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WEEKLY EDITION. WIXNSBORO, S. O, WEDNESDAY. FEBRUARY 8. 1882. ESTABLISHED IN 1844. '% THE BLACK ROBE. ^ BY WILIvlE COLLINS. ?AUTHOB OF? Ah? 1- WOSIAN rs \7HITE," " TBCE MOOM fBr \ STONTJ," " AFTZK DA2E," "SO KAJIE." and vrjrz," '1 THE LAW AM> TUR LAOr," " TICS NEW MAG1>AJLKS, ETC., ETC. I AFTEil TrIE STORY. r nisrr.i'.F!ti.i>'s uiAisr ?.o5'Lti<?i>. lijth September.?No favorable answer I so far as the port oi London is concern j ed. Very little commerce with Mexico, j and bad harbor in that conntry when i yoxi do trade. Such is the report. *> 17ik September.?A Mexican brig has j been discovered at Liverpool, under orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and 1 hs date of departure depends on expected remittances. In this k state of things I mar wait, -with my PS conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on U|l board my own schooner. ? 18* A to 20lh September.?I have settled k my affairs; I have taken leave of my friends (good Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to Stella, and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well i provided with the jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will > * effect the release of ?le captives. * It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it is also _ _ true tiiat 1 feel out of spirits at ite prospect of leaving England without k my traveling companion, the dog. 1 am afra?l to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine mav be. Stella takes care of him, and, if I don't live to return, she will never part with him for his master's sake. It implies a childish sort of mind, I suppose, but it is a comfort for me to remember that I have never said a hard word to Traveler, and never | lifted my hand on him in anger. All this about a dog! And not a word J about Stella? Not a word. Those j thoughts are net to be written. I have reached the last vo.se of .mv ! M. ti | diary. I sliall lock it and leave it in j charge of my bankers on my way to the j Portsmouth train. Shall I ever want a ; ^ new diary'? Superstitious people might associate this coming to the end of the book with coming to an end of another kind. I have no imagination, and I take my leap in the dark he pefullv, with. Byron's glorious lines in my mind: ''Hero's a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, wr Here's a hear: for any fate i" jti An mciosnre is inserted in this place between the leaves of the diary. It consists of two telegrams, dispatched respectively on the first and second ol ilaj, 1864, and expressed as follows: 1. " From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs. Bomayne, j care of M. Raymond, St. Germain, near Paris.?Penrose is safe on board my Taclit. His unfortunate companion has ' died of exhaustion, and he is himself in 3 a feeble state of health. I at once take j him with me to London for medical ad- ! vice. We are eager for news of yon. Telegraph to Derwentfs hoteL" 2. " From Mrs. Evrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Wintered, Der?? went's hotel, London.?Your telegram Jf > received with joy, and sent on to Stella Pin Paris. All well. Bnt strange events have happened. If yon cannot come here at once go to Lord Loring. He will tell you everything."' 3 ***** THE DIAF.Y RESOIED. fT London, 2d May, 1864.?Mrs. Eyrecourt's telegram reached me just after Dr. Wybrow had paid his first professional visit to Penrose at the hotel. I had scarcely tine to feel relieved by yfi. r the opinion of the case which he expressed, before my mind was upset by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose tinder the charge of our excel ent landlady I hurried away to Lord Loiing. tit was still early in the day; his lordship was at home. He maddened me -with impatience by apologizing at full length for " the inexcusable manner in which he had misinterpreted me conduct on the deplorable occasion of the marriage ceremony at Brussels." I stopped his flow of words (very earnestly spoken, it is only right to add), ; and entreated him to tell me, in the j first place, what Stella was noing in I * Paris. * "Stella is with her husband," JLorcl Loring replied. My head turned giddy, my heartbeat furiously. Lord Loring locked at me, ran to the luncheon table in the next room arid returned with a glass of wine. I really don't know whether I drank the wine or not. I stammered out another ! ' inquiry in one word. ^ . " Reconciled V I said. r"Yes, Mr. Winterfield, reconciled before he dies." V-T. We were both silent for a while. What was he thinking of? I don't know. Jliat was I thinking of ? I j. darenT^nte it down. a. Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of my W health, ? made the best excuse for myself that I could, and told him of the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in leaving England and heartily congratulated me. " This will be welZnAaaA "yTT>'^ cqirl " "Pafliftr Mf CUiUC iicnoj ?y ??? ? Benwell." |i||* Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my disgnst. "Is he in Paris, iC'OT I inquired. 3 "He left Paris last night," Lord Loring answered; "and he is now in London on important business (as I understand) connected with Romayne's afL, fairs." I instantly thought of the boy. "Is Romayne in possession of his faculties ?" I asked. " In complete possession." "While justice is in his power has { he done justice to his son ?" Lord Loring looked a little confused. " I have not heard," was all he said in r reply. IfS-"* 1 was far from satisfied. " You are one cf Bcmayne's oldest friends,'' Iier ' sisted. "Have you not seen him your- | | self?" I ''I liave seen him more than once, j But he has never referred to his af- j rairs." Having said this he hastily | changed the subject. "Is there any j other information I can give yon':" he ! I suggested. j I had still to learn under what cir- | ! cnmstances Romayne had left Italy for j France, and how the event of his illness ' j in Paris had been communicated to his j wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on j his own lecollections to enlighten mo. "Lady Loring and I passed the latt j '.virter in Rome," he said. "Andthere | we saw Roirayne. You look surprised, i Perhaps ysu are aware that we tad of- ( tended him by advice which we thought j it our duty to offer to Stella before her j marriage ?" I was certainly thinking of what | Stella had said of the Lorings on the memorable day when she visited me at the hotel. "Romayne would probably have retr> us." "Lord T,r?rin<r ta suined, "but for the gratifying circumstance of my having been admitted to an interview with the Pope. The Holy Father spoke of him with the most con- { descending kindness; and hearing that I had not yet seen him, gave instructions commanding Komavne to present I himself. Under these circumstances it was impossible for him to refuse to receive Lady Loring and myself on a later occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed we were at the sad change for the worse in his personal appearance, j The Italian physician, -whom he occasionally consulted, told me that there was a weakness in the action of his heart, produced in the first instance by j c-xcessive study and the