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t lewis m. grist, proprietor, j <^it f nbepcitbinl Jfamilf flcfosjjajjcr: ,Jfor % promotion of % political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial interests of tjjc Souflj. |terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 32. YOEKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1886.* ISTO. 29. ? ferial ftm force!) apart. BY W. CLARK RUSSELL. CHAPTER XIV?Continued. So they went together to where the sick man lay. But first some medical forms must be gone through, and when the tongue was inspected, and the puis 3 felt, and feeble answers made, the doctor softly asked questions. "Pray, my dear young man, who are your two companions, and how canu you to be in this miserable plight?" "They are both dead, sir?" "Alas, yes?stone dead! and all their troubles over." UT1 ?? lucy ucivu^cu iv au uu^iisu ui ig ut ??ui call the Cleojiatra, and one of them is Mr. Transom, first lieutenant of the vessel" "Dear me?first lieutenant! Poor man! Promoted higher than any admiral now, sir. And the other man is a sailor?" "Yes, sir," he said, in a feeble voice; and then rallying, and propping himself on his elbow to speak: "My name is Cuthbert Shaw, and I was impressed in error to serve onboard the Cleopatra. We fell in with a large French frigate and fought her; but our captain was killed, with more than half our men, and a great number wounded, after a few broadsides, and we struck. It was a cruel fight, most unequal, and all chance for the brig was gone when her wheel was carried away. We made up our minds to be carried to France; but the Frenchman, who was same distance astern of us when we struck, and standing toward us, altered her course suddenly and headed away to the east, under all the sail they could pile upon her broken masts. Mr. Trausom believed that, from her superior elevation, she had sighted some vessel which was not to be discerned from our deck, aud that she had hauled away for safety, as, in her crippled state, she would have to strike to any British vessel that might fall in with her. So hot had been the action, we had scarcely time to notice the condition of the brig; but, soon after the Frenchman left us, we found the hull settling under our feet. There was a rush for the boats, and most of the men got away in the pinnace and yawl, and Mr. Transom and I and the boatswain, who were left behind, had just time to scramble into the dingey and cut ourselves adrift, when the bi ig went down. It then came on to blow, and the boats got separated and in the night the boatswain, who had been shot in the throat, died; and, within a few hourfe of his cfetibt r??r ^r- Transom died, quite , suddenly, and I was left "aiunc, without food or water, and God knows how many hours passed before my senses left me. That is We story, gentlemen." and" the poor young fellow , dropped his head wearily on the pillow and closed his eyes. "Bad news! bad news!" exclaimed Captain Turbulent, striking his leg with his fist "An Englishman sunk by a Frenchman, by jingo!" "Gentlemen, please tell me where I am, and what ship this is?" said Cuthbert, in a faint voice. "This is the ship Elizabeth, my lad, bound to Bombay, and we hope to clear the Scillies by sundown." To the astonishment of doctor and commander, Cuthbert sat with a vehement move menc uprignt m nis Deo. "I implore you," he cried?"I implore you, in the name of God, to set me ashore on the English coast I engage, gentlemen, that you shall not suffer for the delay, if money can compensate you. I have a wife who will not know why I have left her?you will save us both deep misery by landing me! I have strength to row myself ashore, if you will lend me a boat I?I?Oh, gentlemen, in God's name, do not carry me to India!" The pen cannot put into these words the agony of voice that was in them, nor impart the pathetic force they took from his clasped hands and pale and working face. Captain Turbulent and Dr. Cotton stared at each other. Their minds were slow at the digestion of facts, and it was very odd to them?extremely odd, indeed?that the salvation of this young man from death was not sufficing. "As to setting you ashore, Mr.?Mr. " "Shaw," suggested the doctor, whose memory was good. "Mr. Shaw, I do not see how that can be done. Indeed, with this wind it is impossible; and with any wind, sir, it would be a bad job for me to attempt, with a?a? damned black thief of a native prince to report me for delaying the journey. ^Besides, Mr. Shaw, there is a fleet of us, and I'm commodore, and I give you my word, sir, if I stood in for land the rest of them would think themselves in duty bound to follow. No, sir, with Frenchmen about, my business is clear?a midship helm, Mr. Shaw, and the true course, sir." "What you have to do," said Dr. Cotton, "is to writo a letter and keep it by you, foerlv M nnf rm hnnrrl nnv hnmowanl hnnnH ship we may come across. I'll answer that Captain Turbulent will help you in this way." "Oh, to be sure. But to land you," exclaimed the captain, shakin; his head, "against this wind, with that black rascal ready to swear me out of my ship?if you offered mo a thousand pounds, Mr. Shaw, I wouldn't dare do it" And, to save himself the pa n of beholding Cuthbert's face, he quitted t ie cabin. The young fellow turned his face from the door, and sobbed aloud. But on deck all was bright and breezy; and under the blue of the windy sky, and over the long green sweep of water, went the stately ship, broadening, with every plunge and burst of foam, her distance from the English coast CHAPTER XV. MOTHKR MEAD. It had been a sudden sickness and a dreadful giddiness that had caused Jenny to sink 011 the floor, from which she recovered soon after her father had quitted the house for his visit to Greystone school. The wild distraction in her eyes had repelled Mrs. Strangtleld, and for mercy and dread the mother asitea no questions, out sat, auont auu Mguiug, watching her daughter with piteous concern. Then her duties calling her, and thinking besides that solitude would be precious to suoh bitter grief as Jenny's, Mrs. Strangfleld gently left the room. No sooner was she gone than Jenny started to her feet-, and paced about as though seized with madness, with a frown upon her forehead, and her hands pressing tightly below her hips. Full realization of what had befallen her had come to her heart, and she was driven by intolerable agony of spirit That Cuthbert had left her of his own will did not come into her mind. Belief in love does not fall dead in this way. And no one had yet suggested to her, as kindly solution of the mystery of his disappearance, that it might be he had taken a sudden shame of her as his wife ant! had left her, acting a sweet part up to the last hour?for men are shocking deceivers. What, then, did she think? Why, that some accident had befallen him; and the idea that he might be lying dead in some hidden place so frenzied her, that, without consideration of her purpose, she fled upstairs for her hat and left the house to seek him.She had wandered beyond the market place when her mind took a grasp of her intention, and that brought her to a stand. The midday sun beat fiercely uj>on the road, and held the pavements tolerably empty. Bat there were people in the shops, and they stared at her as she stood; perceiving which, she went down the street again, with her heart beating furiously over a new-born resolution to call on ur. soaw, ami usgm her inquiries after her husband at bis own home. But when she had got as far as the market place, the fame of Mother Mead as a gossip and teller of fortunes occurred to her, and this because she saw the old woman's bent figure going at a hobble on the other side of the market place. So Jenny, passing quickly through the stalls, intercepted the dame as she was turning into the court in which she dwelt. Mrs. Mead was talking to herself in a loud, quavering voice, and so complete!