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lewis \i. grist, proprietor. | A a Jubcjirnbcnf Jfamtfjj ftciuspprr: Jfor tljf |lromofion of fjjc |1olifitaI, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial interests of Ijjc j?out|j. Jterms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 33. YORKVILLE, S C., THURSDAY, MARCH 18, 1886. aSTO. 11. jU #riginal Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. BY L. T>. OZMOND. CHAPTER III. The Bartons went to New York, and here Susie had her fill of sight-seeing, which, under different circumstances, she would no doubt have enjoyed. But she felt it wearisome to be dragged from place to place, caring little for anything, except, indeed, the picture galleries, for these she could not help being interested in. Her husband was so attentive to her, so solicitous in his endeavors to make her happy, that she pitied him almost as much as she did herself, but ' " * * ill % i _ i n x* in this case pity was not "aKin to iove,- tor love him she oouhl not. She did try not to betray this fact. She had made many resolutions to be a good wife to him, and faithfully endeavored to put them in practice; and she hoped, after a while, that she had so far succeeded in playing her well-intentioned part as to disguise the truth, and that he would never guess that it was her hand alone which had been given to him? that her heart had no part or lot in the matter. He was a quiet man, and never talked ; much. He would read for hours at a time, and let her amuse herself in any way that she pleased, so that she was put to no trouble to entertain him, and could be silent or not as she felt inclined. It often _ happened that while he held a book and feigned to be occupied with it, he would sit for a long time with the pages unturned, furtively watching her, but this she would not perceive. If she looked sad and preoccupied, his own face would be anxious and grave; if she appeared contented, his expression corresponded with hers?and a smile from her was of inestimable value in his eyes. One day he entered her room with a letter in his hand. She looked up from her work and a kindly instinct prompted her to make room for him on the sofa beside her. He sat down, flushing with pleasure; and taking her hand, pressed it gently, and held it for a moment in his own. "Susan, I have received a very unwelcome communication," he presently began. And as she looked up enquiringly, he opened the letter and placed it before her. It was a business communication, summoning * * * ?tit i mm 10 uauioruiu wuuuut ucitvj. "What will you do?" she asked. "I must go, of course; I have no choice. But now the question is, will you go with me, or would you prefer spending the period of my absence in West Ridley?" "At home!" She colored brightly, and her eyes sparkled, as visions of the dear old house, of her father, of the children's noisy welcome, of Jack's ecstasy at her return, danced before her. "Oh, Amos, how lovely that would be!" It was very seldom she called him by his name; and in the pleasure he felt at hearing it, and ia^seeing her happy look, he almost ignored the pang which it caused him to notice how eagerly she hailed the idea of their separation. "You would prefer that, then, to goingl with?to going to California?" "Yes, indeed. I have no desire to travel so far; and just think how glad they will : be to see me again. How soon must we leave here?" "Within a week or ten days." "Then I can begin to pack at once, can't I?" "Certainly, if you wish to." He refolded his letter, rose aria leic uie ( room. Susie did not hear his stifled sigh as he closed the door. Her little world had j suddenly grown bright, and she began to run up and down stairs on various errands i connected with the prospective move, looking more like her old self than she had done since she left home. She wrote letters to her father and Myra to say that she was coming, and made a list of little gifts which she meant to take to each one of her family, and to some of her old friends. She altered this list several times. While she was revising it, her husband came in and discovered what she was about. "May I see it?" he asked, and she showed it to him. "You might get better things, might you not? Would Myra care for sucli a trifle as a gold thimble?" "She used to wish for one, often." "Well, add something to it. Would she like ornaments of any kind, or a set of books? Isn't she fond of reading?" "Yes, very fond, indeed." "Get her a set of 'Waverley.' And I see you have a box of blocks opposite Jack's j name. You can find something he would like better. Suppose we go out this even-1 ing, and look." And they did go, Susie carrying a purse sufficiently well-tilled to enable her to gratify her most extravagant wishes, nor was Mr. Barton satisfied until she had made a sufficient number of purchases to stock a miniature variety store. He ordered ev erything packed in a box, except one present which gave her more pleasure than anything else?a gold watch, which was to make her twelve-year-old brother Ned the proudest and happiest boy in West Kidley. "When that box is opened there will be fun," he said, looking so genuinely pleased at the prospect that Susie was moved to say, gratefully, "how good and generous you are ! I can't thank you enough." "That you are satisfied is my best reward," he replied. And poor Susie wished more than ever that she could learn to love him?but how could she ? They went back to West Ridley, and the welcome given to Susie was all that her fancy had pictured. She was charmed to find that Jack had not forgotten her in the least, but clung to her as fondly as ever, and Mayra told her that he carried her photograph to bed with him every night, and fell asleep with it