excitement of | preaching, and aggravated by the fur- j ther drain on his strength due to insuffi- j eient nourishment. He would eat and drink just enough to keep him alive, and no more; and he persistently refused to try the good influence of rest and change of -scene. My wife, at a later interview v th him, when they j were alone, induced him to throw aside j the reserve which he had maintained | with me, and discovered another cause ! for the deterioration in his health. I | uont reier to me return 01 a nervous j misery from which, lie lias suffered at i intervals for years past. I speak of the j effect produced on his mind by the announcement?made no doubt with the best intentions by Dr. Wybrow?of the birth of his child. This disclosure ''.e i was entirely ignorant of his wife s situation when he left- her) appears to have affected him far more seriously than the English doctor supposed. Lady Loring was so shocked at what he said to her on the subject that she has only repeated it with a certain reserve. ' If I could believe I did wrong,' he said, 'in dedicating myself to the service of the Church, after the overthrow of my domestic happiness, I should also believe that the birth of this child was the retributive punishment of my sin and the >-v? TV*TT /I Aufll T W&ttJiUg Ui juixj aji/^/xvwvMiu^ uvuuu. m i .-lave not tate this view. And yet I liav* it not in me, after the solemn vows by which I am bound, to place any more j consoling interpretation on an event j which, as a priest, it disturbs and hu- ! tr.iiiaiv-s me even to think of.' That j one revelation of his tone of though* -will toll you what is the mental state of | r.his unhappy man. He gave us little ! encouragement to continue our friendly intercourse with him. It was onlv when we were thinking of our return to England that we heard of his appointment to the vacant place of first attache j to the embassy at Paris. The Pope's j paternal anxiety on the subject of Ro- j mayne's health had chosen this wise j &nd generous method of obliging him j to try a salutary change of air, as well i ?iS a relaxation from his incessant em- { --1 _A_ On flia 51AT1 I piUVlllDUlS 1U JklViJ-ic. wu uuv ? j of his departure we met again. He ! looked like a worn-out old man. "We could now only remember his double claim on ns?as a priest of our religion, and as a once dear friend?and we arranged to travel with him. Tho weather at the time was mild; our progress was j made by easy stages. We left him at Paris, apparently the better for his journey." I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion. " Xo," said Lord Loring. " "We had reason to doubt whether Stella would be pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant to meddle, unasked, with a matter of extreme delicacy. I arranged with ' 1 ' ii- - i the JSuncio (wnom i nave me nonor lu I know) that we should receive written information of Bomayne's state of health; and, on that understanding, we returned to England. A week since, our ne ws from the embassy was so alarming that Lady Loring at once returned j to Paris. Her first letter informed me ' that she had felt it her duty to tell Stella of the critical condition of Bomayne's health. She expressed.her sense of my wife s kindness most gratefully and feelingly, and at once removed to Paris, to be on the spot if her husband expressed a wish to see her. The two ladies are now staying at the same hotel. I have thus far been detained in London by family affairs. But, unless I hear of 3. change for the better before evening, I follow Lady Loring to Paris by the mail train." It was needless to trespass further on I Lord Loring's time. I thanked him, and returned to Penrose. He was sleeping when I got to the hotel. On the table in the sitting-room I found a telegram waiting for me. It had been sent by Stella, and it contained these lines: " I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of the rescue of ponrato "FTa .^osirjik in cap votj Thpro is no positive suffering ; he is sinking under a complete prostration of the forces of life. That is what the doctors tell me. They said, when I spoke of wrifcirig to vou, 'Send a telegram; there J is no time to lose.'" Toward evening Penrose woke. I showed him the telegram. Throughout our voyage the prospect of seeing Komayne again had been the uppermost subject in his thoughts. In the extrcm"a _ _ ? 1- n/-?loTdfl fliof 1CJ Q1 11 IS UISVICSO UV he would accompany ine to Paris by the right train. Remembering how severely he had felt the fatigue of the short railway journey t ea Portsmouth. I en.v treated him to let me go alone. His devotion to Romayne was not to be reasoned with. While wo were still vainly trying to convince each other, Dr. Wybrow came in. To my amazement he sided with Penrose. " Oh, get up by all means," he said ; " we will help you to dress." We took him out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He thanked us, and saving he would complete his toilet by himself sat down in an easy-chair In another moment he was asleep again? so soundly asleep that we put hira back in Vii< lipfl without- TcaVinfr Tiim T)nr?fr>r Wybrow had foreseen this result: he ! looked at the poor fellow's ps-le, peaceful ! face with a kindly smile. "There is the treatment," he said, " that will set our patient on his legs again. Sleeping, eating and drinking; let that be his life for some weeks to come, and he will be as good a man as ever. If your homeward journey had been by laud Penrose would have died on the way. I will take care of him while you are in Paris." At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that L too. had received bad news, and gave me a place in the coup6 , carriage which had been reserved for him. We had scarcely taken our seats when we saw Father Benwell among the travelers on the platform, accompanied by a gray-haired gentleman who was a j stranger to both of us. Paris, Zd May.?On our arrival at the j hotel I was informed that no message j had yet been received from the embassy. We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast-table, when we had rested | after our night journey. " Romayne still lives," she said. "But his voice has sunk to a whisper, and he is unable to breathe if lie tries to rest in bed. Stella has gone to the embassy. She hopes to see him to-day for ! the second time." "Only for the second time?" I exclaimed. "You forget, Mr. WinterHeld, that j Romayne is a priest. He was only consecrated on the customary condition of | an absolute separation i. jm his wife. J ^ * -? 