively arrested and cured by this sovereign 
and God-given remedy, if taken before the last stages are 
reached. For weak lungs, spitting of blood, consumptive 
night-sweats, and kindred affections, it is a sovereign 
remedy. For indigestion, dyspepsia, and torpid liver, or 
"biliousness," Golden Medical Discovery has no equal, as 
it effects perfect and radical cures. 

To all suffering from lassitude, weariness, despondency, 
lack of vigor or ambition — be it man, woman, or child, 
Doctor Pierce's Golden Medical Discovery will speedily 
impart new tone, vigor, and life to the whole system. The 
haggard face will grow round, ruddy, and beam with the 
expression of long-lost confidence. The step will be firm 
and elastic, and the relieved sufferer will once more enjoy 
in common with fellow-men that feeling of proprietorship 
i:i earth, air, and being, only fully realized by those in per- 
fect health. 

The Golden Medical Discovery will not make drunkards or 
opium eaters. On the contrary, any unfortunate, driven by 
trouble, adversity, or inherited appetite, to the use of in- 
sidious stimulants, will find the Discovery of great assist- 
ance in efforts to break the chains binding him to a shameful 
and miserable existence. 

Those feeling only " out of sorts," with no predominant 
symptoms, and who, if asked, would find it difficult to ex- 
plain their sensations, will find a sovereign remedy in the 
Goldon Medical Discovery. 

Those who are irritable, petulant, or fretful, ever seeing 
the gloomy side of life; who imagine "the time is out of 
joint "; to whom life is a heavy burden, not a blessing ; who 
think the whole world is arrayed against them, and antici- 
pate calamity at every turn ; to all such let this message be 
full of encouragement and joy: Doctor Pierce's Golden 
Modical Discovery will radically cure them, when it will be 
f .und, to their lasting benefit, that life and the world have 
not changed, but that disease had thrown clouds of misery 
a id woe about them, through which all things were seen 
as " through a glass darkly." 

Let no sufferer be discouraged because he or she has tried 
other medicines without benefit In fact, these are the 
cases the World's Dispensary Medical Association particu- 
larly desire to reach through their Doctor Pierce's Golden 
Medical Discovery. When all other medicines, fail let this be 
tried, and no one will be doomed to further disappointment. 

The Golden Medical Discovery is a prescription of a 
physician with a wide-awake reputation, and an honorable 
position to maintain. It is far beneath the dignity of Doc- 
tor Pierce to lend his name to any vile nostrum or catch' 
penny preparation, whereby the public may be deceived. 
Having used his Discovery for many years in hi3 unprece- 
dented private practice, he is convinced it is indeed a 
specific in diseases mentioned. Desiring this marvelous 
cure shall benefit not only those with whom he comes per- 
sonally in contact, but that all mankind may bo embraced 
in his grand plan for the amelioration of human suffering, 
the Doctor, through the World's Dispensary Medical Associ- 
ation, earnestly and most confidently recommends his 
Golden Medical Discovery to the public at large, assured 
the most skeptical will be thoroughly convinced of its worth 
by a trial of a single bottle. 

In stubborn or long-seated affections, and where the 
bowels are very costive, the gentle though certain action 
of the Discovery will be more rapid and satisfactory by sup- 
plementing Doctor Pierce's Pleasant Purgative Pellets in 
small daily doses of one or two. These pills (the original 
and only genuine Little Liver Pills) are purely vegetable, 
sugar-coated, and very small; yet by the peculiar process 
used in their preparation, they possess the strength and 
virtue of larger and unpalatable pills. Pleasant Purgative 
Pellets will speedily remove all ill and disagreeable effects 
arising from over-eating or drinking, and are recommended 
as a cathartic, at all times, being perfectly safe, sure, and 
unattended by the griping pains usually experienced in the 
use of purgatives less carefully prepared. Promptly resorted 
to, these little Pellets will radically cure indigestion, 
biliousness, and sick-headache, thus saving the patient from 
serious and lingering disorders. Doctor Pierce, the Presi- 
dent of the World's Dispensary, and his faculty of twelve 
skilled specialists, can be consulted by letter or in person 
in any case of chronic disease, requiring either medical or 
surgical treatment, froe of charge. For th >se desiring more 
exhaustive information than can bo imparted through cor- 
respondence, the Doctor has written a book, called " The 
People's Common Sense Medical Adviser, in Plain English ; 
or, Medicine Simplified." 

This work alone is a goodly harvest for an ordinary life, 
and stamps its author a profound scholar and a very 
remarkable man. The book contains nine hundred and 
twenty -two pages, illustrated with two hundred and eighty- 
six wood-cuts and colored plates, and makes plain as a, b, c, 
anatomy, physiology, materia medica, practico of medicine, 
hygiene, temperaments, psychology, etc., and answers in 
plain, easy-to-be-understood terms all questions that may 
arise within their range, especially those questions the 
would-be inquirer is deterred by fear or modesty from 
asking the family or other physician. That all may be 
enabled to acquaint themselves with matter so vital to 
health, happiness, and success, the price of this great work 
has been fixed at one dollar and fifty cents, post-paid by 
mail to any address, while smaller and far inferior books, 
purporting to cover the same ground, have sold at five dol- 
lars a copy. It being the aim of the proprietors of the 
Common Sense Medical Adviser to reach not only the 
affluent, but also those in moderate, and evon straitened 
circumstances, the price of the work places it within the 
reach of all* 




and all scrofulous diseases, Sores, Erysipelas, Ecze- 
ma, Blotches, Ringworm, Tumors, Carbuncles, 
Boils, and Eruptions of the Skin, are the direct 
result of an impuro state of the hlood. 