under his cheek. When the big box arrived and its load of treasures was disclosed, there was a jubilee! Such an outburst of delight greeted each fresh discovery, such a radiant band of lit' tie faces grouped around, such heartfelt thanks were uttered, that Susie overflowed with contentment at the sight of so much joy, and felt truly, perhaps, for the first time, the pleasure of wealth. Rut she took care to inform them that it was Mr. Rarton who had selected, and insisted upon her purchasing the handsomest of the gifts. "Well, he's a good man and I like him," said Jack, "though I did hate him awfully when he took you away. Are you going to stay here for good, now ?" "For a good while, dear, at any rate. I don't think we shall go far away again, either." "Never again at all ? Oh, how good!" Mr. Rarton stayed but two days at his father-in-law's, then took his departure for California. Susie settled down to the old life, and most of her old occupations, and in a little while it began to seem as though she had never got married at all. There were changes, though, as she soon found. There was one pleasant cottage where she had been used to visit often, and be welcomed as a daughter. But she could not run in there now for a chat with Mrs. Morton as formerly, and she never passed the white paling without a pang, recalling the many happy days she had spent with the gentle old lady, whose manner to her when they met now was a little constrained and cold, as was only natural. Tom she saw once in the road leading to the town. He lifted his hat to her, and passed withi xx "? - I I 4. ^...^1 1 I OUtaWOrCl. 11 muue lit"! iifiut swell, tuiu she thought him very unkind, and then blamed herself for thinking so. One day her brother Ned brought home the news that Tom Morton was going to be married. He guessed it was true, because Hugh Lindsay told him so, and it was Hugh's cousin Mary that Tom was courting. Susie did not believe it in the least, but she could not help thinking about the report, though she reminded herself that it was no business of hers, and that it could make no difference to her whether Tom was really in love with Mary or not?for was she not Amos Barton's wife? So the days passed by. Her husband wrote regularly after his arrival in California ; he would have to remain there several weeks, he said, perhaps, longer. He regretted that she had not accompanied him, because he thought that she would haveen! joyed the climate and scenery; but perhaps, after all, hesaid she was happier where she was. His letters were always kind, but short, and rather business like. It never occurred to Susie to keep any of them ; they were of no especial value to her. One came at last a little different from the rest. He seemed to be feeling dull and rather homesick ; a touch of melancholy pervaded the concluding sentences, in which he spoke [of his strong desire to see her again. "I have you with me often in my dreams, Susan, and the waking is hard to bear. I , have always been such a silent, matter-offact fellow, that I don't think I have ever I been able to make you fully understand i how much I care for you, my dear. I hardly realized it myself until I left you. But I j hope you will feel sure of this, whatever happens?that it has always been my most j earnest wish to make you happy, and if I have failed, it has not been for want of trying." Susie pondered over those words, and marveled at them. The wish, so often felt, recurred to her, that she could make a better return for her husband's affections; then she put the letter in a drawer and ceased to think about it. She was in the habit of going on regular days to the post-office, always getting her California letters on those days. When she next went, expecting her mail as usual, there was none for her. She thought lit- \ tie about it, supposing it had missed a day ; but when nearly a week passed and still nothing came she began to feel worried. Then came an envelope addressed In a strange hand. On opening it she found a half sheet of paper containing a few words, I announcing the fact that her husband had | been suddenly taKen in on mo street anu conveyed to a hospital, where he now was. She was smitten with self-reproach at the recol- j lection of her own indifference and cold-! ness, and was conscious of a sincere wish j for his recovery. The next day came an-| other letter from the same source. This j time the news was startling?Amos Barton j was dead. Dead! She sat down and tried to realize j it, but she could not. Then she tried to an-! alyze her own sensations in thinking it over,! but she could not succeed any better in this, j Was she grieved ? Honestly, she did not j know. She only knew this, that she hated j herself for her own uncertainty. Ought she not cry and be sorrowful, as a widow should? But it seemed so strange to her that she was a widow! ner nusoancrs uetuu meant une tumg? and this she could not forget, try as she might?it meant that she was released from her bondage. And with this reflection came a sudden thrill and uprising of her heart, followed by fresh self-loathing for the sin she was guilty of but could not help. I do not think she was to blame. Her first step had probably been wrong, for she had in some sort perjured herself in taking | the marriage vow upon her lips; but she had acted, as it seemed to her, from a dutiful motive, and this was certainly true. Whether the sin of marrying without love was outweighed by the merit of her selfj sacrifice and filial regard, I leave it for others to decide. She felt guilty, and mis; erable, and self reproachful, and relieved, I and lightened of a heavy burden, all in j one. The conflict of her feelings alone was sufficiently distressful to her to prevent her I from appearing indifferent and unmoved, j And though she kept very quiet, her pale face and subdued manner were suitable enough to the mourning garb she assumed.! The physician who had attended her hus- j i band wrote to her very kindly, stating that I it had been Mr. Barton's expressed wish to be buried in the San Francisco cemetery; and that his funeral had been properly con-! i ducted, and all things done in order. (>ther j ; lpttpr^ pfimp tn her from narties with whom ! 