}* engrossed with witchlike thoughts?for what other thoughts could possibly visit such an ugly conformation??that she did not observe Jenny until she found herself stopped by the girl standing in front of her. "Ah, Miss Jenny Strangtield?if that bo your rale name, my dear! A hot marning, isn't it? with a power of dust for an old nose that finds snuff cruel, dear. Why, your father is jest beyont?I am now frotu him? and Lard! his eyes are in such a blaze that my old skin cracked when ho looked at me." "May I speak with you in your house, Mrs. Mead? I am in great trouble." At sight of the sad, sweet face Mrs. Mead's ugly countenance underwent a kind of transformation. Her nose and chin did not, indeed, moderate their intimacy; but the bloodshot old eye took a sudden light of compassion, and a strange grin of good nature overspread her face. "Come along, my dear," she exclaimed, "if ye're not above being seen with sitch a scarecrow as me. Stoop your head, for 'tis an old-fashioned door, built afore palaces was known. There's a strong chair that'll hold thee; and if I can comfort thee, my pretty, I'll mop out my old heart to do it, I'll j warrant" They had arrived at a rickety old house, I with a sitting room very abruptly entered ! from the street This room and a bed cham- ! ber adjacent composed Mrs. Mead's dwelling. Taking a seat opposite the girl, she ran her eyes over her ffom top to toe. "Now. mv child." said she. "what can I do? Is it your fortune you want told? Nay, nay, there's no physic in such stuff for rale trouble. It's good for foolish wenches whose brains are made o' ribbon, but not for the likes o' thee, dearie." "I am in bitter trouble, indeed, Mrs. Mead, j Mr. Shaw, the son of the doctor, is missing, : and I am mad to know where he is," said j Jenny, bending her pale face forward as she spoke. "Likely enough, my dear?he had the most noble face that iver I see on a man. "What was he to thee? Your answer shall be sacred with me. Speak the worst, if harm hath come to ye. You'll find Judith Mead dumb as your heart" "He was my husband," replied Jenny, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, for the secret was still so fresh that the revelation of it startled her to hear, though spoken with her own voice. Mrs. Mead screwed up her eyes to look at the girl, until the upper part of her face was a mask of wrinkles. "Your husband!" she exclaimed, in a tone and with a manner that would have made it impossible for a third person to know whether she believed the girl or not, for, as to Jenny, it could not occur to her that her word would be doubted. "Why, then, no wonder his going troubles ve." "Oh, Mrs. Mead, why do you say 'his going?' He has not left his home, do you think? Is it not possible that he has somewhere met with an accident? Or has his father forced him to leave? On "Wednesday he promised me to call last night on father and break the news of our marriage, for all this while was it our hidden secret. What should prevent him coming? Oh, Mrs. Mead, he loves mo truly, and would be with me if he could come. Can he be dead? Oh, kind Go 1! if I thought this I would kill myself, that I might be dead with him." "My dear," s?id Mrs. Mead, s'owly, and reflecting hard while" she spoke, "he is not dead. Folks do not die like this without it being known. Where could he die? Coming to call on father? Then his body would ha' been found?for the Lord knows they've been searching closely enough; an' unless he's gone up to heaven, clothes an' all, like the Prophet Elijah, you may be sure he's walkin' about on this world somewheers, hale an' hearty. Did they tell 'ee there was a pressgang here last night? But ye mustn't look to that They'd never take a slender man like him. Billy Basings they forced away, but he's a strapping sailor. Mr. Shaw's meat for their masters, and the wagabone plunderer 'ud never burn their fingers on Aim." She shook her head emphatically. "He's your husband, is he, my dear? That's beyond doubt, I hope?" "Un, yes, Mrs. Meaa; we were marnea in a church in London three weeks ago." "Ye're a soft little wench, and not larned In London ways. Are 'ee sure it was a church?" "Oh yes, indeed?a large church!" exclaimed Jenny, gazing at the old woman with a new expression gathering in her eyes. "Why, then, if you knows the name, and got the bit o' paper they gi'es ye when folks are married " "I do not know the name of the church. I do not think my husband ever mentioned it If any bit of paper was given to us he will have it I was ready to swoon for fear, and took no notice of anything, so scared was L But this I have," she cried, drawing out a purse with quivering fingers and showing a wedding ring. The old woman put it aside with a movement of her hand. "You know if it be right wi' thee," saic she; "but the ring's only worth what it 'ud fetch as gold." Something in these words, something in the irrepressible leer that weighted the old woman's eyelids, took Jenny s breath away. And ther. instantaneously there flashed upon her the sense and knowledge of the falee and tearrui position Bhe was placed in by her husband's disappearance. She 8 tar ted to her feet. "Oh, Mrs. Mead!" she half shrieked through j her pale lips, -"is it possible that my words will not be believed? Great God! will it bo thought that I am not Cuthboit Shaw's wife?" | " But the ring's only worth what it 'ttd fetch as gold." Aiid then recalling lier father's iron nature, and his hard rejection of unsupported words, and his evil, unsparing habit of thinking the' worst, her heart seemed to stand still, and she remained motionless and frozen, with her bands locked and her teeth clinched. "Sit down, my dear, sit down, and do not run clane daft, for there's nothing jieavy the matter yet," creaked the old woman, again j inspecting Jenny closely, motioning her the j while to be seated by arching her hands out of her shoulders like a rabbit's paws. "If ! he's your sweetheart, ye must have some faith in him, and maybe he'll be turning up in a day or two, and then the laugh'll be on thy side. Do ye hear;' ''He is my husband," said Jenny, in a sob- * bing whisper, breathing quickly. "Well, well, husband or sweetheart, if he comes he'll be welcome, won't he now, dearie?" "My husband!" shrieked the girl, with a wild stamp of the foot. "Will it not be be- I lieved;" "Why, to be sure it will. But see. I'm an old, lorn woman, who knows the world as thy father knows the Bible?all the harm of it, my dear; and if you was my child, this would I say?hold thy peace about your marriage until you can show proof, that Satan himself wouldn't doubt, that young Mr. Shaw is thy husband. What! will you make envious wenches and their flabbergoon mothers believe ye by saying, 'I do not know the name of the church where I was married, and I have no bit o' paper' (the Lard knows j what them things are called) 'to prove that Mr. Shaw is my husband, and 'tis the truth itself that ne'er a living cratur', my own father not excepting, knew that I was Shaw's wife until this blessed day, when my husband hath left me to give the news o' my marriage alone!'" She ceased, leering shrewdly, with a forefinger against her nose. The stunned look that had settled upon Jenny's face while the old woman was speaking passed a moment or two after she ceased, and a strange and striking character was given to her beauty by an expression which it seems absurd to describe as a mingling of despair and determination, yet which