To cure these diseases the blood must be purified, and 
restored to a healthy and natural condition. Ayer's 
S.yusapabilla has for over forty years been recognized by 
eminent medical authorities as the most powerful blood 
purifier in existence. It frees the system from all foul 
humors, enriches and strengthens the blood, removes all 
traces of mercurial treatment, and proves itself a complete 
muster of all scrofulous diseases. 

A Recent Cure of Scrofulous Sores. 
" Some months ago I was troubled with scrofulous sores 
(ulcers) on my legs. The limbs were badly swollen and 
inflamed, and the sores discharged large quantities of 
offensive matter. Every remedy I tried failed, until I used 
Ayer's Sarsaparilla, of which I have now taken three 
bottles, with the result that the sores are healed, and my 
poneral health greatly improved. I feel very grateful for 
the good your medicine has done me. 

Yours respectfully, Mrs. Ann O'Brian." 
148 Sullivan St., New York, June 24, 1882. 

j£g~All persons interested are invited to call 
on Mrs. O'Brian; also upon the Rev. Z. P. 
Wilds, of 78 East 54th Street, New York City, 
who will take pleasure in testifying to the 
wonderful efficacy of Ayer's Sarsaparilla, not 
only in the cure of this lady, hut in his own 
case and many others within his knowledge. 

The well-known writer on the Boston Herald, B. W. Ball, 
of Rochester, JV, H., writes, June 7, 1882: 

"Having suffered severely for some years with Eczema, 
and having failed to find relief from other remedies, I have 
made use, during the past three months, of Ayer's Sarsa- 
parilla, which has effected a complete cure. I consider it 
a maguificent remedy for all blood diseases." 


stimulates and regulates the action of the digestive and 
assimilative organs, renews and strengthens the vital forces, 
and speedily cures Rheumatism, Neuralgia, Rheu- 
matic Gout, Catarrh, General Debility, and all 

diseases arising from an impoverished or corrupted condi- 
tion of the blood, and a weakened vitality. 

It is incomparably the cheapest blood medicine, on 
account of its concentrated strength, and great power over 


Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. 

Sold by all Dniggists; price $1, six bottles for $5. 


tioss of Appetite, Headache, Depression, 
Indigestion, and Constipation, Biliousness, a 
Sallow Face, Dull Eyes, and a Blotched Skin, 

are among the symptoms which indicate that the Liver is 
crying for aid. 

Ayer's Pills 

will stimulate the Liver to proper action, and correct all 
these troubles. One or more of these Pills should be taken 
daily, until health is fully established. Thousands testify 
to their great merit. 
No family can afford to be without Ayer's Pills. 


Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass. 

gold by all Druggists. 




Baker's Premium Chocolate, the bet 1 
preparation of plain chocolate for fam- 
ily use. — Baker's Breakfast Cocoa, 
from which the excess of oil has been 
removed, easily digested and admirably 
adapted for invalids. — Balcer's Vanilla 
Chocolate, as a drink or eaten 83 con- 
fectionery is a delicious article » highly 
recommended by tourists.— Baker's 
Brovia, invaluable as a diet for chil- 
dren.— German Sweet Chocolate, a 
»ost excellent article for families. 

Sold toy Grocers everywhere. 

, W. BAEEB «fc CO.* 

Dorchester , Mass, 


Made of the very best materials, 
by the most skillful workmen, 
expressly for road use. 


Are the favorite with riders, and 
their superiority in beauty, struct- 
ure and finish is acknowledged 
by all. 

Send three-cent stamp for 36- 
page Catalogue, with price list 
and full information. 


554 Washington Street, 



Infants and Children 

Without Morphine or Narcotine. 

What gives our Children rosy cheeks, 
What cures their fevers, makes them sleep; 
"Tis Castoria. 

When Babies fret, and cry by turns, 
What cures their colic, kills their worms. 

But Castoria. 

What quickly cures Constipation, 
Sour Stomach, Colds, Indigestion : 

But Castoria. 

Farewell then to Morphine Syrups, 
Castor Oil and Paregoric, and 

Hail Castoria. 

Centaur Liniment, — An ab- 
solute cure for Rheumatism, 
Sprains, Burns, Galls, &c., and an 
instantaneous Pain-reliever. 


— AT > ** W Special limitefp?fceS75JUu 

Have you bought an Organ and are Jontax^BxydththolR^dB^t M. Walnut, Ash o'Etom^edT 

Organs of other makes that are sold f or $ 75 to , J^ 6 ^ 1 ^ 01 ^"^ It i| WUMA A further deduction of S10.00 will 
there? orlfthe b mL^dMerent e sets e Reeds and Stop Combination Effects that JSgSgL j. come and seSlTiS 

make the Beethoven far superior to all other organs at tour ^H®WB3K3la^@^ strument in person, 

times its cost. Proof of this statement is shown in the following A JWf i „^Tf ~^ Free loach Meet* 
record of shipments for the past four months : ^Shipments of ^g^^g^^n All Aroint. 