1 he had been connected in business duringl j his stay in San Francisco; and she had1 ! enough to occupy her, in looking after the ! settlement of his affairs, for some time to' i come. His will, remaining in the hands of , his lawyer at home, was read, and Susie i , found herself sole possessor of an immense i j fortune, left at her disposal without one | condition or drawback. Of course, she was now an important perI son, but she was in no haste to make use of | her new prerogative. She tried to carry out ' to the letter her husband's plans as far as he had made them known to her, bought a ! commodious house a little outside of her na| tive town, furnished it suitably, and estab1 lished herself there with her father and the i rest of the family to keep her company. It j was only natural, being left alone, that she | should wish them to share her home, and J every one approved of the arrangement. Beyond this outlay, and a few private charities of a generous sort, she entered into no large expense, but continued to live in aj [simple and unostentatious manner, which | : was indeed the sort of life best suited to : her taste. She was, of course, able lo pro! vide for the education and other wants of her brothers and sisters, in the best manner, and in this she found sincere pleasure, but | j on herself she spent very little. She had a j feeling that she wished to derive as little personal benefit'as possible from the wealth so unreservedly left to her keeping. And Torn ? Well, Torn was not engaged to Mary I Lindsay, and did not expect to ho. There I had never been any truth in the report from the first. Not that he cared any longer for Susie, at least, so he said. He was quite open in the expression of his feelings to his mother, when, one day, the old lady got him to talk on the subject. "Of course, mother, I was very fond of her once. There wasn't any positive agreement between us, for I felt I ought not to bind her while I was too poor to marry, but there was certainly an understanding?she knew well enough that I cared for her, and I knew?or thought?ttiat she cared for me. I always looked forward to marrying her, some day, when my affairs had improved. And if she had waited for me, why, you see, by this time I should have felt justified in getting the matter settled. But, of course, it's all over now, though she is a widow." "You are quite sure it is all over, Tom ?" "Why, mother, what a question!" "Well, dear, I don't know. I thought you might have a kindly feeling for her still, but, on the whole, it is best that you snouiun c, as ner circunisutuuea cue aw changed." "Certainly it is best. In the first place, if I were to go after her now, she might think?no she wouldn't, but other people might think, that it was her money I wanted, don't you see ?" "And in the second place, Tom, she has proved yourself unworthy of your affection." "Well, I don't know (hat mother. If she liked Barton better than she did me it was nothing against her." "Jf. But do you suppose she did?" "I did not think you would turn against her," said Tom, most unreasonably. "I am not turning against her, but I don't think that if Amos Barton had been a poor man she wonld have married him." "Then you think her purely mercenary!" "I only judge from facts." Tom looked annoyed, and answered with some temper that facts were sometimes deceiving things?from which remark, and his irritation of manner, Mrs. Morton shrewdly guessed that he had not overcome his former weakness so entirely as he had supposed. The discovery did not please her, for with a mother's jealous partiality she wanted him to care for no one who was not entirely worthy and pure, and able to appreciate his merits as they deserved ; and in this appreciation she considered that Susie had proved herself sadly deficient in time past. And to have her Tom considered a fortune hunter?oh, that would be an indignity she never could bear! So, although, she was not partial to Mary Lindsay, or toany other girl of her acquaintance, and did not think one of them good enough to be Tom's wife, yet she thought she could reconcile herself to seeing either Mary or some other in this position, rather than to have him to take up with his old love, who had treated him so shamefully, and ?"^Am oVin /mnlrl nnt. fnrffiv'P. ? III/IJJ OIIV vvuivt v" [to be continued.] BMBMBHBBHU I T. V. POWDKltLY. On every hand we hear of the Knights of Labor and their work. They have become one of the greatest powers in this country. The order was formed in 3SG0, at Philadelphia, and soon spread until now almost every hamlet has its local assembly. In 187Sa convention was called and the General Assembly of North America established, at which Uriah S. Stevens, the founder of the order was chosen Grand Master Workman. None of the present officers know how many members the order has, for it is increasing at the rate of 156,000 a year, so that any correct calculation is out of the question. Any person, who stands well in his trade, above the age of 18, whether male or female, without distinction of creed or color, whether tradesman, manufacturer, employer or employee, may become a member; not lawyers, bankers, brokers, professional gamblers or any person who derives a profit from the sale of intoxicating liquors. The