1.1 1 1 AT. _ X. T I un ner siae?never xei ner snow mat, x j told you this?Stella signed^ a formal j document sent from Rome, asserting i that she consented of her own freo will J to the separation. She was relieved 1 from the performance of another formality (which I need not; mention mora particularly) by a special dispensation. Under these circumstances?communicated to me while Stella and I have been together in this house?the wife's i presence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded by the other priests at the embassy as a scandal and a profanation. The kind-hearted Nuncio is blamed for having exceeded his powers, in vieldirar (even under protest) to the %/ w \ * / last wishes of a dying mail. He is now in communication with Rome, waiting | for the final instructions which are to j i^nide him," ~ "Has Bomavne seen his cluld?" I asked. " Stella has taken the child with her to-day. It is doubtful in the last degr? e whether the poor little boy will be allowed to enter his father's room. That complication is even more serious than the other. The dying Romayne persists in his resolution to see the child. So completely has his way of ! ' H 3 T Al. ^ 7 ! tiliniiing oeen anereu. uy me apprises*,, | of death, and by the closing of the bril- | liant prospect which was before him, j that he even threatens to recant, with | his last breath, if his wishes are not j complied with. How it will end 1 can- j not even venture to guess." "Unites the merciful course taken j by the Nuncio is confirmed," said Lord j Loring, ':it may end in a revival of the ! protest of the Catholic priests iu Germany against the prohibition of marriage to the clergy. The movement began in Silesia in 1826, and was; followed by unions (or league3, as we should call tliem now), in Baden, Wurtemburg, Bavaria and Rhenish Prussia. Later still, the agitation spread to France and Austria. It was only checked by a Papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating the final decision of the famous Council of Trent, in favor of the celibacy of tne priesthood. Few people are aware that this rule has been an institution oi slow growth among the clergy of the Church of Rome. Even as late as the twelfth century there were still priests vho set the prohibition of marriage at defiance." I listened, as one of the many ignorant persons; alluded to by Lord Loring. It was with difficulty I fixed my attention on what he was saying. My thoughts wandered to Stella and to the dying man. I looked at the clock. Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had got possession of me. She rose and walke d to the window. "Here is the message!" she said, recognizing her traveling-servant, as he entered the hotel door. jl lie man appeareu, wimaime wnti-cu on a card. I was requested to present the card at the embassy without delay. 4:th May.?I am only now able to continue my record of the events of yesterday. A silent servant received me at the embassy, looked at the card, and led the way to an upper floor of the house. Arrived at the end of a long passage, he opened a door and retired. As I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my hands in hers and looked at me in silence. All that was true and good and noble expressed i i itself in that look. The interval passed; and she spokevery sadly, very quietly. " One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a heart at rest." She drew back and I approached him. He reclined, propped up with pillows, in a large easy-chair; it was the I one position in which he could still j breathe with freedom. The ashy shades j of death were on his wasted face. In I the eyes alone, as they slowly turned on me, there still glimmered the waning ! licht of life. One of his arms huncr | down over the chair; the other was j clasped round his child, sitting on his ! knee. The boy looked at me wonder' inglj, as I stood by his father. Ro| mayne signed to me to stoop so that I might hear him. "Penrose?" he asked, faintly whispering. <f Dear Arthur I Nctdjing like i aer" I I quieted that anxiety. For a moment there was even the shadow of a smile on his face a? I tol'd him of the effort that Penrose had vainly made to be the companion of my journey. He isked me, bv another gesture to bend my ear to him ones more. " My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to yon. May I not say it ? i'oii have saved Arthur"?his eyes turned toward Stella?" you have been her best friend." He jjaused to recover his feeble breath, looking round the large room , witnout a creature m it Lut ourselvos. Once more the melai* eVinj-lnw r*f i smilp r>ftcc^ri nrni" Viic face and vanished. I listened, nearer lo kirn still. "Winterfield, Death is a great teacher. [ know how I have erred?what I have lost. Wife and child. How poor and barren all the rest of it looks now." He was silent for a while. Was he thinking ? No; he seemed to be listening, and yet there was no sound [n the room. Stella, anxiously watching him, saw the listening expression as [ did. Her face showed anxiety, but ao surprise. "Dees it torture you still ?" she asked. "No," he said ; "I have never heard it plainly since I left Rome. It has grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is not a voice now. It is scarcely a whisper. My repentance it accepted, my release -s coming. Where is Winterfield?" She pointed to me. "I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of ? " He silowly recovered the lost recollection. " Tell Winterfield," he whispered to Stella, "what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to die. The great man reckoned up the dignities that might have been mine if I had lived. From my olace h?re in the embassy?" "Let me say it," she gently interposed, "and spare your strength for better things. From your place in the embassy you would have mounted a step higher to the office of vice-legate. Those duties wisely performed, another rise to the auditorship of the apostolic chamber. That office filled, a last step upw*a\l to the highest | rank left, the rani; of ft prince of the Church." "AllVanitv!" said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and his child. " The true happiness was waiting for Die here. And I only know it now. Too late. Too lato." He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We thought he was composing himself to sleep. Stella tried to relieve him of the boy. " No," he whispered; "i am only resting my eyes to look at him again." We waited. The chill stared at me in infantine curiosity. His mother knelt j at his side and whimpered in his ear'. A bright smile irradiated his face; his clear brown eyes sparkled; he repeated i the forgotten lesson of the bygone time, ftnrl rolled me onne more " Uncle Ber." ! Romajne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. "No," he said. "Not uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your hand." Still kneeling she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself in the chair. " Take her ha nd," he said to me. I too knelt. Her hand lay cold in mine. After a long interval he spoke to me. "Bernard Winterfield," he said, "love them and help them when I am gone." Ho laid his weak hand on our hands clasped together. "May God protect you! may God bless youl" he murmured. *' Kiss me, Stella." I remember no more. As a man I onght to have set a better example, I ought to have preserved my self-control. It was not to be done. I turned from them and burst out ciying. The minutes, passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don't icncw wnicn. A soft knock at the door roused me. I dashed away the useless tears. Stella had retired to the further end of the room. She was sitting by the fireside with the child in her arms. I withdrew to the same part of the room, keeping far enough away not to disturb them. Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of Romayne's chair. He seemed to recognize them unwillingly. From the manner in which thev examined him I inferred *hat they were medical rien. After a consultation in low tones one of them went out. He returned, again almost immediately, followed by the gray-haired gentleman whom 1 had noticed on the iournev to Pans, and by Father Ben veil. The priest's vigilant eyes discovered us instantly in our place near the fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as -well as surprise in his face. Bnt he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not feel sure. He bowed to Stella. She made no return; she looked as if she had not even seen him. One of the doctors "was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell: " Whatever your business may be with Mr. Romayne we advise you to enter on it without delay. Shall we leave the rnnm 9" " Certainly not," Father Benwell answered. " The more witnesses are present the more relieved I shall fee!.." He tnrned to hi.s traveling companicn. "Let Mr. B.omayne's lawyer," 'he resumed, " state what our business is;." The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward. "Are you able to attend to me, sir?'' be asked. Eomayne, reclining in his chair apparently lost to all interest in what was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of his voice failed to reach my ear at the other end of the room. The lawyer, seeming to be satisfied no far, put a formal question to tiie doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Rama jue was in full possession of his facilities. Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the affirmative. Father Benwell added his attestation. " Throughout Mr. Romayne's illness " he said, firmly, " his mind has been its clear as mine is.:' z ? * it. AM5 Willie tills was going on ine cnua had slipped off liis mother's lap with the natural restlessness of his age. B'e walked to the fireplace and stopped, fascinated by the bright red glow of the embers of baming weed. In one corner of the low f?nder hr loose little / bundle of sticks, left there in case the fire might need relighting. The boy, noticing the bundle," took ont one of the sticks and threw it experimentally j into the grate. The flash of flame, as the stick canght fire, delighted him. j He went on burning stick after stick, j The new game kept, him quiet; his mother was content to be on the watch j to see that no harm was done. In the meantime the lawyer briefly stated his case. " You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed for safe keeping in our office," he begani "Father Ben well called upon us a?& presented an order, signed by yourself, authorizing him to convey the will .from London to Paris. The object was to obtain your signature to a codicil, which had been considered a necessary audition to secure the validity of the will. * Are you favoring me with yoor attention, sir?" Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were fixed on the boy?still a.bsorbed in throwing his sticks, one by one, into the fire. " At the time when your will was executed," the lawyer went on, " Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it. Hearing of your illness he submitted the copy to a high legal authority. The written opinion of this competent person declares the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to the Romar Church, to be so imperfectly expressed that the will might be made a subject of litigation after the testator's death. He has accordingly appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we have added it to the will. I thought it my duty, as one of your legal advisers, to accompany l'..:!ier Benwell on his return to Paris in charge of the will, in case you might feel disposed to make Eklljr ?L1 UCi C> nun. -i-fcv/ .,n*v? fWMM and the child as he completed that sentence. Father Benwell's keen eyes took the same direction. " Shall I read the will, sir?" the lawyer resumed; "oi would you perfer to look at it yourself ?" Komayne held out his hand for the will in silence. He was still watching his son. There were but few more sticks now left to be thrown into the fire. Father Benwell interfered for the first time. "One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document," he said. "The Church receives back from yon the property which was once its own. Beyond that, it authorizes and even desires you (by my voice) to make any changes which you or your trusted legal adviser may think right. I refer to the clauses oi the wilJ which relate to the property you have inherited from the late Lady Berrick?and I beg the persons present to bear in memory the few plain words that I have now spoken." He bowed with diamitv. and drew back. Even tlis lawyer was favorably impressed. The doctorsi-J-'ied at each other with -silent approval. For the first time the sad repose of Stella's face was disturbed?I could see that it cost her an effort to repress her indignation. Tee one unmoved person wasRomayne. The sheet of paper on which the will was'written lay unregarded upon his lap; bis eyes were still riveted on the little I 3gure at the fireplace. The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers. He looked about hi in for a fresh supply, and found nothing. His fresh, young voice rose high through the silence in the room. " More!" he cried. " More 1" His mother held up a warning finger, "Hush!" she whispered. He shrank away from her, and she tried to take him on her knee, and looked across the room at his father. "More!" he burst out, louder than ever. Romavne beckoned to me, and pointed to the boy. I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me, he reiterated his petition, standing at his father's knees. " Lift him to me," said Romayne. I could barely hear the words ; even his strength to whisper seemed to be i fast leaving him.. He kissed his son with a panting faiigne nnder that trifling exertion pitiable to see. As I placed the boy on his feet again he looked up at his eying father, with the one idea still in his mind. " More, papa! More!" Romayne put the will into his hand. Tie child's eyes sparkled. " Burn!' he asked, eagerly. "Yes I" Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped him. He struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of the black robe. I took him by the throat. The boy threw the will into the fire. "Oh!" he shouted, in high delight, and clapped his chnbby hands as the bright little blaze flew up the chimney. I released the priest. In a frenzy of rage and despair he looked round at the persons in the *nr.rr\ T foTta -cr/vn oil +/\ Trritr?Aoa " Via 1VVU1* JL HUUV JVU I'W TI UG cried, "this is an act of madness I" '! You yourself declared just now," said the lawyer, " that Mr. Romayne was in perfect possession of his faculties." The priest turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at each other. For one awful moment Romayne's eyes brightened, Romayne's voice rallied its power, a3 if life was returning ! to him. Frowning darkly, the priest pnt his question: "What did you do it for?" Quietly and firmly the ansT*# came: Wife and child." The last long-drawn &;gh rose anc fell. With those sacred words on his lips Romayne died. ***** * L-ondon, 6M May.?At Stella's requesi I have returned t-o Penrose, with but one fellow traveler. My dear old companion, the dog, is coiled up fast aslee? mv feet while I write these lines. Penrose has gained strength enough tc keep me company in the sitting-room. In a few days more he will see Stella again. What instructions reached the em! 1 m ?"