Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, September 22, 1886, Image 1
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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j %n Jitbcpeitknf JfainiliJ fUfosgaprr: ?|or % |romofion of % folitital, Social, ^grirallural an!) Commercial laterals of % Souflj. j terms--$2.50 a year, in advance.
VOL. 32. YOBKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1886. I^O. 88.
J, ferial ftorg.
. FIVEMILLION POUNDS.
c- .
By T. WEMYSS REID.
CHAPTER I.
AT THE RAILWAY STATION.
It is not often that a man, in looking back
upon tho story of his life, can fix the precise
moment at which his fate underwent a
change that was destined to affect his whole
future career. Sometimes, however, that
turning point, when the current of one's
existence was altered for the better or the
worse, stands out prominentia among the
eveiy-day incidents of a life, and it is possible
to say just when and where the great
change was wrought that has made the man
i what he cow is.
v /
DAISY.
If any one were to ask me whether I could
fix upon such a turning point in my own
career, my thoughts would instantly fly back
to one hot day in the month of August, 187-,
when I found myself the solitary occupant of
a first-class railway carriage standing in the
great station at York. I was looking out
m upon the bustling scene on that cheerful
platform with not a little interest and amusement
Wearied by months of tedious work
in London, I was on my way to Scarborough, for
the purpose of recruiting my health and
spirits, depressed Dy a recent Dereavement,
in that famous pleasure resort. It seemed
to me that here at York I was already feeling
some of the benefits which the doctor had
told me that a change of scene would bring
in its train. The air, even in the railway
station, was distinctly fresher than that
which I had breathed a few hours before at
Kings Cross; and the men and women who
were hurrying to and fro on the platform, in
all the hot excitement of travelers at the
height of the tourist season, were very
different from the pale-f&oed, jaded loungers
I bad left behind me in the streets of London.*
It was my first visit to York since Mie
? erection of the palatial station which has
# taken the place of the little pink-roofed shed
. -s. that so long sheltered the traveler as he
paused on his flight to the north, and I was
lost in admiration of the architectural magnificence
of the new building. I was hardly
conscious myself of my absorption in the
scene before me, until I was startled by a
voice at my very ear.
"Would you be kind enough to allow me
to enter the carriage?"
It was a woman's voice, sweet and deeptoned,
such as all men love to hear. The
speaker was standing with her hand upon
the handle of the door, which she had evidently
been trying to open at the moment
r> when my eyes are fixed in admiration upon
the great span of the station roof. She was
young and handsome, so much as that I saw
% at a glance; and sho was dressed with singular
elegance.
"1 teg your pardon!" I cried in confusion,
and I fear with a blush dyeing my cheeks
\ and forehead; for I was still young enough
to be subject to that weakness. I hastily
opened the door and stepped back.
The girl?for I now saw that she was
little more?entered the carriage with some
appearance of haste. She was accompanied
by an unmistakable lady's maid, of demure
aspect, who was laden with the inevitable
dressing case, which she carried with a care
that suggested the value of its contents. Her
mistress turned to a porter who was in attendance
laden with various small parcels,
and giving him half a crown, said:
"The train is just going, I think!"
"Yes, miss, it only wants one minute to
the time, thank you, miss, kindly; touching
his hat and pocketing his handsome douceur.
"Would you be kind enough?" said the
young lndy. then she looked at me for a moment,
and I could have sworn there to a
slight increase of color in her cheeks also.
"Would you be kind enough to lock the
door?" she resumed; but the porter was already
out of earshot, and her request was
not attended to. Giving up the attempt to
* arrest his attention as hopeless she sank back
into her seat with a little sigh, that might
have been one either of satisfaction or uneas
ness. There was something singularly
attractive in her whole appearance. Bhe
had only been a few seconds in the carriage
with me, and yet her presence seemed to
pervade the whole apartment, and some
subtle indefinable spring of joy in my own
heart was touched at the thought that for
" an hour or more we were to bo fellow
travelers.
I looked into her face as she sat with her
eyes fixed upon the(door. She had taken the
seat furthest from the platform, but I could
see that she was watching the crowd in the
station with an intentness that was surprising
even to one ordinarily so unobservant as
myself. Suddenly I beheld the most extraordinary
change pass over the face, the
beauty of which I was admiring perhaps
more openly than I was aware. Every vesr
tige of color faded out of it; even the rich
full lips that had seemed made for smiles and
bright conversation and kisses turned white,
and long lines of care cr terror were penciled
on the forehead. I followed the direction
. of her eyes, and saw that they were
fixed upon a man who was looking into a
carriage?a youngish man, with a handsome
dissipated face, which spoke eloquently of a
life of vicious self-indulgence, and a sneering,
insolent smile upon his lips, that told something
of the heart that was beating in his
breast.