Beatty 's Beethoven Organs during past 4 months, were as follows: ^■■■JMLT^fc^J^vB JT#fc 

December, 1882, 1410 February, 1883, 1153 Tntnl^OQQ- fi£tf£\trKWl* *«l tit ffr ffr i"n 
January, 1833,1103 March. - 1883,1435 lUldl JUtftfi |KlTjLxOL iJLilfc^lWip 
The above is the largest number of Cabinet -^ a, JHa^Bigg^^S sgrfp ^^ "^Ctf^kJBSK 

Organs shipped by any one house (for the Ob WW *» ^*T ^^si gjSgtfHfKl JS9|JM|JH&«0H 
same length of time) in existence. T^^ ^^^ ^a k 0ffi ^MElS TSfiWmc tfj | 

The following Is a Brief Description of m!Me!Jm£j JII@}M lM wSsk Hr^^w n Hr 

the Instrument. „^^„« ^hF^kZIE^^vrSiB SiWlL l^BR 

There are TEN FULL SETS OF GOLDEN f*l_- — S^ff^gB BKi)B^flBBffi9vllSll 

TONGUE REEDS built upon an entirely new |gj BCaSH^ IHWFMBIil MF 

and scientilic plan, producing music equal to gilHl1&»«»Bl Kill HV^flfraBrfifl 

an organ costing four times its value of other J||HUMHK^«UfJM fjSlM vfEKlilB 

makes. The Reeds are arranged in the Reed ^mHH|B^K&8BsH1 HrmMHrHl wlOJni fflff*M BIB 

Board, as follows : ^■MiGn^&X^liSflHl KEHffl Bw mMJ U^BHUmB 

1st. Set Charming Saxaphone Reeds. VHHSSnlPRafli =IKIH EtfHIuJSHllfl 

2d. Set Famous French Horn Reeds. wlWKHliMTJtMiLiMiii ■■■iiii ■■■fiStiHBS ttHUMHllI 

3d. Set Beautiful Piccolo Reeds. VPIl iSVSaafisfii Um IMlWsWlff?Sl^!f« 

4th. Set Jubilante Viollna Reeds. WJ& fira!|R@|^|K^^^nHnI Mlk^WABtf fKMK 

5th. Set Powerful Sub-Bass Reeds. ..^^iHflK^^^HraHR^lSwfflnK^HilH ■BffsS^gsl MM 

6th. Set Sweet Voix Celeste Reeds. SBSSI li^^^^iJHfiBBiB WHk^E2MtimEmMS&*£2&=^ 

7th. Set of Soft Cello Reeds. ^^pBM BBM MM— i^H IBKSg^^a 

8th. Set of Dulciana Reeds. *fiS =5===s=5=i3[9HfflE5HS 

9th. Set of Diapason Reeds. BlBHnM il l I I dliWIIH JmTWrr M, ^l*MM«" M I I I '' " l ''" llira sS^lilKJKSffl 

10th. Set Clarionet or Celeste Reeds ajBBHJlS iSSSiSSS^ '3 

follows : HsiS iBBs! SHI SwijISilt 

1 CELLO, 8 ft. tone. K WwBMBBMiWMBM— S— 

2 Melodia. TnlfFr ^iiii — J sg sssHi BllMB il 

3 Clarabella. ___ __ I/i W _ ^m— — g^ 

4 MANUAL SUB-BASS, ijiJilJI hFfffiE BBS5g///ii»lli 

16 ft. tone. ^ ^K^^ V/ZMm i— ^ff „ ^^Tj^ ^^^^ll 

6 Bourdon, 16 ft. tone. jst MiJBSSSk BBBBn m Ifflffl jjj jjioifl 

6 Saxaphone, 8 ft. tone. lip ^^B^S9|^HHH5P|)||nHMMRHMnnRV be£S^wP&*G«I9 

7 viol di gamba, 8 ft. l&MMBk WSRmmfwMISFwm EEigiBKiKKal WMi/lW 

8 Diapason, 8 ft. tone. «30&uHH HRSBSIS^rlPIP^PPSPI 

9 VIOLA DOLCE, 4 ft. ^H^HWWHHl !ffif iiiflfiiill i Slff JfJ!! iffifl»8g g4W 

10 Grand Expressione, 2§3i(KHBfl8^S§333 ^**™*^^ Sg SSSS&SsiMK3SE£^' 

8 ft. tone. B*^B^SF 5rfiiiTiT^ J *I J ^* jT ' T ' r ^^ TiTjiS y -'ji'- - eS^il'B^SS^ 

11 FRENCH HORN, 8 ft, ffi M " ' i " ' I t T < H fM.k.i. | Lm7a ' '|* ^yn^ ^ SjjM H 

12 Harp iEolian. ' a ^lSaM^ar =Sg 5g ,j; S-- 1 ' ' ' M I T M ll Will Ml iMMfflBllllW 1 1 nl 

13 VOX HUMANA. j2^ BJL y^ J ^_'^ ff; HlW 

14 Echo, 8 ft. tone. IS^BHHIS^asH^SS&H ■■uip m BBEniK 

15 Dulciana, 8 ft. tone. MfigBH Iff@HP^ 

16 Clarionet, 8 ft. tone. 

17 VOIX CELESTE, 8 ft |[T"~L_ = __" llffffifiMS/ 

18 Violina, 4 ft. tone. JgjgjSj HHiSilsS i==2§i£Sil§5 BM lSsiJifr 

19 Vox Jubilante, 8 and ^SH ^as^^S JggSB fFffil H Mft 

4 ft. tone. Em9 RESmSmSS ^^^^^ShIH ll&fffl' 