assuredly suggested both these qualities. "I see that a great trouble has come upon me; but in the sight of God my heart is pure," she said in a low but steady voice. "Mrs. Mead speak to me honestly and tell me what you think has become of my husband." "My honesty won't ease you, my dear, and the Lard knows I may be wrong, though folks think that it's the devil as gives me wisdom," said the old woman, showing her fangs with a grin of ill-dissemble 1 triumph; for in her own mind she had no doubt of the motive of Cuthbert's disappearance, and was flattered with the facile mastery that put her far ahead of the town's surmises. "Pray answer me. I have the heart to listen to anything now, Mrs. Mead " "Well," exclaimed Mrs. Mead, speaking j Slowly, intermitting her words for the sake of filling the spaces between with deliberate j no<Js and shakes of the head, "they'll be thinking this of thee?that you are not mar- ! ried, and that Mr. Shaw hath left you to j bear your shame alone. They'll argey that the son of th' old popinjay up at the sc h 10I | house 'ud never match with Mike Strang- i field's darter, and that he hath ruined 'ee j with promises. And maybe they'll say that i th' old doctor's in the secret, and hath got his son away slyly to save him from the dea- I con, unless you shall defeat the liars by ; sure proof of thy marriage, and that you j must get about quickly." Jenny stood looking at her with a steady, j vacant gaze, as though she did not heed j what was being said, and, with the same ab- , sent manner, was moving toward the door. "How shall you get about it, dearie? You I do not ask?" "How!" exclaimed the girl, pausing. "If my husband does not come to me, I am quite helpless." "Why, who should help 'ee but thy father? I Let him go to work. He hath money and strength. If I was his wife he'd not sit idly cursing." And at the notion of the deacon cursing, she set up a creaking laugh. But such advice was lead instead of life to the poor heart that heard it "Good-by, Mrs. Mead," said she, "if you have news to comfort me, you will not keep me waiting for it?" "Trust me! I'll do my best But I'll not come anear thy house, though I had young Mr. Shaw in my arms. I'm none so dear to th' deacon but that he'd bile mo in his pitch caldron, could he find a reason for murderin' me i' the Bible. As to thy mammy? But there, dear heart! if 1 have good news you shall have it quickly." With pathetic effort to smile a farewell, Jenny left the house. CHAPTER XVI. HER FATHER-IN-LAW. Her face like marble, but with no lack of determination in it, Jenny walked down the grimy court and crossed the market place. She halted a moment to deliberate which way she should take to Greystone school. She chose the way of the sands, and down to the beach she went, with drooping head and frightened peeps at the people who passed her; for on her now was cruel sense of heavy shame, and the despair that bares the nerves of the heart for the sunshine and human eyes to torture.' ?--^v. Crossing the space oT~ shingle on which lay the fishing boats roasting in the sun, she toiled along the sand toward the ravinh which led to Greystone school. When she caught sight of the schoolhouse the pulse of her heart grew smaller, and her feet dragged. To the nervous, modest girl, whcee shy spirit all the might and fire of love had scarcely endowed -w ith bravery enough to keep her bold in secret meetings with her own husband?whose coming to him | was always a sweet scamper to his heart and breathless concealment there until Maibee waned under kisses, and courage rose to whispers?thoughts of an interview with the haughty little doctor, whose fiery prejudice had earned him hate and fame among the sect she belonged to?who had hold her own Cuthbert in awe and was always named by him with fear?was terrifying, indeed. But, then, what would become of her if she had not spirit to push her quest into the presence of the one man who could, if he chose (as she believed), give her more information concerning her husband than all the rest of the town put together? Bravely she stepped forward under a supporting impulse, and walked firmly to the door of the house. The servant who answered the summons happened to be a Greystone woman, and knew Jenny well by sight Much surprised she looked to behold the daughter following the father so quickly, for the deacon had not left the house five minutes when Jenny arrived. "Can I see Dr. Shaw?" "Yes, miss, I think so," replied the servant, taking it for granted that Jenny knew her father had just called. "Will you walk in, please P Now, Dr. Shaw was at this moment vo- I hemently pacing the study, and revolving, j with mingled emotions of borror, doubt and rage, the communication Strangfield had j made to him. Five minutes Ls no time for such spirits as his to grow calm in; and, with a desperate frown upon his forehead, ho was muttering eagerly to himself, and in a quits audible key, when Jenny was announced. "Show her in!" he exclaimed, astounded, and rooted himself against the table, confounded by this utterly unexpected and entirely new condition of the trouble that had come upon him. The strange, pale beauty of Jenny's face, j and the hint of pride, and the sorrowful j dignity in her manner which were there through her hard and violent effort after j courage, made the old man stare at her with j unaffected surprise. Then, with an elaborate j old-fashioned bow, he saluted her, and com | ing round the table, placed a chair. She ad- j dressed him at once in a sweet, plaintive voice, fixing her sad eyes on him. "I have to beg your pardon for calling on j you, but I am seeking my husband, who>o home is here. They tell me he is gone: but I cannot believe that he would have left me without sending me a message; and, in nty j sorrow, whom should I come to but my lm-- I band's father??though indeed, indeed, noth ins but my misery woul I have made me inirudo upon you." "No intrusion, Miss ? Miss Strangfield? at least, ahem! I am so much taken by surprise, madam, so little qualified at this 1110- j ment to?to " The old gentleman smothered his ineolrrence with another bow, and, pulling out his snuffbox, looked shyly and frowningly upon the floor. "It should have been Cuthbert's duty to tell you we are married. I knew he had not done so, for last night ho was to have seen father and broken the news to him; but ho did not come, and this morning they say he is gone. Ob, Dr. Shaw! can you tell me where he is? Do you know? Have pity on me, sir! Without him I am very, very lonely; and if he do^s not bear witness to what I say I?I " The poor girl broke down, biting her lip to subdue her tears, lest the sight of them shou'd anger the old gentleman. "I positively assure you that I am as ignorant of his whereabouts as yourself," he replied hastily, that sho might not labor under a wrong impression one moment longer than he could help. "His ungrateful conduct has wounded me to the heart. All last night I sat up waiting for him, not doubting that he would return. But?may I ask you if you are aware that your father has just left me!' She shook her head. "He and I have been discussing the subject, and I can only trust," continued the doctor, "that, to my son's unnatural conduct to his father, ho has not added a deeper, a more unpardonable, an inexpiable offense." "I am tiuly his %vife, sir." "Truly! Pray forgive me; I may lay rough fingers on a wound my heart would choose they should touch tenderly. But lef me ask you, when were you married to my sou?" said tho doctor, forcing his voice into a tone of suave composure; for emotion could not be permitted to qualify his dear delight in asserting his*elegance and breeding. "Three weeks ago," replied Jenny anxious ly, with her heart beating painfully, for she ftared the next question. "He was in London three weeks ago. IIwent for a little holiday, as at that time 1 suspected his depression, or absent fits were owing to the monotony of our scholastic discipline. Were you in London then?" "No, sir; I was at Sydenham stopping with my aunt Rachel. I met Cuthbert, by ap )tointinent, on a "Wednesday morning at the bottom of the hill o:i the road to Dulwich, and there we took the coach that passed and afterward, when wo reached London, he put mo into a hackney coach and we drove to a church, where we were married." The doctor applied a pocket handkerchief j to his forehead. "A strange rascal!" he muttered to himse!'