He nodded familiarly to the girl, and
then, with a sinister laugh of triumph, laid
his hand upon the door.
"Oh, stop him, sir! stop him! For the
love of heaven do not let him enter!"
I could hardly believe the evidence of my
r own ears when I heard the voice in which
she addressed me. Her tone had undergone
as great a transformation as her features.
II ever mortal terror was expressea Dy a |
voice it was now in the harsh, strained accents
in which she spoke.
I did not wait to ask for any explanation. '
It was enough that she had appealed to me I
for aid. The young blood ran more rapidly
through my veins. I felt rather than saw
that she was appealing to me, not only with
her voice, but with her beautiful eyes, her
clasped hands and the whole attitude of the
figure, the symmetry of which a moment
before I bad been admiring. I turned to the
door, which tbe man was already trying to
open, as the train began to move slowly out
of the station.
"You cannot get in here!" I said, holding
the door hard against his attempt to open it.
With a scowl upon his handsome evil face,
he struck at me through the open window.
Almost before I was conscious of the smart
of the blow which bad fallen upon my
> mouth, he was lying on his back on the
platform, where, as the train, with increasing
speed, proceeded on its journey, I could
see a little group of officials and spectators
quickly gather round his prostrate form.
It had all passed in a moment I might
have thought that it was only a dream, as
tho train went quickly over the railway
bridge, and past the gray towers of the
Minster, if it had not been for the undoubted
presence of the lady and her attendant, and
for tbe fact that my lip was bleeding where
I had been struck. I was more excited than
I appeared to be. Whilst I stanched the
slight cut with my handkerchief, I looked
toward tho girl at whose bidding I had just
struck a stranger to the groumL She was
still white and trembling violently, and her
maid was fumbling with the stopper of a
bottle of scent. My own heart was beating
quickly with the excitement of the strange
encounter, but when I saw her pale face and
manifest agitation, I felt that I must be
calm fox ber sake.
'''
It.-.:' - . . '
I smiled and said, "You are not frightened, \
I hope. I was forced to strike him back i
after he struck me. but I do not think he ,
was hurt"
"But you?" she said in a voice that shook
as she spoke; "he has hurt you!"
"Oh, it is a mere trifle!" I cried, glad to j
have beard her speak again. "It is absolutely
nothing. The fallow was certainly
very rude in trying to enter the carriage ,
when he knew be was not wanted. And it is
necessary sometimes to give such people a ,
lesson."
I spoke with the bragging self-confidence |
of a boy who has just performed a k at of j ]
which he is rather proud. But I must do ]
myself justice. My manner was assumed.
In my heart I knew that I had acted In an <
inexcusable wav in refusing to allow this (
stranger to enter a carriage In which there
was ample room for him; and perhaps?for <
I am no hero?I had even some faint mis- 1
givings as to the consequences to myself if \
he should choose to take proceedings against ]
me for assault I had acted I knew upon \
the impulse of the moment But I was not i
ordinarily so impulsive as I had been on this (
occasion. I should never have struck the
man, even after he had struck me, if it had
flin omr Wlfll whlVh tllA
UUV UWU iVl VUU V* J V* WItVl " ?? "
girl had implored my protection against
him.
"It was wrong of me," she said now. "I <
ought never to have asked you to keep him (
out of the carriage. Oh, I am so sorry!"
He was lying on his back on the platform.
She looked at me earnestly, and as she did
so I saw with delight that the color was
slowly coming back to her cheeks. I saw,
too, that her eyes were of a dark brown that
matched well with the shade of her hair,
while her voice was regaining something of
the depth and mellow sweetness which had
attracted me when she first spoke.
I tried to treat the whole affair as a joke;
and, in part, I think I succeeded. As the
girl recovered from the 6udden fright and
shock of the encounter, she regained the
composure of manner which had distinguished
her when she entered the carriage,
and by and by she smiled and gave me fresh
subject for wonder and admiration as I contrasted
the deep color of her lips with the
pearly whiteness of her teeth.
But I confess that I was somewhat piqued
when I found that although unmistakably
grateful to mo for the assistance I had
rendered her, she showed no disposition to
take me into her confidence. Amid her repeated
inquiries as to whether I still felt the
smart of the cut on my lip, and her renewed
expressions of gratitude, she gave me no
hint as to her reason for desiring to avoid
the companionship of the man with whom I
had, on her account, been brought into such
unpleasant personal relations, nor did she
make her own identity in any way known
to me.
Yet if this reserve made me feel rather indignant,
that feeling was lost in the aense of
pleasure with which I sat beside her Never
before, I thought, had I met with a woman
so beautifuL And as we changed the conversation,
both manifestly trying to get rid
of the memory of the scene at the railway
station, and talked on other and more
pleasant topics, 1 quickly came to the conclusion
that she was as sympathetic as she
was lovely. It is not a long journey, as my
readers probably know, from York to Scarborough.