20. Piccolo, 2 ft. tone. W §m "^WlH| R«H 

21 Coupler Harmonious 

22 Orchestral Forte. iHNlfirS?9RKBF9^Hfl 



24 Right Knee Stop. KBftflflPlS 

25 Automatic Valve Stop I!s^<5Km1E& 

26 Right Duplex Damper 

27 Left Duplex Damper. Yjfir |H 

TJic case is built i jk I liliS 0301 

from It andsome \ £*3 m SSttS&SSsfeft^O 

Black Walnut {if tg Jag vWEsBm^BM 

j^ref erred Ash or WiMmk 

JZboiiized.) Sfe fiiil ^^^^^ R^KflinNQn 

All cases are profusely Wmi SBKS&s BSS iKFt izsM 

ornamented with neat jEfflBB i^EBBHGSS^Vww^ffi&SS JRBBBsrsJ^^r^ij SS|^9I|1 

hand carvings. Manu- •<^ : "-^0!S; 
factored so as not to •• ^^^^ (((/pjBf^W^ 

take the dirt or dust. "^___j BJNfltiftj fi^l '^SEKSi/^BiL^ 

Thoroughly seasoned'- ==^ ^S^^^^W W^Sf^S^^SSSii'l^ff^ ' 

and kiln-dried ; will ■- =_ ^ ^^ff^ E ^^~_?^m^^ 3s ^^M'^ ^^SI^^^^^ mffiSfe 

stand the test of any 'z= ===S ^&^ m~&BM&ffi/&= 

climate; handsome ^M^///j^^^^ i W(MBwmir?WF^ 

rubbed varnish finish '-.. ^l|||BS*55«3E^ Wg»%8 ^^= 

and polish ; carved and - ^ ; , ^ =^^**W SJSS ^^^^^ HH^B^^^^H^M Blffl laKlgKS^^^^ 

ornamented with Ara- " : fe=;. ^^^MWB^ ^g i m p ^ ^^wpSKmS^== ; =i 

besque designs in gold. ^^fc=---^=r- r5r= — : — ' r . J^IMg__ __,. „„ ig lBg^ - ^ 

IT IS BUILT TO LAST, _^ _ ._ _. . . — ^ Bife^ 

not for show, it is The Beethoven.— Ebonized Case. 

deserving of a place in DIMENSIONS— Height, 75 inches ; Length, 46 inches; Depth, 24 inches. gl g- __.-j£ iy 

lor, and would ornament the boudoir of a princess. Contains Lamp Stands, Pocket for Music, Treble (3) Upright Bel- 
lows, Steel Springs, Nickel Plated Pedal Plates, BEATTY'S PATENT STOP ACTION AND SOUNDING BOARDS. 

Special Limited Price gffiffTSffS Only $75.00 


To any person who will bring this advertisement to BEATTY'S Manufactory, cor. Railroad are. and Beatty St., at 
Washington, Warren Co., New Jersey, and select an organ in person, I wiUdeduct T^^L^fif^^ iS^t^jS^^JSSS^ 

' of mar 

night by Edison Electric Light. *~^ ~*j --.-r ■ — - 

^SFSSr IDANIEL F. BEATTY, Washington, Hew Jersey. 







1.— The PATENT SPRING conforms itself in shape to EVERY head. 

2.— They 1)0 NOT HAVE A FALSE, wiggy loJc, as all others have. 

3 —They cannot tear or break apart, bid outwear THREE of any 
wave made. 

4. — They CANNOT WRINKLE or SHRINK with dampness, but 
keep their shape for years. 

5.— They do not fade as quickly, for they don't require dressing as 
often, as others. 

6. — They areonly dressed with a WET COMB,whm they get MUSSED, 
and are kn r iwn to remain in ordr for a year without redrossing. 

the money if not. 

8.— MOST IMPORTANT ; Every lady can to,k young and attractive 
with a THOMPSON WAVE, as hundbkds will acknowledge 
they look ten years younger. 

9.— As I have 10 different styles of THOMPSON WAVES, every fancy 
ecmb- gratified 

PRICES from $6 to 919 (Blond and Grav extra). 
SWITCHES, from $5 to $5©. GRAY HAIR 

JEJSr- Beware of parties endeavoring: to sell 
you Waves representing them to he the 
Thompson Wave, as I do not allow any other 
Dealer to sell my goods. 



No. 32 East 14th Street, NEW TOBK. 

* Our • Spring • 5fyle ® 

* &nd • price • Book * 

* leltykrw-Io-order « 
4, QloMn^-^liiTlyoT * 

* Furni5nin§-GooJ5. « 

* fl • P05I cJ • requ^I '4 

* will • <£el • il. 4 * $ 

^ M2d#Brown. 


VflTIR NSMP on * Large Handsome Chromo Cards, 
1VU11 llttlUD 10c. They are entirely new, made ex- 
pressly for our 1883 trade. 13 packs for $1.00. Agent's Book 
of Samples, 25c. Franklin Printing Co. New HaTen.Ct. 


Gold and Silver Chromo Cards, no two alike, with 
name, 10c. post-paid. G. I. Reed & Co., Nassau, N. Y. 








In new and elegant effects; plain and two-toned 



Fast-woven back, guaranteed not to fray, pull, or slip. 


In all grades and colors. Our specialty, the " Velvet- 
Edge Surah," we claim, is the cheapest 
plain silk ever retailed for SI. 00. 
We challenge anybody to show an imported 
silk for less than twice the money that will 
equal the goods we make, in style, finish, and 

Also sole manufacturers of the celebrated 


H A A Scra P Pictures, 10c. 100 Transfer Pictures, 10c. 
1 1 M I 5 Birthday Cards, 10c. 12 Perforated Mottoes, 10c. 
* v V 5 (Jhromax, 10c. S Chromos, 9 x 12, 10c. S Engrav- 
ings, 9x12, 10c. h Panel Mottoes, 10c, all for 60c, post-paid. 
Stamps taken. J. W. FRIZZELL, Baltimore, Md. 

A Great Advance in Medical Science. 





and diseases of the NOSE, THROAT, 

and EUNGS. 

is a method that concen- 
trates the science and com- 
tzsm mon sense of the age upon 
i* one thing, and that is the 
healing of such diseases as 
Catarrh, Bronchitis, and 
Tf{ADtj*Ai\K, t Lung Troubles. It applies 
medicated air to the mucous lining of the nose, throat, and 
lungs, all night. Inhalation has been found, of late 
years, by physicians, to be more and more successful as a 
treatment for Catarrh, Bronchitis, Asthma, and 
Consumption. The Pillow-Inhaler intensifies and 
perfects the old method, by prolonging the inhalation from 
a few minutes a day to all night— say eight hours. 
You sleep upon it the same as an ordinary pillow. No pipes 
or tubes. Safe as sunshine. 