Executive Hoard of the order is composed of the following gentlemen: T. V. Powderly, Grand Master Workman, Scranton, Pa., Frederick Turner, Secretary and Treasurer, Philadelphia, Pa., John W. II ... V??. lipiirtclfi/.L' V T \\* H 11U^ CO) VU uiuii.i??ivn? -4 ' (/?) Bailey, Shawnee, Ohio, T. B. Barry, Saginaw, Michigan. The executive board has the power to order or terminate strikes, raise, order or extend boycotts, confers with capitalists and employers, in fact controls the entire organization, except when the General Assembly is in session. The order was founded to prevent the encroachment of capital on labor, and how succesfully this has been accomplished the record of strikes and boycotts, which have been successful proves. The local assemblies govern themselves. They have the power to boycott whom ever they please in their own district. Boycotting is the most effective weapon of the order. The head of the order is Terrence V. Powderly. lie was born in Carbondale, I'a., January 24th, 1849. He learned the machinist's trade and put in his spare time in educating himself in civil engineering. At the age of 19 he joined the Machinists' and Blacksmiths' I'nion, of .Scranton, and became a presiding officer. Ten years ago he joined the Knights of Labor, and became secretary of District Assembly No. 1<>. He was active in bringing together the scattered threads of the order to form the first General Assembly in 1878, and to him is greatly due the phenomenal success of the order. In his capacity, as the head of this immense organization, he has the largest correspondence and answers more letters thanany otherman in the United States. In the great labor movement of 1877, he was r i. i x i _ cl made mayor OI r>craiuun,auu autrwurus was elected to the same otiice by the Democrats, and again on the people's ticket. He has been re-elected six times to his position as the head of the Knights of Labor. He is a strict teetotaler, and does not use tobacco in any form. His ancestors were Irish and from them came his fountain of Irish wit, for which he is celebrated. ?ltc Jtotg idler. A~CUP OF COLD WATER. BY N. A. HEl'WOUTII. I. The December sun streamed pleasantly through the large window of Alice Clayton's class-room, and, though late in the afternoon and the close of a tiresome day, her face wore a strangely gladsome expression. The monthly report which she was making out was enough to have drawn wrinkles over her forehead ; debits and credits would not balance; the average proved a fraction too small; yet she worked patiently away, pausing only now and then to rest her head unnn hfir hiinrl while the trladsome smile grew brighter still as she whispered, "I'm a very child in my anticipation." Once the penciling of her sheet showed marks of dollars and cents, which certainly had naught to do with Bobby's attendance or Jenny's absence, and from an envelope in her drawer she todS:1 a roll of bills and counted: "Twenty, five, thirty-five, fortyfive, fifty; yes, I can surely spare ten this month; that with the fifteen at home, will just do it, and he must know nothing of it till Christmas eve?dear Ernest ! he shall be proud of me for once," and something made the tear drops fall on a little band of gold that looked too new to be a wedding ring. Poor Alice! as if she needed to finger those soiled greenbacks, when she had received exactly thatamount forso many paydays. Perhaps you will be astonished to learn that it had taken three months to save the fifteen dollars, and now that the whole amount was laid up she felt richer than you could guess. Alice Clayton's dress was always genteel; the simplest delaine or cheapest gingham fitted her with a grace that others could not feign. She liked pretM . nn/1 5 4- ??tnn rtOOlf + A ?\ n go f hn uiiug^, (Uiu it ? cm uui iu ^tioo tuv j piles of heavy camel's-hair or silky grenandinetothe counter where she bought a material that cost half as much; but with the spirit that pervades all true hearts, she numbered the blessings she had rather than those beyond her reach. When Ernest Dent placed the betrothal ring upon her finger and said, "For better and for worse, my darling," at his choice, lie had been brought up in ease, if not luxury, and moved in gay society till business called him to the city, where a peculiar chain of circumstances led him a frequent visitor to her aunt's. "Ernest," she had said, "lean give you nothing but myself. I would scorn a love which should be less because I am plain and unpolished?only a poor teacher. You laugh now, but remember, dear, binding yourself to me, you will be obliged to make many a sacrifice, and to bear with my life in its surroundings. Aunt Jane's home is tiorw immlilti hut von will find ii welcome when ever you come. I cannot go into the circle to which you have been accustomed, and would not if it lay in my power, for my aim?ours now, dear?is a higher one than mere pleasure-seeking. Will you be content with me as I am?save as J improve under your guidance ?" Ernest Dent felt that he was making no sacrifice, and wondered that Alice could have even fancied any change on his part. She did not doubt his lcve, only with her woman's eye foresaw hours when he might j wish things different around and about her. i A noble fellow, he was working his own way, because he had preferred a business other than the profession marked out by his father, and Alice was the very one to stay his hands when they faltered. lie never realized how she hid her own weariness and showed a cheery countenance when he came; or knew how far the warmth of the little home was due to her influence till she was sick; then the blinds were closed, there was no light in the window for him, and ' Aunt Jane did not help matters by saying, "That