. I "I had never given hint credit for so much j duplicity." And then ho sighed and lookel 1 through the window and, recollecting himself, forced his voice into suavity once more and said: "I represented to your father that nothi??' could be easier than to prove your marriage If, as I do not doubt," (with a bland wav of the hand) "you are my son's wife, I? scarcely know whether there be cause 1offer you my congratulations. Since he ha played his father a vile trick there is nothin to hinder him from deceiving you. But eac! to his kind; you to your father, to whom yoi are accountable, and my son to me?when ht chooses to return." His whole manner had changed with these words, and he addressed her with an icy hauteur of gaze. Jenny looked at him fixedly for some moments, with a wonderful gaze of mingled consternation and disdain, and rose. "I did not come here in expectation of finding sympathy or kindness," she exclaimed, with a bitterness that took a keener acidulation from the very beauty that should have failed to warrant it. "You know whose daughter I am; and what you think of my father Cuthbert has often told me. I have called to know if you can give me tiding3 oi my husband. Doubt my honor as you please, sir; but in God's name, answer me my question.'' "I have answered that question," he replied. "Many of the elder boys of the school and several of the men were dispatched by me this morning to search the shore and the neighborhood, and likewise are inquiries stil being made in places beyond Greystone. If I obtain information, be sure that I shall cause it speedily to bo conveyed to yo i. Should he ever return," he continued, in slightly depressed tones, "this trouble he has brought upon you is an account to be settled between him and me, with an adjusting he will not relish." She was standing near the door, and he was raising his hand to pull the bell; but she had not done with him yet. The change in his manner from the blandness to hauteur, from a kind of tenderness, at least, to a demeanor of blank indifferenco to her sorrow, deepened her doubt of his sincerity, and, failing to tlnd in this old man any such sorrowing after his son as shouid prove bJm honest <o her own mourning heart, u feverish suspicion that he was holding bnck the truth seized her. ' You can tell ine, sir, that he has not left ine for good! .Say some little word to give me hope! For h is sake, Dr. Shaw?he loves me truly!" she cried, with her hands clasped. The doctor was affronted by her doubt of hiin, for it was plain in her recurrent appeal. "I have answered that I am as igDorant aa you?perhaps more ignorant," he said, frowning at her. "Last night," she continued, too bitterly yearning after hope to be abashed by hin manner, or even to heed the cruel suggestiveness of his words, "he was to have seen j f o f Virtv Thte Vin rirnni iccvl ami T wna t/i watch for him at my window. Oh, sir, he would not have bid me wait for him had he meant to deceive me; for, indeed, he loves me fondly. A gentleman from this school, who called on mother this morning, said that he had seen him leave, your house in the evening; and to father he was coming?oh, be sure! "Who stopped him, then? Was he followed and set apon? If he had died, or by an accident been killed, his body would have been found. Do you knotr where he is! Tell me, sir! The Lord God, who hears me declare it, judges me; and before Him I swear thy son was my husband!" Now, but for the continued and affronting suspicion informing the girl's words, . this piteous appeal, taking tragic pathos from wild dry eyes and outstretched hands and shrill intensity of tone, must have roused the doctor though his heart of flesh had been as hard as a pet prejudice. But he was so extremely mortified to find his word?his word, tool?doubted by this wench, that anger came down on all kindly stirrings with a weight of lead, and false perceptions pricked him. For who was this woman but pigheaded Strangfleld's daughter? And might not all this bother be a mere trick of the enemy?a plot speedily hatched out of Cuthbert's strange disappearance, to moritfy tho dignified cultured, well-bred foe of dissent, and champion of orthodoxy and divine rights? He rang the bell "A direct answer had been given you," he ! said, "and you must excuse me for declining j to continue this conversation. I trust, madam, for your own sake, that you will be able to establish the fact of your honorable connection with mv son." And, with dislike and contempt on his face, he made her a short bow. Without another word she passed through the door, which the servant held open, and left the house. CHAPTER XVII. HOME AGAIN. She walked slowly down the hot and dusty road toward the town. Ifcnv, far more keenly than before her visit to the schoolhouso, did she feel the bitterness of her trouble. Along the dusty road she went?the high crops motionless on either hand, the land around (in sheen of silver barley and yellow wheat, and the lustrous green of meadow grass) trembling in the steam of the sweltering earth?and felt a homeless woman, unloved, and sinful, too. She came at last to the shadow of the wayside trees under which she had met Cuthbert; and here, with no eye to see her, and passionate memories crowding piteous misery into her aching heart, she stopped and flung herself upon the grass, and tried to relieve her burning eyes with tears. A long while she lingered here, dreading to return home. Time passed rapidly and unheeded, and tho shadows of the trees had grown well into tho road when she rose to her feet, disturbed by tho town clock striking the half-hou; | after three. The thought of meeting her father was almost unbearable; yet homo she must go, for where was other shelter for her? Before this time her fear of the deacon was in his anger, when he should learn that she had deceived him by her secret marriage. Nothing more had her innocence then to dread; though enough had been here to furnish her with dismal contemplation and trembling apprehension, and an insupportab'e yearning for the permanent j companionship of her husband, that discovery might never catch her without the prop of his love and presence at hand for her weakness. But now her husband was gone, and, by going, had left her exposed to dreadful suspicion. He was gone, and she was left alone to justify her purity, to encounter the wrath of her father, stirred to his deepest heart by infamous doubt What, then, was she to do? for when she fell to consider how she should prove her man iage, she found another blank as maddeningly perplexing as Cuthbert's disappearance. She well remembered the marriage morn; now, wnn a mint voice ana paio xace, slie told aunt Rachel she was going for a walk, and bade her not be surprised if she delayed her return, for she loved the pretty scenery around, and to liuger among the trees. She well remembered the beating of her heart when, at the bottom of the deep and shady lune, she beheld Cuthbert waiting for her, and how she