It is a quick, radical, and permanent cure, 
indorsed by the most reputable physicians and their patients 

For further information and commendations, call on or 

1520 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

Q r\ Gold-Edge or SO " Beauties," all Chromo Cards, name 
AO on, 10 cents. Illustrated Book Free. Sample Book. 25 
cents. U. S. CARD CO., Centerbrook, Conn. 




Over Tbree-Qnartcrs of a Million In Stoefr. 

— — ^"bougiix for cash, and sold at lowest city prices. 

Press Goo&j. Silks, Shawl*, Trimming Hosiery, 
Upholstery, Fnncy Goods, Ladles' Dresses, Wraps, 
Underwear, Ties, lances, Gents' Furnishing Goods, 
Infant?, Boys* ond Girls' Outfits, Ac Samples, infor- 
raation, and « SHOPPING GUIDE" free on application. 

COOPER & CONARD, 9th & Market St., PMlada, 
f-yplease say -wherefcyou saw this Advertisement, 


Should send for Strawbridge & Clothier's Catalogue, which 
contains one hundred and twenty large pages, nearly one 
thousand illustrations, and four pages of new music. Is 
especially valuable to those who 6hop by mail, or are 
interested in home art. Send fifteen cents for copy of samo. 



"The most popular and sat> 
isf actory Corset as regards 
Health, Comfort and Ele- 
gance of Form," be sure 
and get 




It is particularly adapt- 
ed to the present style of 
dress. For sale by all 
Reading dealers. Price by 
jmail $1.30. 
Manufactured only by 

New Haven Conn- 

Rw v^ao-P >ti s I) 



Everything in Dry Goods, 
Wearing Apparel and 
Housekeeping Appoint- 
ments sent by mail, express or freight, accord 
ing to circumstances— subject to return and 
refund of money if not satisfactory. Cata- 
logue, with details, mailed on application. 

JOHN WANAMAKER, Philadelphia. 

We have the largest retail stock In the United States, 


A beautiful little book, called "FASHIONABLE DECO- 
will be sent to you on receipt of two three-cent stamps. 
Address New York Chemical Co., 3 E. Fourth St., N. Y. 

t^iE IYO im,0>VN,;RUGS 

Turfcisn Hug Jf atterns, stampe __ 
Permanent business for agents. Catalogue tor stamp. J!-, e. 
Frost & Co. , 22 Tremont Row, Boston. A'ome this paper. 


from any part of the body in FIVE 
MTNUTES withoutinjury to theskin,by 
"Uphain's Depilatory Powder," 
Mailed for §1.2o {stamps taken for the 
odd 25 cents.) Sealed circular Free. 
_. UP HAM, P. O. Box 2697, Philada., Pa. 

Jj£3lLJ1.EjO TERNS for Artistic Needlework, Kensing- 
ton Embroidery, etc. Tells how to make Twenty Stitches, 
including South Kensington, Outline, Persian, Tent, Star 
Satin, Janina, Filling, Feather, etc. Sent by mail for 12 
3c. stamps. J. F. INGALLS, Lynn, Mass. 

Forty Plates, large quarto. 
Price, post-paid, $5. 
Wm. T. COMSTOOK, Publis'r, 
6 Astor Place, New York. 




i ■ f* 84-page illustrated catalogue, with 
,| w words and music of 26 popular 
1 Songs, and handsome decoratedplaque. 

Ml IS' 

In ■ Hs9 ah" for~12cT '100 choice songs, words.'musici 
I V fl ^^ and accompaniments ; or, 100 popular Pieces 
■ "Bfor Piano or Organ, all f ull sheet music size, 
50c. Diamond School for Violin,^ 
558 pieces, 50c. Comic, English, 
Ethiopian, Home, Irish, 01d,d 
Opera, Popular, Scotch and Sentimental songs, words 
and music, 1C0 of each, 30c, or 400 for $ 1.00. 50 contras, 
jigs, reels, breakdowns, <fce., for piano or organ, 50c. 
M. TRXFET, 19 Franklin St., Boston, Mass. 

AGENTS WANTED— In every town in the U 

s.*> sell Rider's Improved Pillow Sham- 
Holder and Lifter. Sells at sight and recom 

mends ^mi. i tii j itself 

when ( THE JH0LQER3* once 

intro- ■ • "'" " *"• duced. | 

1 A rare chance for live Agents eith- 
Day. er ladiea or gentlemen. Night 

For Terms address. E. \V. RIDER. Patentee & Mfr. Racine.Wi?. 

Oh my, don't you look nice. But you needn't be 80 
stuck zip! My mamma is going to get some of those 
Diamond Dye* and fix my clothes over tool 


Are the Best Dyes Ever Made. 

or any fabric or fancy article, easily and perfectly col- 
ored to ai y shade. Black, Brown, Green, Blue, 
Scarlet, Cardinal Bed, Navy Blue, Hea 1 Brown. 
Olive Green, and 20 other best colors, warranted Fast 
and Durable. Each package will color one to four lbs. 
of coods. If you have never used Dyes, try these once. 
You will be delighted. Sold by druggists, or send us 10 
cYnts and any color wanted sent post-paid. 24 colored 

MldpaTnl silver paint. 


For sliding Fancy Baskets, Frames, Lamps, Chande- 
liers and for all kinds of ornamental work. Fqual to 
^v of ?he hfghlpriccd kinds and only 10 cents a package 
at the druggists, or post-paid from 
WriXS, riCHAKI^SOy & CO., Burlington, Vt. 