blessed girl was too good ; she was wearing her life out for him, and he too selfish to see it; he'd loose her some day." Honest Aunt Jane always spoke the truth, he had once heard Alice remark. IIow was he selfish, and what could he do ? Then he thought over the past year?yes, he had been unkind, yet it was nothing our impulsivenessanu ner iorgiveutrsssvuuied the sweetest thing in the world. Their disagreements were over little things; she would not go the opera when he urged her, and he had called her prudish for broaching economy. There had also been two or three quibbles about her dress; he liked a trifle more of style, and tried to think the reason of his fault finding was pride in her appearance. The next Sunday she wore a new tie?his favorite shade, and a dainty pair of gloves to match; he recollected holding her hand and wishingaloud she could always wear kids. That was long ago, and since then the neatest of Alexandre's had gratified his taste. Did he know that midnight stitches had bought those same kids? Do you exclaim that it would have been wiser for Alice to have told him all ? Even so, but withhold your blame from either; I am telling my story, and so long as woman lightens this world with her presence, so long will she make sacrifices for those she loves, counting its sweetest service so to do and give. Ernest's error was rather thoughtlessness than selfishness, though while Alice lay in the sick-room he berated his conduct till he was well-nigh wild, and sent her grapes and flowers which he declared were the cause of her recovery. Thus the months had passed, he learning slowly but surely more of her worth, till, returning from a visit to his home, he brought word that his mother and sister would spend the holidays in the city. Of course, they desired to see Alice, and as she knew theSherwoods, with whom they were going to stay, it would be so pleasant. Somehow she was very quiet over this news; aside from a natural shrinking from strangers she dreaded these people who would certainly criticise her, and it took all Ernest's persuasion to assure her that he could scarcely wait for the day to arrive, so anxious was he to take her to his mother. It had been a hard winter and Alice had done more than her usual share toward Aunt Jane's expenses. Hut for the company on Christmas eve she would not have dreamt of an extra dress; the black merino of a year before was as good as new, and becoming, Ernest had often told her. It required a deal of argument to believe she was justified in appropriating so much from her salary? twenty-five dollars! The cassimere she wanted, and lace to go with it, would cost all that; she had decided, even to the color?a shade of dove, serviceable for spring use afterward. It was about this, then, that she was "a very child," it was 'Tor Ernest's sake!" The report was completed, and, adding her signature, she was reminded of the late afternoon by a peculiar medley in the ad joining room, though not unfamiliar to her? a clatter of dustpan, brush and broom ; yet above it all could he heard a clear, full voice chanting Irom the "Gloria in Exeelsis "Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy uj)on us," clear and wondrously sweet, but with an intonation of agony that made her shudder as again and again the refrain was repeated. Rising to get her hat and shawl, the singing ceased and the door was opened by a boy of perhaps ten years. Such a queer, old face for the little body whose head did not reach the top of the broom-handle that rested over his shoulder. "Why, Joey, I've kept you from your work again. I'm sorry. Where are your shoes?" as she spied the blue feet. "Oh! I take them off when I sweep to save them," and the voice trembled so that Alice said : "Joey, something troubles you. T n-... !? tn /Inn . i.nn ruinnnt hiHo i. SUW It 111 SUIIWl lu-llllj , jvn V??..i.wv ...v.v, it from me, my boy." She read him well; one of her brightest scholars, a keen, sensitive nature, which she had often befriended. His mother janitress of the school, he did most of the cleaning, while she went out washing. Ilis long, bony fingers crept slowly through his hair?she knew that meant trouble with Joe?a quiver of the thin lips, and then a quick turning lrom her, as if the tenderness were more than he could bear. Sitting down on one of the benches her sympathetic "Come, Joey; tell me all," brought him to her side, but his heart was too full; a great sob, and leaning his head on Alice's arm he wept more with the grief of a man than a child. She wisely waited in silence, sure his story would be told, for there was a strong love between the two. All through the school he was named "Miss Clayton's Joe." "You see, Miss Clayton, ever since you got me into the choir I've been so happy. Professor Weimer says I'm his best treble and he can't lose me. I've learned all the chants for Christmas?oh, thedeor chants !? and for an instant the boy's face grew radi antwitn unutteraoie joy. "iie wouiu pay me next year, and then I'd help mother; but, oh, I wish I were dead!" "Why, Joey, with such a hope before you, what do you mean?" "I'll never go into the choir again. You know Professor Weimer is going to give a sacred concert Christmas eve. We are?no, they are practising for it now, and I can't go. I don't mind their fun in the choir so long as the curtains hide me, because when I sing I forget all about?" he only looked down at the patchs and rags?"but you see, at the concert! I wish I could die this minute!" She wondered she had not thought of it before. The week previous, the professor had told her that her portege possessed a remarkable voice and was his main dependence insoloparts. Thechild's whole nature was music; his mother said he spent hours