In less than an hour and a half
we bad reached our destination. But long (
before we came in sight of Oliver's Mount I t
felt toward this beautiful young girl, with t
the splendid figure, the lovely eyes, the rich '
complexion, and the smile that was frank- 1
ness itself, as I had never felt toward any i
woman before in my lonely and uneventful 1
life. " 1
"Ah! so we have reached/Scarborough," 1
she said. "How quickly the journey has i
passed! Do you know th9 place? It is my <
first visit to it Perhap>"?and she blushed
as she spoke?"we may see each other again i
some day; but I do not know." Her voice, I l
thought, grew sad as she uttered these last i
words, and a delicate veil of reserve seemed 1
to pass over the beautiful face into which I 1
was gaz ng now with an admiration and interest
which I made no attempt to conceal.
"I hope so," I said eagerly. "I shall be I
staying at the Grand hotel, and everybody i
here must constantly meet upon the parade
at the saloon." j
I honed that she would mention her name, j
or at least tell me to what hotel she was i
going. Nay, for an instant a wild idea
crossed my mind that she might ask uio for
my own name, for the circumstances uuder ]
which we had become acquainted with each i
other were certainly unconventional, aud, in 1
my youthful inexperieuce, I fancied that ,
they almost justified such a departure from
common usage.
But it was clear that this was not her intention.
She made no direct response to my
words. But she gave me her hand, and while
she again thanked me with her voice, sha
thanked mo st.ll more warmly with her eves,
wnich met my own for a single instant In a
glance that thrilled my very heart
Then, attended by the demure maid, by
whom no word had been uttered during the
whole journey, she left the carriage, and ;
was almost directly lost to my view upon
the crowded platform.
At the table d'hote that evening I fear I !
paid little attention to the prosings of the
old gentleman by my side, who insisted upon
taking me into his confidence as to the prospects
of the trade of Bradford and the state
of politics in the West Riding. I am afraid,
indeed, that despite all the information
which he gave me in the rough, honest tones
which I found to be one of the characteristics
of most of the people around me, I
should stand a poor chance of gaining a
competitive examination on the subject of
the Bradford trade. Whether its specialty
is woolen or worsted, broadcloth or shoddy,
I cannot say even now, although I certainly
ought to have known a great'deal about it
after my hour's talk with my good natured
neighbor at the table.
But all through tb&t long dinner my mind
was busy with the scene at the railway station
at York, and with the face of the girl
who had made me her slave. Yes; difficult
as it was to realize the fact, I could not dispute
it I, Cyril Fenton, twenty-five years
of age, sober, steady and thoughtful, whose
whole life had been given to study under the
care of the best of fathers, and who, until
the great blow which had left me an orphan
had descended upon me some six months before,
had known little or nothing of the
world beyond the walls of ray happy home,
had suddenly confute 1 all the ideas which
my friends entertained of me and all the
theories which I had formed for my own
guidance in life, by falling desperately, even
madly, in love with a girl whose very existence
had been unknown to me six hours before,
and of who-e name, position and character
I was still in absolute ignorance.
I could hardly believe it, keen though the
pain was which made me conscious of the
| truth. I should have liked to laugh my foolish
passion to scorn; but I could not do so.
It had mastered me as I had never been
mastered before. I almost groaned aloud as
I realized the strength of the spell which had
been cast over me by the subtle witchery of
this fair stranger.
When I first took my seat at the dinner
table I had looked eagerly among the faces
at the long tables, hoping that perchance I
might see her there. It was a foolish fancy,
and it was doomed to disappointment Now,
when at last the tedious meal was at an end
and I was released fromtha attentions of the
kindly bore beside me, I hurried out of the
great hote.l and took my way to the terrace
in front of the saloon. It was still early, and
the gay crowd had not yet mustered in foroe.
I searched everywhere for her; and everywhere
in vain.
And then I consoled myself with the
thought that, after the agitation of- the afternoon,
the would hardly feel inclined to spend
the evening in sauntering on the terrace,
where now the laughing throng was moving
Blowly to and fro, while the strains of the
band floated out across the bay, and a thousand
streaks of silver told where the moonbeams
kissed the crest of each wavelet as it
leaped toward tho shore. Yes, even this
beautiful scene, which was almost new to
me, for I had not visited Scarborough since
I was a child, could hardly lure her out of
doors to-night after the excitement of such a
lav.