Nervous Prostration. Overworked Brains. 

Brain -worry kills many thousands every year. School- 
children and others have nervous headaches, and their 
overtasked brains need repair and sedation. Here is 
prompt relief. 

Vft.C.W.BEN S ON 'S 


(and WILL cure HEADACHE °f ALL KINDS ft 


*'*<* 0} fc$ ^"" DYSPEPSIA . { Ml 




Best Varieties — Bred to 
Standard — Fine in Mark- 
ings — Prolific as Layers — 
Large and Handsome, It 
costs no more to keep them 
than common stock. I send 
eggs to all parts of the 
United States and Canadas; 
last year to Utah, Mon- 
HHStana, Oregon, and Califor- 
nia, with good reports. 

Practical Poultry-Keeping. 


Fresh from the press — a book on Poultry. How 
to manage for eggs, and market, and exhibition ; 
Poultry -houses and yards,with diagrams — how to 
build and manage them ; Incubators, and how to 
make them, with cuts illustrating; Capons, with 
directions how to produce them ; Diseases and 
vermin — causes and cures. It contains illustra- 
tions of all the leading varieties. At quite an ex- 
pense, I this year add Colored Plates, show- 
ing the different varieties in their natural colors. 

Anyone who keeps poultry cannot afford to be 
without a poultry-book of some kind, when it can 
be had for less than the price of one fowl. 

The New York Weekly Tribune, February 28th, 
says of it : " We have examined the Poultry-Book 
sent out by G. M. T. Johnson, Binghamton, N.Y., 
for fifty cents. It is a thoroughly practical little 
work, finely illustrated, up with the times, well 
calculated for the person who keeps fowls for 
pleasure or for profit, and just what everyone 
needs who keeps a dozen fowls." 

Sent by mail, with catalogue and price-list of 
eggs, for 50 cents, in money or stamps ; three 
copies for $1.20. G. M. T. JOHNSON, 
Drawer 555. Binghamton, N. Y . 

- ■"■ 'ii '^ j -' j aiiirr. ijf. ' i ' 'rrff Vn and not 

■»lJiiliUIIIHpgJ™/- , i-/.fl1 WEAR OUT. 

*^ 0± I ^ bv Watchmakers. By Mail ,25 cts. Circulars 
OOLU FP.F.R J. 8. BIRCH ACQ , 33PeySt.,lf. Y 


New and Beautiful Chromo Cards, name 
in New Type, and an ELEGANT 48-page, Gilt Bound 
15 cts. SNOW & CO., Meriden, Conn. 

ituations procured for pupils when competent. 
end for cir c ular. W. G. CH AFFEE, Oswego, N. Y. 

bu f HE BONANZA IftXff 

£ A New Chromo Cards for 1883, name on, 10c, or 40 all 
O V Gold and Silver, 10c J. B. Husted, Nassau, N. Y. 



A Sure Cure for all FEMALE WEAK- 
NESSES, Including Leucorrhcea, Ir- 
regular and Painful Menstruation, 
Inflammation and Ulceration of 
the Womb, Flooding, PRO- 
^"Pleasant to the taste, efficacious and Immediato 
In its effect. It is a great help in pregnancy, and re- 
lieves pain during labor and at regular periods. 
B^"Fob all Weaknesses of the generative organs 
of either sex, it is second to no remedy that has ever 
been before the public ; and for all diseases of the 
Kidneys it is the Greatest Remedy in the World. 

Find Great Relief in Its Use. 


•will eradicate every vestige of Humors from tho 
Blood, at the same time will give tone and strength to 
the system. As marvellous in results as the Compound. 

t^*Both the Compound and Blood Purifier are pre- 
pared at 233 and 235 Western Avenue, Lynn, Mass. 
Price of either, $1. Six bottles for $5. Tho Compound 
is sent by mail in the form of pills, or of lozenges, on 
receipt of price, §1 per box for either. Mrs. Pinkham 
freely answers all letters of inquiry. Enclose 3 cent 
stamp. Send for pamphlet. Mention this Paper. 

tWliYMA E. Pinkham's Livee Pills cure Constipa- 
tion, Biliousness and Torpidity of the Liver. 25 cents. 

4®=Sold by all Druggists.*^ 


f*f\ Beautiful Chromo Cards with name, 10c. Send 3 
fvf names and thirty cents, and we will send a fourth 
pack free. ROYAL- CARD CO., Northford, Conn. 


To any suffering with Catarrh or Bron' 
itis who earnestly desire relief, I can 
I furnish a means of Permanent and Pos- 
jitive Cure. A Home Treatment No 
■ charge for consultation by mail. Valua- 
ble Treatise Free. Certificates from Doc. 
Itprs, Lawyers, Ministers, Business-men. 
| Address Rev. T. P. CHILDS, Troy, Ohio. 



Biliousness and Bilious Patients. 

Pertaining to Bile, Bilious Symptoms, Bilious 
Temperaments. THE REMEDY. 

The Bilious is a disorder of the human sys- 
tem. A technical definition of the term is this : 
"Pertaining to the bile; disordered in respect 
to the bile ; as, a bilious patient ; dependent on 
an excess of bile ; as, bilious temperament ; bil- 
ious symptoms. 

The word bile, when employed in the sense 
in which it is to be understood in this article, 
signifies, according to the Dictionaries, "a yel- 
low, greenish, bitter, viscid, nauseous fluid 
secreted by the liver." "Any derangement of 
,the bile at once manifests itself in great bodily 
discomfort, in loss of appetite, and in despond- 
ency," recently remarked an author of a valu- 
able treatise upon this subject. 