during the nightchanting to himself till she 4-K/AtisvU + MiftiuuroloMuicf nnnwinnil tntp him. I lllWllglllf l/UU ail^VIO IIIU>7b Will V UIIXI ....... "Joey, you have no other clothes?" "Xo, ma'am, and I've tried so hard to be easy on my shoes. I'd go barefoot on the street to save them for the concert, if mother wouldn't find it out. She wanted to beg | some old clothes; but, oh, Miss Clayton, Horace Drake said he'd 'put ragamuffin out of the choir'?they're all rich but me, you know." It was terrible to see that little hand run through his hair, and on the cheeks burned two scarlet spots as his excitement increased. It was the cough which started Alice from her seat; in a minute she was out of the room and back, kneeling before the child, with his shoes. "Joey put these right on, and don't go without them ever. I'll bring you warm stockings to-morrow. And Joey, will you promise me onething?never again to wish you were dead ?" "Oh, Miss Clayton, you don't kno\v?it will kill me if I can't sing?" "You ran sing, dear boy; you shall sing at the concert Christmas eve, in a whole new sail as good as Horace Drake's. I know some one who wants to make a present." Was it the hungry look before her that half stifled her words just there??"a present to a little boy like you, and it will buy new boots too, Joey." The tears were in Alice's eyes then, for the gladsome smile had gone from her face to his! Turning from the school-room door she lingered at the foot of the stairs to hear again the "Gloria": "We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee!" and she r>.l n urvm. <\f flitinbcrriviiior tn Tfim 11, CI w. , ,..h ... whose little one she had received." In the days that followed a great peace rested over her heart, it was enough to watch the light in Josy's eyes, though his cough increased so rapidly that he remained at home the last week to save himself for the concert, only going out to practise. II. Chistmas eve?and Ernest Dent waited in Aunt Jane's parlor. As the anticipated hour drew near it must be confessed he harbored a little anxiety as to the first impression his betrothed would make. Ilis mother would love her in the end, but she was haughty in her manner; not altogether pleased with his engagement, gay, rollicking sister Kate would take her right into her affectionate heart. So busily thinking be did not hear Alice till, with her hands in his, she stood directly in front of him, her eager eyes seeking his verdict. "Ernest, for your sake I wish my appearance were more in accord 11. 1.T a nee wiui jour uisic. i uicu > ti j iuuu iu have it different. Don't ask any questions, I cannot tell you to-night why?;" then as a faint shadow flitted across his brow, "You are not ashamed of me??because, if you are, I?" "Nay, my darling, you know me better than to misjudge me; I was only thinking how for once it would delight me to see you in some delicate color. There, forgive me; it was a passing thought, and I am thoughtless; you are so unselfish, my own, true girl!" Yes, she did forgive him, but the look had been given, the word spoken, and somehow it hurt her as never before, while the sting remained in her heart till in front of St. Mark's Church she stopped and broke the silence neither could seem to shake off: "Oh, Ernest, listen?it is Joey !" "Oh, your Joe; do you know Weimer says if he lives?what is it, are you so cold? if he lives, he will make a fortune, lie is exceedingly interested in the boy; was going to fit him for the concert, only someone got ahead of him. I must get the child something to-morrow, just because he belongs to you." After hearing that voice Alice was strong and the excitement, together with the frosty air, had given her a glowing color by the time they reached Mrs. Sherwood's. "Dear Miss Alice," said Minnie Sher wood, who was in the former's Bible class, I "how sweetly you look! Isn't Mr. Dent very proud of you? I'll ask him when we get down stairs." IIow she was tried in all directions that night! Minnie's criticism was correct; the black merino clung in graceful folds to the tall I form?Alice always moved quietly?fluted ruffles partially covered a white neck that j many a belle would have coveted, and drooped over the wrists around which were buttoned perfectly fitting gloves. The full braids that her own hands coiled so easily looked darker still for their crown of heathi er blossoms, and a tiny bunch of the little I U/vll,-. -rtl! 1\?> rt o' r?l a fnn onn?\1!n/1 i utrus miuvcu n niugic ica-iuoc ou|#puvu I the place of brooch. Ernest was proud of her as he introduced ! her to his mother, and if any hauteur on the part of the latter chilled her future daughter-in-law Kate Dent made up for it in cordiality. The evening was spent in pleasant company, albeit a cloud shadowed Alice's spirit, she scarcely knew why. A*| comment of Mrs. Dent's had reached her hearing: "Black is genteel, at any rate; we may as well make the best of it." But then | she was worn with teaching and extra care, and when she bade Ernest good night it was the saddest parting she had ever given. She slept, half resolved to release him from his engagement the following day. With the morning's dawn came a message ; "Joey is very ill and wants you to come." Aye! she had foreseen it the night before, listening to the professor's words?"if he lives." Hastily scribbling to Ernest a line excusing her absence, she was off as the early Christmas chimes summoned the people to service. "Joey is dying, is dying!" was the one echo thev bore to her. and then she began to realize what a claim he held upon her heart that loved fill children, hut peculiarly the poor and suffering. The thin, cold fingers clung to hers in greeting, while his mother told of the hemmorrhage that followed