had nearly swooned when ho hailed the passing coach to Southwark, ami handed her into it. Likewise she well remembered how they had emerged into a crowded street, along which he had hurried her into another strset, where he called a hackney carriage, and they were driven down interminable streets at which she never glanced, for her white face was hidden on Cuthbert's shoulder, and sha had needed all the cordial of his constant, passionate, reassuring whispers to save her from fainting. And how at lust the carriage stopped be- j fore a church?a gloomy, heavy, city edifice j ?so that it seemed to her that they had to j grope their way along the avenue of high I pews to the altar railing, where speedily a thin voice read the service that made her the wife of the man at her side. The acted portion of it all was a vague memory; her love for the man who had induced her to secretly wed him was only reality. Four o'clock was chiming when she reached home. Long before this had Mrs. Strangfield grown weary of watching at the window, and with deep anxiety had gone back to seek the girl in the town. Polly was singing in the kitchen as she scrubbed the floor, so that Mr. Strangfield in the parlor did not hear Jenny enter, nor her light footstep as she went upstairs. At her bedroom door she halted, with such a shock of surprise and consternation as the sight of a dead man might have produced on her; for all about the window the floor was littered with her husband's sacred letters, heed lessly tossed and lying open, with their ribbon-bindings among them. Sho well knew whoso hand had done this, and, recovering herself, entered the room, closed the door and removed her hat, moving 6oftly, and all the whilo looking at the letters. This done, she knelt down and gathered together the precious missives, pressing them often to her pale lips, and narrowly inspecting the carpets for bits of the dry forget-mo nots and other fragments of flowers which had fallen from the letters under Strangfleld's angry bundling of them. Scarcely had she replaced the papers in her desk when sho heard her father's steps on the stairs. Ho entered his bedroom, but speedily emerged, being struck, perhaps, to find Jenny's door closed. Ho turned the handle sharply und exclaimed: "Ah, you be here, thou? Your mother has gono to look for you. You are well practiced In treading softly. TiThere havo you been?" "I have been to the schoolhouse to seek my husband," she answered, returning his storn i gaze with a look of despairing resolution. "And you have not found him?" "No, father, no!" she replied, with a shriek in her voice. "Ifdie bo your husband, why has ho left youf^ue said, speaking as a judge might in preface to condemning a man to death. She Bhook her head and locked her twitching fingers, no longer meeting his eyes, for the bitterness in them was insupportable. He approached the bed and leaned heavily upon the frame of it "Woman! in my heart you are condemned for treachery to me and your mother. Yet I have said to myself, in the words of the Preacher, 'Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry!' and now, if you find me so, you shall rebuke me. Jenny, for what you have this day told your mother. I hate my own flesh that you should be a part of it. Yet I will be merciful. You shall prove to me that you sin is not the dishonor of your parent's name, nor the destruction of your soul in the eyes of Almighty God. Do you heed me? You shall prove this." She made no answer. "Speak!" he cried. "Show me how this may be done." She looked at him with terrified oyes, for no courage that she had could combat her instinctive fear of him. Ho waited for her reply. "Tell me what I am to do, father? indeed, I will obey you. I am truly his wife. God, who hears me, knows that I am not SDeaking falsely. With this ring he wedded me, father." And with trembling hand she sought in her pocket for her purse. "Nay, nay, I have no wish to see it. Such a matter signifies nothing. Better tricks than 6uch tokens cannot fool old eyes. Tell me where you were married." "In London, father." "Ay, In London. At what church?" "1 do not Know tne name; it iius snpjjeu my memory. Or my husband never mentioned it," she replied, with an expression on her face that should have told her father to press her no further. "By whom were you married?" "I did not see?I was frightened. The church was dark, and I did not lift my eyes, and we were but a moment signing our names." A look of savage incredulity?the skepticism of a man stirred to the most hidden and deadly forces of his nature?shot into his face. He gazed at her for some moments in kilqnce, and then, in a voice that, for the holl^giese of it, sounded as though it rose from unaeTvbis feet, said: "It is as I Before said?you remember nothing. But their wedding is a thing all women remembor; and it is strange you should so soon forget yours, Ivjien your mother will toll you everything that befell on her wedHinor Hnv t.wpntr-thma vears a?l Would you know tho church if you saw it?" "Yes, father, I?I think so?I do not know,' father." "To-morrow you and 1 will go to London," said he. "Make up a little box of things, for this business may keep us. In the morning, at seven, we start. Be in readiness!" "To-morrow you and I will go to London.'' Without another word he left the room. She leaned against the wall near the win flow, ana ner neuvy eyeiasuua utuvjku u?ci the sorrowful beauty of her eyes. So standing, and with her graceful profile taking a delicate transparency from the light shining through the window, and the soft fulness of her perfect form ripely figured on the white ground of paper that supportod her, never more lovely had she looked; and the shimmer of her yellow hair was the trembling of evening sunshine on the water. Deep grief is always quiescent, and the deepest grief was shrined in this gentle woman. That she was not guiltless only made her sorrow the more moving. She had erred in deceiving father and mother, in privily, without home's blessing, undertaking the sacred obligation of marriage. Yet how hardly was she dealt with! how cruel the interpretation of a deed of faithful love! And why had Cuthbert left her.- How bitterly hard that any act of his should be beyond the skill of her heart to construe! Yet her glorious fidelity could not hold him faithless. In this wise thinkiug, with an impulsive movement she drew forth her purse and slipped her wedding ring on, kissed it wildly, and, with a quick toss of her hands, fell with face upon the bed, weoping bitterly. This posture was she in when her mother entered the room. The poor woman ran to her quickly. "You have come back, my darling.