? 1- _ LI T> i oassy irora Jttome?wnetnarifcomayne rej ceived the last sacrament at the earliei period of illness?we never heard. Nc objection was made when Lord Loring proposed to remove the body to Engj laud to be buried in the family vault al Vange Abbey. ! I had undertaken to give th? nsees : /., ik : r - 1 sarj directions for the funeral on mj arrival in London. Returning to the hotel I met Father Benwell in the street. I tried to pass on. He deliberately stopped me. " How is Mrs. Romajne ?' he asked, - ? i- 'i.? -T_ T Tfitii tuai suavity wmuu ue seems always to have at command. "Fairlj well. I hope? And the boy? Ah, he little thought how lie was changing liis prospects for the better when he made that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mi. Winterfield, yon don't seem to be quite so cordial as usual. Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate assault on my throat? Let us forgive and forget. Or, perhaps, yon object to my having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept from Lira the restoration of the property of the church. In both cases I only did my duty as a priest. You are a liberalminded man. Surely I deserve a favorable construction of my conduct?" I really could not endure this. " I have my own opinion of what you deserve," I answered. " Don't provoke me to mention it." He eyed me with a smile. "I am not so old as I look," he said ; ' I may live another twenty years 1" "Well?" I asked. "Well," he answered, "much may happen in twenty years." With that he left me. If he means s?n :?T luv lurtiier ULiioouieij x uau ten jjuuui tina ?he will find me in liis way. To turn to a more pleasant subject. Reflecting on all that had passed at my memorable interview with Eomayne, I felt some surprise that one of the person? present had made no effort to present the burning of the will. It was not to be expected of Stella?or of the doctors, who had no interest in the matter -but I was unable to understand the passive position maintained by the lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two words. "The Vange property and the Berriok property were both absolutely at ;he disposal of Mr. Bomayne," he said. "If he died without making a will, he knew enough of the law to forsee that houses, lands and money would zo co Jiis ' nearest of kin.' In plainer words iiis widow and son." When Penrose can travel, hs accompanies me to Beaupark. Stella and her little son and Mrs. Eyreconrt will be the only other guests in my house, lime must pass, and the boy will be older, before I may remind Stella of Romayne's last wishes on tha: sad xorning when we two knelt on either side ol him. In the meanwhile it Is almost happiness enough forme to look forward to the day. Xote.?The nert leaf of the diary is missing, Jtsv some acciaenc a manuscript page has got into its place, bearing a later date and containing elaborate instructions fo: executing a design for a wedding-dress. The handwriting has since been acknowledged as her own, by no less a person than Mrs. Eyrecourt. the end. 'j HS HOME DOCTOR. Food.?Food is an agent of tremendous power. Feed mankind with the same science that birds, kine and horses are fed?to wit, on their natural food? and then we may look for the healthy results obtained with those animals. Dairymen know how to feed lor health and milk. Hostlers know how to feed their horses, and ladies their canaries. They all seek to give the normal, natural food of the animal under their care. Now. if man would treat his own race as he treats his animals, we think human nervous systems would not show such signs of weakness. ? Dr. Footers Health Monthly. Moles akd Wakts.?We could never | quite understand why any gentleman, and particularly any lady, should consent to remain conspicuous, bv reason of, an ugly mole on the face, when the defect may be easily and safely remedied. We "have extirpated a "hat fall''? " be the same more or lees"?and have done our work so thoroughly that there is not the ghost of a chance that a siDgle mole will return to torment its former possessor. Our plan is this: Where there is but one mole, not too large, we simply freeze it with a ipray of ether, and then -make a curved incision in the direction of the folds of the skin, from a quarter to half an inch in length, on each side of the mole and close to it, so as to close it between the curved inci sions; and then we remove the mole with the small portion of skin on either side of it. We then sponge the wound until it stops bleeding,and riraw the edges of skin accurately together with several very narrow strips of court plaster, In three or four days it will heal; generally so that the least scar or line can bo seen. If there are two or more moles to be taken out, or one large one, we take our patient-to a neighboring dentist who administers gas, and while under its inflnence we can dispose of three or four moles, and then apply the plaster afterward. Thns the whole operation is painless, and entirely safe. Corks.?To cure corns, the first thing to be done is to remove the cause , that is, avoid the pressure. So long as the irritating pressure exists, application of plasters, etc., will be of little service. A different shoe, one that does not touch and rub the part, will often effect a cure. A thick buefc-skin, with a hole cut to admit the corn, and distribute the pressure to the surface around it nrill fvffon aflfnrd vpllpf. Til a Cnffl. Tiot only is the skin unnaturally thickened, but the flesh below is irritated and sensitive, hence any remedy must tirst be directed to the removal of the hardened skin, which may be done with a razor, tai ing care always to not cut too deep. Some corns extend downward like a peg, pressing upon the tissues below ; these are excessively painful, and may give rise to serious ulcers. In every city and large town there are skilled chiropodists, and where a respectable one is at hand, it is better in such cases to consnlt liim. But avoidance is better than any of the many remedies, none of which can be effective so long as the cause remains. Soft corns between the toes are often distressingly painful. These are also produced by undue pressure, or by friction due to badly fitting shoes; they are kept moist by perspiration, and are usually very sensitive. They are often cured by simply wearing * plug of cotton wool between j the toes, which, by relieving the pressure, removes the cause, and the cure takes place. Benefit is said to result I from wetting the cotton with tincture j of arnica, or in spirits of turpentine, but having found the cotton alone effica-' cious, we have not tried either. A corn j npon the sole of the foot sometimes J occurs. To cure this, wear a large shoe j or boot in which is placed an insole of binder's beard, thick paste board, in which is to be cut a hole properly large, just where the corn touches. This distributes the weight ever the whole sole and relieves the pressure. Si:*.. - ~y - r.rii^.