his coming home, though the professor had brought him in a carriage and gone immediately for a physician, promising to call the next day. lie was completely exhausted; had watched nervously for his teacher and seemed satisfied to have her near. She knew she must be calm, for the sake of the little life that hung by a thread. The doctor said he could not linger through the day, and comforted the mother by showing how his existence would be one of in tensest suffering I should he be spared. So the two watched | for hours, administering stimulants that ; had no effect. In the afternoon he rallied (to consciousness, and, becoming restless, Alice lifted him gently till his head lay | against her bosom, one of his hands claspi ing hers, the other holding the bit of heath' er she had brought. Thus it was that Professor Weimerand Ernest found them. The I latter had gone early to Alice's, anxious to J plead again for a place which he feared he had forfeited, and not understanding her ! .i - 1 i 1.. u?,1 j a Usenet: uer nasie sue iiuu wimcu : a line) left the house in a restless mood and I wandered to St. Mark's. Pie, with others, missed Joey's voice? ; for that, if not its owner, was known?and he felt that for Alice and himself it was a sad Christmas Day. Departing from the church the professor slipped his arm in his to say : "Come, I'm going to look after my ; little boy; I never dreamt he was so sick, j and he practised faithfully. Yes, come, for j you might be jealous of the love he confers I upon your Miss Clayton. Nothing made j him easy last night but my promise to | send for her." j Alice was too deeply absorbed in Joey ; to be surprised at Ernest's entrance. She ! was bending her ear to catch his leeble i words: "I don't wish I was dead?I'm goj ing to hear music?all the time. Oh, sing, I please; sing for me." "I can't, Joey, but some day you will j teach me how when I get home with you. I wish I could !" and she looked so imploringly for his sake as he again plead, "Sing, please," that Professor Weimer tried, but for once his tenor failed and he buried his face. Alice's and Joey's were the only tearless eyes in the room. "T knew it?knew the anirels would come I for him," cried the mother. J "Hush!" motioned Alice. The dying | boy's eyes lighted with an unearthly joy as, ; raising himself with that strength which j so often precedes the end, he whispered: J "Listen ! I hear them. "Glory be to God | on high, and on earth peace," and the ; voice which was fast joining the angels, j sang out clear and full the swelling chorus: ! "O Lord God, heavenly King," then lingered over the threefold prayer till it was lost: "Thou that taketh away the sins of the world, receive?" i It was Alice who broke the awful silence; I Alice who laid the form down and closed the eyes with trembling fingers; Alice I who directed what should be done, and said j to Ernest; "Come for me in three hours." When the two returned she led them to ; the little body. Perhaps Ernest Dent's heart was the single one which felt a pang I as he saw the new clothes. Joey's mother | had told their story while Alice covered j them with the flowers the professor had ! brought, murmuring to herself: "No more | death, neither sorrow nor crying, for God j shall wipe away all tears." v5" 7C* )? X "K* The firelight flickers and dances in the I parlor. Alice's face is full of her loss, yet j in her soul there is naught but thankfulness, ! for herself, for the humble man at her side, i but most of all for Joey ! Tenderly stroking the black merino, KrnI est whispered in a broken voice: "1 am : not worthy of you. Oh, Alice, a lifetime ! alone can prove how proud I am of you. j My darling, it is the saddest, giaddest : Christmas night!" Aunt Jane, stopping to bid good night, ; lays her hand on the dark braids and says: : "Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water only, ' shall in no wise lose his reward !" ftajr Lemonade is said to be one of the best and safest drinks for any person, whether in health or not, being suitable for all ct<1 isnrdprs nnd excellent in sick ness. Lemon juice is the best anti-scorbuj tic remedy known. If the gums are daily | rubbed with lemon juice they will be kept | in health. By the daily use of lemon inj stead of soap, chilblains will be prevented, | and the hands kept white, soft and supple, i It is also said that neuralgia may be cured j by rubbing the part affected with a cut j lemon. It is valuable in curing warts and ! removing dandruff on the head by rubbing I the roots of the hair with it. QkxF Never put salt into soup when cooking till it has been thoroughly skimmed as salt prevents the scum from rising. ^liscdl.tneous fading. j SCORCHING THE SINNERS. : SAM .JOSES GIVES HIS HEARERS SOME OF j HIS ROUGHEST TALK. j Sam Jones' black eyes snapped as he looked into the expectant faces of his hearers. lie said: One of the principal characteristics of a Chicago audience, so far as I have observed them, is to grab their hats and break out of church before the benediction is pronounced. I take it that the men who do it are just on the verge of jimjams, and have stood it just as long as they can without a drink. I take it that the women who go out in time to ? 1- - ? A'- ~ 1 ?f A KAOWIQV) A!