- Where hast thou been all this long time? Jenny, do not cry so?my heart will break if yoil grieve in this way. Has lather been saying unkind things to thee, my pretty? Come, come, it is not all hopeless yet. Truly I believe that Mr. Shaw is thy husband; and bo sure, be uure he will return, for no man with his | beauty is heartless, and he would not have married thee, Jenny, to leave thee in this way!" She raised the girl from the bed and led I ? /?hmV ot?f? L-nnolincr hv linr. ttillo\VG<L I her bead in her bosom. "Oh, mother, is it not too cruel that I { should lose my husband and bo doubted by father? To-morrow he means to take me to London to show him the church; for he will not believe me without dragging me a weary journey. And God knows what I shall do when we reach London, for I do not remember the name of the church, nor the street J where it stunds, and 1 have told him I was too scared to take notice. And woultl not a young girl like mo be frightened, mother, in that great place, and acting wrongly, al- J though I was with my darling?" "To-morrow does he take you to London 1 Oh, what n strange, hard man! Why, all day you will be traveling; and cannot he see that you have no strength?" cried Mrs. Gtrangfield, rising from her knees; and, with a hot, indignant look, she swept out oi! the room, and went to her husband, whom she found in the act of quitting the house. "Michael, I must speak to thee. What are you going to do with Jenny? If you break her heart you will kill us both, and that indeed you are doing!" she cried, shrilly. With his hand on the latch of the house door he stared at her with a contemptuous sternness, then with a stride mado for the parlor, and closed the door upon them both. "Jane, subdue 3 our voice, and speak to mo respectfully. You are the girl's mother, and I will listen to you; but I am her father, and mine is the name she has blasted. Do you heed that? It is Michael Strangfleld's daughter whom the people are talking about. Remember this, and now say your mind." "For shame! for shame! to speak of her as having blasted your name!" replied Mrs. Strangfleld, quite unalile to control hor voice. "Hath she not told you that Mr. Shaw is her husband? The wedding ring is now on her finger?as good a ring as this?and if she be not an honorable wife, then my name i3 my father's. What! you would take the poor heart to London, when she declares that in her fright she took no notice of the street and church! Would not a stout spirit bo scared by what she did, with thee, as her father, to terrify her conscience? Why, myself, when you are hazing me with your strong voice, lose my head and know not what I am about And shall our little wench have stronger brains than her mother?at a time, too, which makes the best of women tremble and keep their eyes down in modesty and awe, though their parents are with them and kind friends to givo them heart for the journey? Kor shame! to doubt her! What ininK you is ber sin?" "Understand this!" ho shouted with fury, and his eye3 in a blaze; "if she says she knows not the church wherein she was married, nor can show it me, nor the book wherein their names should be written, nor the man that married them, and hath no more evidence than a ring which a crown piece would buy for any harlot, I'll know her for what she is?and no tears from her, nor insolence from thee, shall change me!" She held out her hands in the attitude of one fending o(T an attack. "Never could I have believed it of thee, Michael!" she said, in a voice of indescribable reproach, and turned to leave him. "Stay!" he commanded. "Before you gofc give me your reason for opposing me." Too insulted by his words about her child to confront him, she replied: "She has not the strength to travel to London; and why would you take her there? She tells thee plainly she will not know the church, though she see it, anil its name was never mentioned to her by Mr. Shaw." "You believe her?" he said, with deeptoned sarcasm. "As I believe in the Lord!" cried the mother, eagerly, turning her swimming eyes upon him. "You shall credit her if you please, but your faith in her innocence does not purify her. Give me proof of her honesty, and, though I scorn her for her deceit, yet you shall see me use her gently. Am I to stand still under this shame that has come upon me and mine, and make no effort to clear it away, that our light may shine again before men! She does not lack strength to seek her husband, and since noon has she been wan [ dering in tho heat. Though we had to travel a thousand miles for proof of her honor, would the journey be too long? Lot God forgive her for sending me in my old age from my home, to clear her name of foul suspicion ?if it can bo done! Go now and repeat my words to her, and let her be in readiness to start with mo at the hour I named. No more!" he cried, with a stamp of the foot, holding up his hand. "Too much have you already said. Bid her keep to her room, for I'll not meet her this day." And passing his wife, ho flung open the door and left the house. "The Lord have mercy upon him, and forgive him his sins," moaned poor Mrs. Strangfleld to herself. Not immediately could she return to Jenny. She had bargained on controlling her husband, by her appeal, from taking the girl to London, and, being defeated, wanted time to recover her heart to meet the poor child. She must have a good cry before she went to her; and cry she did, heartily thinking all the while of the proud position she might hold as Cuthbert's mother-in-law?the envy of all tattlers?if Michael would only take things quietly and leave her to manage a bit CHAPTER XVIIL A BITTER RESOLVE. All the evening Jenny had remained in her room, and had but"fipw, at this hour of ten, which was even tolling, said good-night to her mother, parting with her after a long and close embrace, and with a prAjer that God would bless her for her love. Then ..did she lock her door, and sit and listen; and presently heard both father and mother come to their bedroom, and the murmur of their voices. In those old times there used to be in fashion a little traveling box, light to carry, with a strap across the lid that the arm might sling it, and' much used by country folk. One of these boxes stood on the floor, and the packing of it, with many a long halt for a sobbing fit, and active protest and hopeful reassurance, had been Mrs. Strangfleld's occupation for a part of the evening. Presently rising, Jenny went to the box and tried its weight. Light enough it was?with a single change of apparel only; yet she took a turn with It about the room (treading on tiptoe) as if to make sure that it was not a burden above her strength. She was restless and could not remain quiet Now she would draw out her purse and count the money that it held; now she would approach the glass and gaze at the spectral, mournful beauty of her white face; anon, and with no more sound than a mouse creeping, she would pace tho room; until the fever in her waned, and tho passionate spurring of thought ceased to lacerate and drive. Whereupon she extinguished the light and took a place at the window, and surrendered herself to contemplation of the stars. Manifestly she meant to take no rest that night, or was very long in going to it. One would have had 110 need for sharp eyes to look at Jenny's face and know her as a girl on the eve of some wild business. Tomorrow morning was she to be carried a long and sorrowful journey by her father, and when in London, from church to church they were to wander; and all tho while her heart was to burn in tho lire of his wrath, and her sacr&l purity to bo blackened by his thoughts of it. Her ignorance of matters which, had she but foreseen all this, would have been easy to learn and remember, was so deep that even her mother had groaned over her that evening. The very neighborhood wherein Cuthberfc had hired lodgings during his holiday in Loudon she did not know; she had never hail occasion to write to hiin. He Lad come to Sydenham and met her by an appointment planned before they left Greystone, and all their arrangements were verbally concerted with never a hitch of weather to disappoint them, and that was why no letters had passed. So, then, the London parish in whose j church thoy were united was unknown to her. No light could she give, beyond taking i God's holy name in witness that she spoke the | truth, which only her mother believed. But the uselessness of the journey, and tho j fear of her father's anger if failure should i attend their search, were not thg lirsc causes of her present resolution. That night, she resolved, would ba the laot she should ever pass in the old wooden house, j Call her mad if you please?and few such | desperate rosolves but