-'.Vr'ri -i "~T -r A LI^E 0? TICISSHUDF. The Career of a Brilliant bu: Erratic Newspaper Writer. A New York letter contributes the following reminiscences of a brilliant but dissip*'- d newspaper Bohemian : The n of Pfaff's reminds me of the history, h'alf paihetic, of one of the true Bohemians, a type now almost extinct, related +lie .other night in a popular resort ne-ar "the square" bv a former associate,' one who would not bear the ills of newspaper life, but flew to other that he knew not of by embarking upon the treacherous sea of ^ ^ ^^ /*"W Al%o/?-n ?A i'pccuiaixuii. u^ovuiu origin and the most limited advantages onr Bohemian developed into a man of marvelous resources, wide knowledge, incisive wit and brilliant attainments, bat in him were united a most remarkable combination of good and bad qualities. The peer intellectually of the brightest men of. bis day, he delighted in the companionship of the dissolute and debased. He would pawn the coat on his back for charity but would never pay a debt. He was a born newspaper man, and possessed a versatility that enabled him with equal readiness to pen a scholarly and analytical art review or describe a sensational murder with all the brutal justice of a photograph. In a reportorial way he was equal to anything from a humorous j paragraph to a five column interview, | from an Italian opera to a base ball matcb, from a Presbyterian synod to a prize-fight. He was by turns an idle and bloated vagrant, and a man of clear brair;, untiring energy, fertile in expedient, and incomparable as a newsgatherer, but always strictly unreliable. I When of his own volition he undertook a task no obstacle conld dishearten him, no personal hardship was too great, and he would persevere until his object was attained ; but give him a set task, even though it might assure equal or greater compensation, and he was qnite likely to neglect it altogether.''If jou ever have anything very particular ou hand," he said one day when about to receive an important assignment, "don't intrust; it to me, but in great emergencies, when left to myself, look oat for me." One evening, while dragging out a miserable existence by occasional reporting in vxuviuuaui) yui j^vu^uiau uvuivi v* w railway accident a few miles distant. In an instant there was a magic transformation. The news gathering instinct was aroused. The shuffling -vagrant became the alert reporter, with every faculty active. Hastening to the office he found every mouth closed. The facts were to be suppressed as long as possible, and no word of information could be extracted. This much he knew; the disaster had occurred near a country town about ten miles from the city. Without a moment's he sitation he took to the track. Tt, TH5 ?. dark, srnrinv nip-ht-. and the rain came down in torrents, but he plodded along manfully and cheerfully, and shortly before midnight reached his destination. The station operator said the wreck was five miles further on. Time was precious and the seeker after news pleaded in vain for a statement of the facts. The operator, governed by instructions, curtly refused to divulge the slightest detail. Argument and entreaty were alike unvaling, and the reporter was in despair, when the telegraph instrument began to click. Instantly he grasped his opportunity, and, requesting permission to dry his rain| soaked clothing, seated himself by the stove, where every sound could be distinctly heard. Among his varied accomplishments was a thorough knowledge of telegraphy, and as he sat shivering over the cheerful blaze, his practiced ear, drank in every word that passed over the wire. From the station beyond, where the train employees had gone, came a tolerably comprehensive account of the accident (a collision caused by the violation of orders) the names of four or five persons killed and as many wounded. It was a supplementary report and explicit enough to serve the purpose. A neighboring farmer -was hastily aroused, and the promise of liberal compensation induced him to harness a team and drive the reporter with all speed to Cincinnati, where the Enquirer office was reached at 2 o'clock in the morning. An hour later a column report of the accident, embracing the essential facts with some imaginative embellishment of details, had been put in type and the esteemed contemporaries of the Enquirer were badly "scooped," while the chagrin and anger of the secretive railway authorities was simply indescribable. This ingenious bit of work was liberally rewarded, and its author given regular employment. But the incentive to continued action was lacking; the first important assignment was deliberately neglected and the depths of degradation were again soundsd. In time the Bohemian drifted back to New York, where he underwent every fyv-f or?/3 on T4 rt + iUiX?t Ul ^iivauivu iuiu uiiu / poverty can inflict because he would not be a man. An artful borrower, he lived cbieflv upon the bounty of those who admired him in spite of his faults. His appeals at least had the merit of frankness. It was rarely "Will you lend me a dollar?" but "Give me a dollar; it's safe to assort that I'll never pay you." Remonstances against his manner cf life were unavailing. He would listen attentively to the catalogue of his misdeeds, and then remark complacently to his accuser, "My dear fellow, you flatter me; you positively do," adding a confession of offenses, compared with which those for which he had been arraigned were trifles of utter insignificance. When fickle fortune smiled upon him at rare intervals he squandered his small possessions with as much I rvrir>i"'?>lTr fts if tVlPVA WPrf" millions in reserve. He would give his last cent to a brother unfortunate, when not knowing where he himself would sleep that night, or how he would procure his next meal. "I am generous, but not just," he would say. But neither dissipation nor privation could check the spontaneous flow of his wit, which was singularly bright and sparkling. He wrote numerous sketches when his nightly bed was upon a bench in Union Square and a five cent mntton pie was to him a banquet fit for gods. It was during his darkest days that New York was convuised by terrible labor riots. To interview Cardinal McClosky iinAn anl-nn/st- Ti7Qa on tliflf; MmA | ? I to him like an inspiration. He was | almost in rags, dirty and unshaven, and | a silver dime constituted his entire cash I assets. The dime procured a clean ! shave, and, pinning the collar of his butI tonless coat closely abont his neck to conceal his lack of linen, he boldly presented I himself at the good cardinal's door, insisting so persistently upon admittance that the servant doubtfnlly permitted him to enter the first comfortable apartment he had seen for months. One of his nnblackened shoes had bnrst wide op-.