The same writer further adds : " Some of the 
following symptoms are usually prominent : Pain 
in the right side, which is very sensitive to 
pressure. The pain will sometimes appear to be 
located under the shoulder-blade. There is also 
irregular appetite, flatulence, a sense of fullness 
in the region of the stomach, and, sooner or 
later, the skin and whites of the eyes become 
yellow, the stools clay-colored and the urine 
yellow, depositing a copious sediment." The 
balance of the too familiar train of ills needs no 
further mention here. The bilious is, as will be 
seen, an affliction of great magnitude, and of 
varied forms of direct and indirect appearance. 
The disease is no respecter of persons or locali- 
ties. Its deadly and implacable enemy is found 


It acts on the liver and kidneys at the same 
time, and by its mild but efficient cathartic 
effects moves the bowels freely. The morbid 
poisons that have been the cause of all this 
disease and suffering will be thrown off; new 
life will be infused into every organ, and nature, 
thus aided, will soon restore the patient to health. 

Physicians of repute and standing, men who 
are honored for their probity, and respected and 
trusted for their scientific attainments, are using 
Kidney-Wort in their practice regularly. Ko 
stronger evidence of the worth of the remedy 
would seem to be necessary. Such endorsements 
are few and far between. We had almost said 
that they were without precedent in the history 
of a proprietary remedy. Be that as it may, 
however, the fact remains established that 
Kidney-Wort is a matchless remedy, and one 
that needs only to be tested to demonstrate its 
rare merit as a healer of most of the common 
maladies of the human family. 

Q A Fine White Gold-Edge Cards, name on, 10c. Sample 
OU Book, 25c. 30 assorted Reward Cards, beautiful de- 
signs, 10c. SHAW & CO., Jersey City, N. J. 

1 Zkt\\i Af1on^ , Q cansecu^e P er^l *• 

B-aUj r^yCniOnent employment 
and good salary selling Queen City 
Skirt and Stocking Supporters, etc. 
Sample outfit Free. Address Queen 
CUy Suspender Co.,Cmcinnati.O 

-:o: ;o» * lo:- 





which renders the teeth white, the grunts rosy 
and the breath sweet. It thoroughly removes 
tartar from the teeth and prevents decay. 



Is Warranted to Cure 
and PIMPLES on all parts of the body. 
It makes the skin white, soft and smooth ; removes 
tan and freckles, and is the BEST toilet dressing IN 
THE WORLD. Elegantly put up, TWO bottles in 
one package, consisting of both internal and exter- 
nal treatment, 
All first class druggists have it. Price $1. per package. 


Fine new set, eighteen cards, by mail, on receipt of six 
three-cent stamps. WHITING, 50 Nassau Street, N. Y. 





The only establishment 

for$|; 1 2 for $2: 19 for S3: 26 for $4: 35 for 85; 
75 for 810; IOOfor8l3; WeCIVE a Handsome 
Present of choice and valuable ROSES free 
with every order. Our NEW CU IDE, a complete 
Treatise on theRo8e,70 , pip. elegantly illustrated— free to all. 

Rose Growers, West Grove, Chester Co., Pa. 



BOSTON I 54Tremont£t. NEWY0RK46 E14^St. CHICAGO, 149 Wabash Ave 




by every 
Journal and 


The most FASHIONABLE. The original and only substitute for Lyons Silk Velvet. 

Every second yard stamped with Trade Mark. None others genuine. 

Beware of cheap imitations under other names, which will never prove satisfactory. 



The Bon-Ton Costume 
for Sea-side wear. 

N : ohM»|e|ir^ 


" I owe my 


to Eeallh 

and Beauty 

to the 

{} cuticura 

Testimonial of ft 
Boston ludy. 

DISFIGURING Humors, Humiliating Eruptions, Itching 
Tortures, Scrofula, Salt Rheum, and Infantile Hu- 
mors cured by the Cuticura Remedies. 

Cuticura Resolvent, the new blood purifier, cleanses 
the blood and perspiration of impurities and poisonous ele- 
ments, and thus removes the cause. 

Cuticura, the great Skin Cure, instantly allays Itching 
and Inflammation, clears the Skin and Scalp, heals Ulcers 
and Sores, and restores the Hair. 

Cuticura Soap, an exquisite Skin Beautificr and Toilet 
Requisite, prepared from Cuticura, is indispensable in 
treating Skin Diseases, Baby Humors, Skin Blemishes, 
Sunburn, and Greasy Skin. 

Cuticura Remedies are absolutely pure, and the only 
infallible Blood Purifiers and Skin Beautiflers. 

Sold everywhere. Price, Cuticura, 5© cents ; Soap, 
25 cents ; Resolvent, ®1. Potter Drug and Ckem- 
ioal Co., jSoston, Mass. 


Put up expressly for Card Collectors. Contains 50 Ele- 
gant Large Chromo Advertising Cards. All the new designs 
complete in sets, embracing Gold, Silver, and different 
bright-colored tints; etc. Price by mail, post-paid, 25 cents. 
Address Chas. Tollnee, Jr., Brooklyn, N. Y. 



Leading Numbers : 14, 048, 130, 333, 161, 
For Sale by all Stationers. 


Works, Camden, N. J. 26 John St., New York. 

Welcome and Valuable 



The undersigned have just published for the benefit of 
their patrons and the public in general, a large and ex- 
pensive Catalogue, pertaining to all out and indoor games, 
and all the latest and useful Novelties. It contains 228 large 
pages, over 2 000 illustrations, and will be sent by mail for 
i'yem. PKCK & SXYDEIl. 126.130 Nassau St.,N.Y. 
O ' 


Send one, two, three, or five 
dollars for a retail box, by ex- 
press, of the best Candies in the 
World, put up in handsome 
boxes. All strictly pure. Suit- 
able for Presents. Try it once. 