have madness at bottom; but there was courago, too, a virtu- | ous audacity, and of a most womanly sort, | acting without reflection; that is; influenced j I by tho present that was driving her, and taking no thought of the futuro upon which she was rushing. The church clock was striking tho half | hour after eleven, when with a shiver she rose I from her chair at tho open window, and, j stealing to the bedroom door, opened it noiso- j lessly, and listened. The deep breathing in i the adjacent apartment where her parents I lay, the fall of an ember in the kitchen grate, ; tho loud ticking of a clock, were the only J [ sounds audible. Leaving the door ajar, she put on her hat, ! j to which a veil was attached, threw a shawl j over her shoulders, and raised the little t j trunk. Thero was clear moonlight abroad J now, and light enough reflected to give distinctness to nil objects in the room. On tiptoe she descended the staircase, and, the better to make her exit soundless, went through tho kitchen. In a few moments she had lightly drawn the bolts of the back door, and stood in the moonlight. [TO It K < "QXTI XL* KI>.] [This story was commenced in Xo. 2l>. Back numbers will be furnished at five cents per copy.] 'One can see in aclear night about 3,000 stars without the aid of a telescope. A like number visible in the opposite hemisphere makes a total of some 0,000 that can be seen with the naked eye. Hut the telescope brings to view a vastly greater number, estimated at upward of 20,000,000. ^Us(eIIattc?>ttS fUadiitj.! Fur the Yorkville Enquirer. DANCING. I want to beg the attention of those wlio j defend themselves, or others, in the practice of dancing, by saying the Bible does not condemn it, to a consideration of the text in Ecclosiastes 3:4: "A time to weep, and a time to laugh ; a time to mourn and a time to dance." Now, is it not evident that the opposite of mourning is not dancing? Dancing is there put figuratively for rejoiciiu/. And in a few other places where it is used in the Bible, it evidently means "rejoicing," as in the 30th lift. . H'Ptw... Loot f.,r?wwl n\i. I sxu in, i i in u idu . i iiv/u uaoi tin wuu iiij mourning into dancing," or rejoicing. And in the 149th Psalm, the peopleare exhorted to praise the Lord in the dance. Now that is evidently not the dance that is now practiced. If one should burst out in the praise of the Lord in the dance, how every one would he shocked. To jump up and down as a child does for gladness, or to leap and jump as David did before the ark, is the kind of dancing that seems to be meant by those texts, and I think, too, in the parable of the prodigal son, the dancing there means some noisy demonstration of joy, such as jumping, clapping the hands for joy, and praising the. Lord. n. DAVID H. GRAIIAM. David H. Graham is the third person who has gone through the dangerous rapids of Niagara, and lived to enjoy the notoriety thus gained. His predecessors were the captain and engineer of the steamer "Jlaid of the if <?.*/," who, in 18G1, risked the perilous voyage to elude the sheriff. Mr. Graham accomplished this feat in a barrel that he had designed and constructed purposely for the voyage. Graham has always lived an erratic life, being instinctively a rover. We first find him serving a cooper's apprenticeship in Philadelphia, but being seized by a desire to go to sea, took advantage of the tirst opportunity and shipped as a common sailor on a coaster bound for New Orleans. After working for a short " * l? ?.?/! a * ?-? f Unf stt f if 1%/-* n mi ! n UIIJU ill II1D limit; 111 null IHJ lit; o^itni became restive and engaged as a deck hand on a Mississippi steamer. Tiring of this life the next year found him once more laboring at his trade in St. Paul, Minnesota, from where he was drawn across the border into Canada. From Canada he set out on a trans-continental tour. In 1882 lie was again in Philadelphia following his preferred avocation, hut only for a short ti me, however, when he wasonce more seized with a desire to peregrinate and was carried from one point to another uii.Ml he found employment as a deckhand on a .^earner plying between Montreal and Liverpool. It was while engaged in this capacity, Misconceived the idea of navigating the wii-jrpool in a barrel. Graham's next adventure-ULill be to drop from the Suspension Bridge?tMieifrht of 17(1 feet?and then go through theT"ttpAd?: ? The Science of Silence.?He who hus learned the science of silence may hide ignorance and even acquire a reputation for knowledge and wisdom. A story is told of the painter Zeuxis how he reproved a certain high priest of Great Diana of the Kphesians, who discoursed of pictures in the artist's studio with so reckless an audacity of ignorance that the very lads who were grinding colors could not refrain from giggling, whereupon Zeuxis said to his eloquent friend, "As long as you kept from talking you were the admiration of the boys, who were all wonder at vour rich attire and the number of your servants; but now that you have ventured to expatiate upon the arts of which you know nothing, they are laughing at you outright." Denouncing the vapid verbiage of shallow praters, Carlyle exclaims, "Even Triviality and Imbecility, that can sit silent, how respectable are they in comparison !" It was said of one who was taken for a great man so long as he held his peace: "This man might have been a councillor of State till he spoke; but having spoken, not fit to be the beadle of a ward." Lord Lytton tells the story of a groom married to a rich lady, and was in constant trepidation of being ridiculed bv the guest in his new home. An Oxford clergyman gave him this advice: "Wear a black coat, and hold your tongue." The groom was soon considered the most gentlemanly person in the country. Silence is an excellent foil for conversation. A clever per?on makes his talk far more delightful by interposing occasional flashes of silence, as Sydney Smith said Mncaulay did on his return from India.?(Juirer. Tnrc Sciiooi.maum of To-J)av.?The intelligent and successful schoolmarm of' to-day is the beautiful flower of develop-1 ing, growing, expanding, aspiring womanhood. No more significant fact could be pointed as indicating the rapid changes that are taking place in the position and influence of women than to compare the schoolmarm of to-day with the schoolmarm of the -past. The schoolmarm of the past was respected, but commiserated. But the schoolmarm of to-day is a totally different being. She is proud of her membership in a profession whose dignity and importance are every day being more widely recognized. She enters upon her work with enthusiasm, and performs it with the disposition and aims of the artist. She dresses well, and is cheerful and happy. Out of school she believes in seeing life and enjoying herself. And we may be sure that the American schoolmarm will soon be readily recognized by any close observers of persons and manners in that throng of new world travellers in the old world. She will be distinguished by neat, elegant, convenient and appropriate'dress; by t he absence of all unnecessary trappings and bundles; by hergenuine, carefree and hearty interest in everything; by her quiet composure respecting manners. When she returns she will bring with her a few genuine treasures of remembrance, but will not probably attempt to smuggle kid gloves and lace. The American schoolmarm is indeed one of the most important and most admirable of American institutions. All hail the schoolniarm who goes to Europe for her vacation.?Heading (Pa.) Herald. A Brief Chapter on* Giri.s.?The girl of sixteen who will neither sew nor do housework has no business to be decked out in tinery, and rambling about in search of fun and frolic, unless her parents are rich, and in that event she needs the watchful direction of a good mother noue the less. There is no objection to fun ; but it should be well chosen and well timed. No woman or girl who will not work has a right to share the wages of a poor man's toil. If she does work, if she makes the clothes she wears, and assists in the household duties, the chances are she will have enough self-respect to behave herself when playtime comes; but, if she should still be a little "wild," the honest toil she has done will confer upon her some degree of right to have her own way, ill-judged though it may be. The wild girl usually aspires to prominence in some social circle or other, and her manners and conduct, in greater or less degree are de signed to attract the following of menShe should remember that followers are not always admirers, ana tnat me most sincere admiration a man ever feels for a woman in a drawing-room is when he looks upon her and says in his own consciousness : "She is a perfect lady."