-n, and this he skillfully masked beneath an ottoman and calmly awaited his victim. He had ; never seen the cardinal and expected to J behold him entering, like ''Richelieu," clad in rohes of crimson and ermine, ready to lanncli the curse of sacred Rome upon the rash intruder. The j door opened and there entered an ol?i gc-ntleman if mild and benevolent aspect, who courteously inquired : "Did you want to see me, sir?" "No, sir," replied the visitor. "I want to see the cardinal." "I am the cardinal." "Oh Hsaid the audacious iiaterriotrer, ! Titheasy familiarity."Sitdom,cardinal. V ou see the present labor disturbances J is a topic of vital importance just note, | and any expression of your views would be read with great interest by the entire countn. Now, what do you think abont " "Excuse me, sir," said the good ma ? 1 with a shade of asperity. "This inter" 1 view is unwarrantable. I have pos itive" 1 Jy declined to be interviewed upon ^ this subject. What paper do you represent ?" "Well, now, the fact is, cardinal, I ' may say frankly and confidentially that I don't happen to be regularly con- ; nected with any paper. You see, car- J dinal, I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning, and that wasn't at : Deimonico's, and I have only very dim ] and misty recollections of what a bed is 1 like. In my present extremity it just i occurred to me that if you wonld give , me a little talk on this matter, I could j get four or five dollars for it from al- j most any paper in New York." Tha eminent churchman crazed at his ' singular visitor in blank amazement, until his indignation gave way to amusement, and then to compassion. He granted "the little talk," and the result was a wonderfully graphic and forcibly written interview of two columns, which ' the Herald gladly published next mom- , ing and paid twenty dollars for. One night, jast as the old year was ' dying, John AlcCormack, then city editor ; of the Cincinnati Enquirer, was told that j the strange character whom he had so ] often befriended was lying helpless in ; an attic not far distant, and that the * end was fast approaching. He hastened : to the squalid apartment, and there, ! alone, haggard and uncared for, was ' the pitiful wreck ol one endowed with < mental gifts which, properly employed, ; would have made him one of the brightest journalists in the laud. He shook ! his head sadly and smiled feebly : "It's no use, John, old fellow?I'm 1 beyond help. My life has been a fail- 3 ure, but it will soon be ended. Oh, if T nr>lv have known what if I ! could only have seen " J The living sat beside the dead, and the ns.^iwnn; btiis rang out the merry tidings of a new year's birth. No Place Like Home. "There is no place like home?none People in boarding-houses sigh for it and sing about it, and always will, so long as the hand organ is heard in the land. Everybody remembers the old homestead where he was born?one of those old rambling houses that cover four acre^ of ground and are full of innumerable highways and byways, nooks, ? comers and closets. "Why, I remember of going to one of them out in Wisconsin. Tney took ms to the spare room ] | ?that place of desolation in any house ( ' ^ O ]]AW 4 Ill nil UiIC~ttUU 5??w ? wmu it | ( candle to go to bed by. And then < there was one of those old feather beds < six feet high, that yon wonder how < under the sun you'll ever climb into. 1 When you do succeed in falling into it, < you go down, down, clear out of sight, ] your legs and arms sticking out in four < directions from the coverings, that are 1 too short and too narrow, and you get j colds and rheumatism and consumption < and die in six months. And then there t is the hole in the window for the air? j and the cats to come in. Both came: c the air the most numerously, but the $ cats to stay the longest. Then they always eat breakfast in the night in these old houses, and the kitchen, where they 1 nnnntiM frAm I j U.\J 1*1, J.O iVUi WUMV4WW v- -- , , spare room, while the thermometer is j j 191 degrees below zero and scratching j1 hard to get lower. 11 " Home is more to a woman than to a [ < man. It is her tempk. She is its trod- ! < dess, its priestess?but oftener its jani-1 < tor. A man doesn't look so longingly ; ^ back at the old horns, though it never j < cost him a cent, bought all his clothes j ] and sent him to college. A man likes ! j his home when he gets acquainted in j : it, because there his stupidi'y passes for j | the profoundest wisdom. His jokes are j 1 all laughed at (though it needs a glos- j sary to get at their meaning) if he only j indicates the laughing place. When a man dies he is wept for at home, but j the cold world moves right along a3 if nothing had happened ; fond lovers j come to his graveyard, even; wear his tombstone smooth sitting on it, con- j tract bad poetry and worse rheumatism ! and burden the air with labial confectionery. I've heard that there were ; skeletons in man? homes. They never get there unless they are brought. Secrets in the family are bad things. There is one, though, that's all right, and that is a handsome Christmas pres- : j ent for the husband, for the bill is sure i. to he sent to him four days before | Christmas, so that everything is made ;: ovely and harmonious."?Durdstte. ? Abont Water. ! Water is composed of two gases, i oxygen and hydrogen, united in two proportions of one measure of tli<? j former to two measures of the latter ; j it exists in nature in three form?, j dependent upon the quantity of heat, j The point of greatest density' of water j is 39.5 degrees. Water boils at 212 : degrees, when the barometric pressure j is 29 92 inches. When*we asceni mountains this pres- | sure is less, and water boils at a lower ; temperature than 212 degrees. This t fact has been utilized in measuring alti- j tudes. Both liquid and solid forms of ! water are volatile. A certain quantity ; of water can be suspended in the atmos- j phere, dependent upon temperature ; f thus: one cubic yard of air at 50 de ! grees becomes saturated, that is, when ! it can not hold any more, when one-1 half cubic inch of water is diffased j throughout it; at 75 degrees, one cubic j inch: at 100 decrees, two cubic inches. "When a cloud saturated with moisture j at a temperature of 75 degrees, is sud-' denly cooled to 50 degrees, its capacity j for water is diminished one-half, and ! this comes down as rain, hail or snow. I Steam is hotter tiian boiling water, al- j though a thermometer mark*! 212 ae- j grees in both. The heat which holds j the atoms of steam apart is latent, and ; is equivalent to 534 thermal units, j Water cooled below 39.5 degrees ex- j pands; one quart of water at 39 5 de- { grees becomes, when frozen, 1.09022 ; quarts of ice. Fishes and other inhab- j itants of lakes and rivers do not die, j because the temperature of the deeper i waters doe3 not fall below 39 5 degrees, j and this degree of cold is not incom- i patible with life. No matter how cold it may be deep | lakes and risers are never frozen their j entire depth; the cold water being ; lighter rises to the surface and forms a ; still lighter crust of ice, -which can not! sink. This expansion of water when | frozen provokes great changes in na- : ture. Snow, which is composed of crystals with six radii and of innumerable varieties of designs, acts as a cloak to young vegetable life. Seven-eighta of the weight of man is ; composed of water. Pure water can \ only be obtained from the ice caverns i of the Alps or the laboratory of the | chemist. Arctic explorers never want i for drinkable water; they melt ice, ! which dissolved, is free from most im- ! purities. Fio^t crystallizes free from ; impurities and salts. The various! natural mineral waters are solutions of i chemical substances "preoared in the j ground by the pharmacy of nature." i i "?"