C. F. GUNTHER, Confectioner, 
78 Madison Street, Chicago. 

TTTAT>17' AT HOME. Men, Women, Boys, and 

W I 1 K K Girls ' niake 10c * t0 ^ 2 au hour * New busi " 

1.1 vXvlV ncss ; never advertised; no peddling; no 

humbug. The Secret revealed and 13 

samples, worth $5, to commence work on, free. Address 

MASON & CO., Montpelier, Vermont. 





fCach(mi#Mar#lefiIe' , 

Made in Genoa, Italy. 

Genoa Silks are noted in Europe for purity of texture and wearing qualities. Being soft and pliable, they 
do not crack or cut, nor turn Gray like Lyons Silks. For sale bv all first class retailers irom Sl««» to SjkS.OO 
per yard, none genuine unless branded on the selvage of every second yard. Jobbers supplied by the agents. 
SHAEN «& FITHIAIV, 55 Leonard Street, New York. 


Cold Medal, Paris Exposition, 1878. 

The Favorite Numbers, 303, 404, 
332, 351, 1 70, and his other styles. 
SOLD by ALL DEALERS throughout 
the WORLD. 







£l TELESCOPE for Only $1.00. 


We have imported expressly for our summer trade 2,000 Iar ff e French Telescopes at a, very low price; they open 82 
hcs in three sections, and measure el owed, 11 iiw-hes. They are nicely brass hound with brass safety caps on each end to 

exclude .lust, Ac. The lenses are very Powerful Achromatic ChryataJs polished by LEMAIR & Cof, of Paris. With this 
fine telescope objects miles away are brought dose to view with astonishing clearness. Never 'before was a telescope of this size sold for 
less than from * d.00 to $8.00, and we shall offer only a limited number at this price.* Every sojourner in the country or at seaside resorts 
should certainly secure one of these instruments and ao farmer should be without one. Sent by mail or express, safely packed. 
prepaid for only *1.0O; tour tor $8.00. THE l>OMJ£STiC JU'Jf'tU CO. \V»llin tf ibrd; Conn. 




Cosmetic for a beautiful complexion. Guar- 
anteed co be perfectly harmless; recommended by 
the Medical Profession, and warranted to remove 
Tan, Freckles, Moth Patches, Sunburn, Pim- 
ples, etc. Cures Salt Rheum and Erysipelas. 
A Medicine for the Skin. Price, 50 cents. 
ST. JOHN & CO., 
317 Sixth Aven ue, New York 

■ fcfcnLfcllO UltS Sold by Druggists! 

Premium Engra vinos. 


It is the custom of "Peterson's Magazine," as all its old subscribers know, to engrave, every year, A Premium 
Plate, in order to reward persons getting up clubs. %These plates are executed in the highest style of art, at an original 
cost of from ONE THOUSAND TO TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. "Peterson," having kept up this 
practice for many years, has now an unrivaled selection of such engravings. These are now, as a great inducement, 
offered (postage free) for Fifty Cents each, to subscribers or their friends. The engravings are as follows: 

The Surrender of Cvrnwallis, (27 inches by 21) 

Washington's Adieu to Sis Generals, (27 " « 21) 

Jin Hi/an on Trial, (37 " *' 21) 

liunyan in *Tuil, (27 a a 21) 

Washington 9 * First Interview with His Wife, (24 « " 20) 

The Star of Bethlehem, (24 «* « 16) 

« Our Father lVJio Art in Heaven," (24 " "16) 

Washington at Trenton, , (24 " " 16) 

Bessie's Birth-Day, (24 « " 16) 

Christ Weeping over Jerusalem, (24 " "16) 

Angels of Christmas, (24 " " 16) 

Not lost, but Gone Before, . (24 * " 16) 

Christmas Morning, (24 « " 20) 

Christ Blessing TAttle Children, (24 « H 20) 

Washington at Valley Forge, (24 " " 20) 

Grandfather Tells of Yorhtown, (24 « " 20) 

"Hush! Bon*t Wake Them," (20 " " 16) 

The Parable of the Lilies (20 " " ?6) 

Christ Before Pilate, (27 " "21) 

Tired Out, (20 " " 15) 

TAon in love, (27 " ** 21) 

Angels of Paradise, (27 " " 21) 

Mother's Hurling, (27 " "21) 

The Wreath of Immortelles, (27 " "21) 

N. B. — Any subscriber to "Peterson," or her friend, can have either of these engravings by remitting fifty cents, which 
in the mere cost of printing and paper. Or five will be sent for two dollars. Always say which you wish. 


No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth's LAST and BEST Book. 


Being MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH'S Great "New York Ledger 

Is now Complete in Book -Form, in Two Volumes. Price $1.50 each, or 

' Story. 

$3.00 a 

Ifrs. Southworth's boohs will be found for sale by all Booksellers and at all 
any one or oil of them will be sod to any on/, to ami place, at once, post-paid, 


J&t j^^_ lication, 








These Perfumes are for sale by almost all Druggists and Dealers in Toilet- 
Articles; but it", for anv reason, they cannot be so obtained, send for a Price-List to 

LADD & COFFIN, Proprietors and Manufacturers, 

24 Barclay Street, corner of Church Street, New York. 







._ gover nment. Endorsed by the heads <f the Great Universities and Public I 

:hful. Dr. Price's Cream iteking-l'owder does not contain Ammonia, 
j-Extracts— Vanilla, Lemon], Orange, Almond, Rose, etc., etc.— do not 

fcXOMPANi* : 


2. St.