?Exchange. Natural Beauty of Nazareth.? The valley of Nazareth is so charming that it has been called a paradise on earth. It is full of flowers and shrubs, and butterflies and birds. Among the magnificent blossoms that in this country grow only in greenhouses, and the foreign birds, with their gay, glittering feathers, are found our own loved roses and daisies, our nightingales, blackbirds, thrushes and larks, filling the air with their sweet songs ; and even the little homely sparrow and robin redbreast, that we consider so peculiarly our own, hop about and chirp as gaily in Palestine as here. The people who live in the "happy valley" are more healthy and vigorous than their neighbors, or than the people who live in hot countries usually are. The fresh air from the hillsmakes them strong; and how sweet that air must be, passing as it does over mignionette roses and many other flowers cherished in our gardens and gathered to perfume our rooms, but growing there with all the reckless joy of nature. There is only one river in the valley, a little fresh brook dancing down to the plain below, and here the women, clad in their pretty dresses, travelers tell us, were brighter and more picturesque than those of their neighbors, as if even in the matter of costume they were to be best of all, came in those days, as they still do, with their groat earthen jars, to araw me fresh bright water from the well, and carry it home to their families. What the Trouble Is.?The evil is apparent to all, but it is not so easy to apply the remedy. There are too many laws made and the good laws are not properly or efficiently executed. There is too much legislation to promote personal or political interests, and too little attention paid by legislators to the interests of the whole people. In Congress, in our State Legislatures, in our Common Councils, partisan feeling originates partisan measures, and States and communities are plagued and oppressed by the partisan iniquities perpetrated. Those in powI er reverse acts and doings of those who precede them, and when their misconduct brings on them popular condemnation, those who follow after will change | and overturn all that has been done, j Thus will it continue to be?law disrespected and the people plundered?until I the people choose their legislators and the I interpreters and executors of the law, not j as the creatures of party, but by the stand| ard of fitness and good personal character. How Did thev know /?a writer in Land and IJ n/ersays: I saw a curious case recently of what I may call the "hereditary instinct" of animals. I was in a field in which there were some five and twenty cows and a hull grazing. It was Sunday, and all was quiet and still. I heard a low roar or bellow. I thought it was the bull, but every animal in the field lifted its head and left off" grazing. There was another loud roar, and all the cows began walking towards and "centreing" on the bull, just as if they were going to mob a dog, and while I remained watching them they kept at "attention," not resuming their grazing. Wombwell's menagerie was about a quarter of a mile from the field, and the roar was the roar of a lion. It must have been hundreds, aye, perhaps years since the ancestors of these cattUPfietr#44he roar of a- lion, but still they recognized it frrtrfhSaem^. The Duration of a Generation.? The duration of a generation is the averagelength oflifeforman. That is, though, ! of a million of human beings born in a | generation, some will die in infancy and I some will live to old age, the average life for the entire number will be about thirtythree years. This is arrived at by averaging the ages of all persons, old and young, dying within a term of years. Different localities, different periods, will, of course, l alter the result, but the average for the ! race in civilized countries is always approximately the same. ! The average age of population is a difi ferent thing. This is the average age of I all persons living at any one time, ascer: tained by summing the ages of persons of 1 - '? ' - - - - ? i? - ??4Ua cunereni age as given wy u eeusus ui me population, and dividing this by the sum total of the population.?Inter-Ocean "Queries." Example is Better Tiiax Precept. It has been said that a parent, giving his children good instruction and a bad example, brings them food in one hand and poison in the other?which is likely to prevail? The old fable is not without its j lesson, even in the present enlightened age: "IIow very badly my poor children are walking!" said a crab, in great distress . of mind. "I scold and reason and talk, | yet I notice nothing but crookedness." ["Ah! my friend," said a listener, if you so earnestly desired yourchildren to walk straight, why have you walked crookedly yourself 77/c Quicer. Ci'riosities of Light.?Bishop Clark, writing on the curiosities of light, says: It seems to be a very commonplace thing to say that the light makes objects visible by reflexion ; but have you ever thought just what this implies? If it were possible to make a perfectly smooth surface it would be invisible. But, as a matter of fact, nothing is perfectly smooth, and it is the little roughness on the surface which break up the rays of light, and thus render the object visible to our senses. Wonderful deceptions are produced by the use of highly-polished mir i rors, with the most startling ana magical | effects. Thunder, Lighting and Rain.? Meterologists have found that there can ! he no thunder and lightning without rain. When thunder is heard beneath the clear sky, the reports must either come from 1 distant clouds or be the result of some j other cause than a discharge of electricity. Harvest or heat lightning is produced by J a distant storm. Thunder seldom ever accompanies heat lightning, the sound reaches only 12 miles, while lightning is often seen by reflection upon nearer clouds, at a much greater distance. ?gar A matrimonial authority says : "These two rules will be safe to follow in all but a few exceptional cases: First, for a woman to refuse marriage with any man who is objected to by her male relativesprovided they are reasonably well acj quainted with the man of supposed affection and, secondly, for a man to refrain from offering his hand in marriage to a woman who is not approved by his sister, or if he has none, by his judicious lady friends." 8ST Books have brought some men to knowledge and some to madness. As fullness sometimes hurteth the stomach more than hunger, so fareth it with wits; and as of meats, so likewise of books, the use ought to be limited according to the quality of him that uses them.?Plutarch.