/"1 lie. SKjp me UtfUUUlUllUU IIUVC Wiuioii yjin hucbands at home whom they are afraid to leave alone longer than 9:10 o'clock. Now, all of you who cannot do without a drink until after the benediction, and all who have bearish husbands at home whom you are afraid of, go out now. If you are gentlemen and ladies you will stay. Now, then, I move that it is the sense of this meeting to-night that we all stay until the benedicI tion is pronounced. [Seconded by Dr. Lorj imer.] As many as are in favor say yea; opposed, nay. Not one opposes the motion. It is unanimous, and we will all stay. Now be decent and behave yourselves. The sermon was announced to he on Christian rejoicing and the efficacy of constant prayer. Mr. Jones said he was tired? and he could not be hired to preach three times per day if he did not believe it to be his duty. Christian rejoicing he defined as "satisfied with the past, contented with the present and hopeful of the future." Upon this subject Mr. Jones said: Heaven is just beyond, where a man does his best. A man does not do his best when he promises God to be a Christian and does not pray. lie lies to God. You lie to God when you pray. Now keep still in your seats, you church members. I'm not going to ask all who have prayed to God to stand up. There are too many sinners here, on/i t iirvn'f ivont th<*m tn spp von. You are ' the people who will try to sneak into heaven. You are the people who pay your debts to keep your reputation up. Shame on you. You play cards with your children and have them turn out refined, educated gamblers on the town, when they grow up. I mean it. Gamblers are raised in so-called Christian homes. They are fine fellows, educated and accomplished. You are the people who paralyze the church. It is through such agencies that the tide of worldliness is creeping over Christian homes. You lay down your piety when you go into society with its card rooms, billiards and theaters. When you find theater tickets in Sam Jones' house they will have come in over his dead body. What is society? It is a dirty, sneaking, mean, low thing. I'd rather my daughter should get rattlesnake bitten than society bitten. But you say, "Jones, you are saying hard things and you'll have to apologize." Willi? Look here! Iflsay anything to hurt the feelings of a man who prays with his family night and morning, who pays his honest debts, and has but one wife, I'll apologize. To the uncircumcised Philistines?never! Fathers and mothers who teach their children to drink and to play cards, will live to be sorry for it. There are sons in Chicago who are killing their mothers by inches. They would do that mother a kindness to go home and blow her brains out. Maybe if I'd turn in and abuse drunkards and gamblers more of you people would shout amen ! You'd all holler "Lay on Macduff!" for you think you belong to the "bum-turn" and ought to be spared. There is the Christian who says he can't pray in public. He is a big man, with whiskers six inches long and the loudest shouteron the board of trade. Yet he's too timid to pray in public or lead his family in prayer. lie says he is too timid. lie lies. He don't dare to pray before his family, and before his fellowman because he don't live right before them. Here's how it works: One morning I got up cross and said ill-natured thingsto my wife. I blamed it on the dyspepsia, like you all do when you say mean things. My wife handed ir.e the Bible. I'd have given fifty dollars to have had some man lead in prayer, but I got down and shelled corn. If I was unfortunate enough to be the wife of a man who would not pray with his family I'd put him in the cradle and suckle him at my breast. Then I'd hire a man to pray with me. Every man stand up who prays with his family. They will all get up, don't be afraid they won't. Forty in G,000! Now you parents who belong to the church and do not lead in prayer are the people we are after. We can convert your son, but you'd make a slack, twisted Christian out of him in three months. The church is full of i them. You say why don't Jones institute ! an inquiry room? Because we want you ' people who will not go into an inquiry : room and admit that though church mem! bers you are rusty old sinners. We want j you, and we'll pound you until we get j your seats on your hides. 1 am alter j church members who don't pray. Executions in Old France.?When j executions were tolerably frequent and the bodies were left suspended in chains till they fell to pieces a small range of gallows * * "* * iTj/viirtf Irv Tln/i in hi< did not sumce. iu. \ iuuci ic "Dictionary of French Architecture," devotes an article to the Fourches patibulaires, i and gives several engravings of Montfaeon I restored. The place of the gallows formed j a quandrangular platform about 44 feet J square. This platform was raised about six I feet above the level of the soil, and was j built over a vault to contain the bones as ! they fell from the gallows. Sometimes in I addition to this vault it contained a chapel, j On three sides of the platform were piers rising to the height of 30 feet, united by beams of solid oak at the top and in two j heights below, so as to form three ranges or stories of gallows. Of these stone piers I there were six on each side. One side of I the quadrangle was left free for the stairs | and for the block for executions with the ; sword. Thus on the Montafaucon Fourches ! 45 men could hang simultaneously?or rath| er 00, as each opening was made to accom' modate two persons. In the middle of the ' area was a stone with an iron ring in it, ; which could be raised to allow of the bones being pushed through the hole in the vault | below. Access to this vault was also obtainable through a door at the bottom. Astoii and Gikard.?It has often been said that John Jacob Astor was, sixty years ago, the only citizen of America worth $1,000,000. lie may have been the only New I Yorker then possessed of such a fortune, j but the wealth of Stephen Girard, of Philadelphia, would at that time have reached I at least$0,000,000. He died in 1831, leaving 1 an estate valued at $0,000,000, and Astor in j 1848, leaving an estate of $20,000,000, much j of it having been accumulated within fifi teen or twenty years.