?"?. . i The 2,92S newspapers, magazines and j quarterlies of Great Britain havy an ag- > grcgate circulation per iseno of 22,258,- i 000. and an averse circnla'ion rer issue 1 f >t eAch journal ?r "erindical o: 7,6f 2. - , V.':' . -< >' il'ilrlii' i.lWifTiM> wT'iirti " ppvc '' STUDENTS DUELS. ' ' yO Deliberate am! Bloody Butchery l>y German Duelists. a. correspondent of the London Glo b srites as follows: It was 8 o'clock on a foggy morniog as a friend and myself marched along the M>*riahilfer 3trasse, in Vienna. My friend was a roung surgeou 01 pruxiuae. "It is a 'mensur,'" quoth he; "there will be hot work, for some of them are aid hands." A batch of student's duels vas to be fought- off, and my friend was doctor for ills old corps, the "Silesia!" ' You must be a colleague for the nonce," said he, as we turned down a narrow side street '! can hardly introduce you to a mensnr' unless you pass as a doctor." So I buttoned high my coat and looked professional. We entered a ^ little restaurant, passed through to the back, and so by a narrow passage to * . . .% iW? TTiVU O \ gc. "Ah, doctor!" called "hall a- %Z?ij voices, as we entered. My conductor, turning to me, said: "Gentlemen, here is an English colleague of mine desirous of witnessing our 'mensur,' let me introduce him." Long lasted the bowing, shaking of bands, and exchanging of names, for punctilious politeness is never more ae rigueur than on such occasions. A long room with a table at either end, fcha walls hung with blaV?j gold Sags and shields of the "Siiesia"~an arsenal of swords in the racks-gloves, masks and paddings in profusion. A group of red-capped students standing and sitting round one table, a group of green capped students at the other? the whole in a fine atmosphere of tobacco smoke. Plastered were the facos Df many, and almost every left cheek bore proud traces of doughty Mows. r\ j ~ J Ux ^UVCi^lXCO ail Wi-Vi Viuyi CUU VL VUV room were "Saxoni*.,r My friend and his colleague of the ^ Dther corps now busied themselves in AyiDg out the implement* of their arl ?while the first pair of combatants prepared for action. Coat? and waistcoats were removed; tho sword arm was iwa'.hed in many folds of black silk as ivas also the neck, while a wadded garment?horribly stiffened and discolored from use?protected the body, and the jyes were guarded by goggle-like spec:acle frames. A fellow got up in this , juise has a right "uncanny" look about turn, especially with the long straight sword with the fearfully sharp blade md a great basket ''guard" in his nand. " We will commence at occe, if it is igreeable to y ju." " We are entirely at your service." The presidents of either corps saute ceremoniously, the crowd of stuients fall back, the combatants advance ;o chalk line. The presidents on either side are in full student gala.boot ;d, capped and ribboned?tneir naEea > words ready to parry an unauthorized slow. The recorder reads the protocol )f the fight, the senior calls.: " Si.entium ! Ready ! Guard !" There is i second's pause, and then at the word s ' los !" (let loose) the hammering begins. It is not at all like broadswords )r singlesticks?still less like foils, for he student's " paukerei" is quite sui jenesis?an inelegant hacking at close quarters with nothing but the over juard " terce and quirt." Tfiey are to ngnt ior nueeu miuutes ?rests not included?unlc-ss, of course, i>efore that time the docior declares it to be dangerous to procecd. " Halt" is called for a few seconds. First blood. "It i3 nothing," declares the doctor, ind the swordsmen advance again, but 3ne of them has a dripping gish in the ?heek. "Halt" is called at least a lozen times, and each time another ?ash is recoried. One man can hardly ;ee for the biood which trickles down !iis forehead and gets under his goggles, asd so the doctor, with calm readiness, smears the upper lim with the crease from a plate cf "gaylasch," and thus diverts the gory stream. " Our man can go on a bit more," from the Saxonia "Our man is quite ready," from the ? Silesia. "Ready! Los!" once more, flam mer, hammer; clash, clash. "Ealt I" a lock of hair flatters to the ground; Saxouia staggers back; the doctor is at his side. "We mast 6top," remarks ^E<culapius, after a glance; "a deep scalp wound." The recorder advances, and reads passively from his notes : " 'Mensur' between X of Saxonia. and Y of Silesia. Stopped by Dr. Z , after fourteenth round, 'after twelve and three-quarter minutes actual fightiDg." And n-.w the doctors fall to work, and a right ghastly sight it is ; gory paddings, steaming liot, are loosened, and wine poured down between pale . lips. Next duel was a far finer affair, for practiced slashers yield tho steeL > Everybody tools tiae trouoie to iook on ; even the most crashed of topers pat down his beer and ashamed a critical mien. Lightning quick flashed the blades, whizzing ominously ; but the touches were less frequent by reason of greater skill in parrying. All at onca Silesia dropped his weapon and fainted outright. His whole hand was laid open by a skillful under switch. This concluded the second affair. Polite to lite Policeman. "Talk a!>ont bold bank burglaries," said a member of the po!iee4??2e this morning, "the slickest steaif,^S?I^ ^ heard ot was the robbery of a bank " down in Rhode Island, sis or seven years ago. It wa3 a bitter cold nigbfc, and a night-patrolman noticed a dim light in the "bank window, and going up to the door rapped. 'Is that you, patrolman ?' asked a voice from withm. " 'Yes,' was the reply. "'Step in and get"a heat,'said the voice from within. The patrolman stepped inside and ecconntered a daplittle fellow wearing a green shade over his eyes and a pen behind his ear. " 'Yon're working late to-night,' said the patrolman. " 'Yes,' said the dapper little fellow, I've been detained to-night straightening np aeconnts.' "The patrolman warmed himself at the roaring big fire tliafc blazed on the hearth and went ont again on his beat. An honr after the patrolman came that way, and still seeing the light throngn bUC wmuun la^cu " 'Is that yon, patrolman? " 'Yes.' " 'Come in and warm yourself.' "The pa'roltnan accepted the invitation. 44 'It's a howling cold night,' said the man with a green shade over his eyes. " 'Yon bet,' said the patrolman. So he took another heat and retarned to his beat. Be was rather snrprised nest day to learn that his fireside friend of the night before had got away with some ?90,000 of the bank's funds." In Memory of Her Husband. Nob only at Balmoral, but also at Osborne and at Windsor castle, tbe units of rooms which were occupied by the prince consort hare never b?ea altered in any way since his death. Everything remains the same as he left it. The rooms are kept locked up during the absence of the court, but. as Qieen Victoria comes to each palace, they are opened and lighted up every evening during her stay. At Windsor she usu fillj* pats'1? a pari uacu -m the j-rineo ccns :rt> sitticsr room ' Js j