Yet while reason told me this, my eyes
continued to seek for her everywhere, and it
was not until long after the band hod ceased
to play and the last of tho holiday makers
iad retired, that with an aching heart I gave
ip the fruitless search and went to my bed
to pass a night of fitful slumber and troubled
ireama
CHAPTER IL
THE MILLIONAIRE.'
o Iw^rrVifot* In
lucre 13 uaiiuj a Mi Ibu?vi uwi/u ?U
'Vanity Fair." to adopt Thaekomy's metiphor,
than Scarborough; and its gayaty
was at the highest point when 1 reached it
an that pleasant August afternoon. Tho
hotels were full, the promenade was crowded
very morning and evening, the band
played its best, the weather was perfect during
the long warm days, nnd every night
there was a ball at one or other of tho hotels.
It should have been impossible for a young
man who had no private cares to worry
him, who was passably well off, and who
was now emerging from the shadow of
bereavement, to feel dull in such a place.
And ytet never did I spend a duller or a moro
miserable week than that vhich followed
my arrival at the Grand hoteL
Day after day I went, immediately after
breakfast, to tho famous Spa grounds,
haunting then: tiU I becamo conscious of
the fact that men and women alike speculated
as to my identity. Night after night I
was found in the sarao spot watching the
giddy, laughing throng of pleasure seekers,
the young, tho old, the rich, the poor, tho
wise, the foolish, as they sauntered up and
lown listeuiug to the mingle.! music of tho
hand and of the sea I even went to some
jf the balls at the various hotels, and
mingled with the frisky matrons, the dowdy
tountry girls, and the men of doubtful ontecoiente
and unprepossessing upponrance, who
seemed to constitute the stock company at
these entertainments. I wout everywhere
where my fellow creature? were in the habit
5f congregating, and gave every hour of my
time that was not spent in sleep to tho search
>n which I was intent But all was in vain.
I was angry with myself because of tho bondige
in which my fancy hold mo, and again
md again I thought ol flying from tho
scene and forgetting everything in distant
travel. But whenever I was on tho point of
tarrying out this intention my resolution
failed me. Tho picture of tho lovolicst face
[ had ever seen rose before my eyes. I saw
ler or.ee again, as I had soon her when she
stood before mo, her hand resting lightly in
nv own, and her glance answering mine, as
iho spoke tbe few commouploce words which
were her oniy furowelL And whenever that
vision presented itself to me, tho spell was
thrown over me afresh, and I admitted to
nyself that I had met my fate?and succumbed
to it
Yet thero was nothing that was pleasurible
in my mood, even at those moments
when I thought ony of the girl's beauty and
rrace. I could not drive from my reeollee:ion
the memory of that other face?the face
)t the man whom 1 had st. uck down at tho
ailway statiou at York. Whenever I
bought of the one, the features of the other
>btruded themselves upon mo.
What was the reason of that strange
cene, when she hal appealed to mo to drivo
his man from her presence! My heart
jrew hot with auger and hitter with univailiug
jealousy as I reflected that at least
le must have known her far better than I
lid, and that, deeply ns sho might hate him
jr fear him, ho passes j?1 some power over
ler of which I knew nothing.
What was the mystery associated with
bat beautiful face! It: vain I racked my
train for some solution of tho enigma I
>nly knew that in some fashion, holy or
inholy, this girl, who in a brief hour of time
>ad maife Jiie moro completely her slave
ban any other human being had ever done,
was associated with tho man, vicious and
vulgar, whoso air of iasoleut triumph as he
greeted her I could novel* recall without u
budder. There woro not waiting other
ii versions in Scarborough beside those of
which I have spoken, but I cared for none
of them, and, as the days passed, and my
search met with no success, I would fain
have shrunk even from the accidental acquaintances
I had made in tbe boteL It was
only at the dinner table, indeed, or in the
smoking room late at night, that I ever exchanged
a word with a fellow creature.
All round me, however, there was enough,
and more than enough, of noisy talk to hide
my sullen and self-absorbed silence. Nor
could I shut my mind to a knowledge of the
fact that all Scarborough was just then
buzzing with excitement over a new topic of
interesting gossip.
It was oue of the society journals which
had set the Btory, about which all were now
talking, afloat The gay watering place naa,
it seemed, received, among its many summer
guests, one who was exceptionally distinguished
It was not that he was of high rank
or of great genius. Rank and genius aro novelties
to be found at times even at Scarborough,
but they do not appear to make any
great impression upon the ordinary frequenters
of the place. That which set everybody
talking about Mr. Mauleverer, the
gentleman whose presence in Scarborough
had been chi onicled in the society journal in
question, was his enormous wealth. People
talked of it, speculated upon it, gloated over
it; and men and women alike were wild
with anxiety to be brought into close contact
with one whose riches wore said to be'
fabulous in their amount
Mr. Mauleverer, I discovered from what I
saw in the newspapers and heard from those
around me, was a millionaire of the new
style. lie was supposed to be some distant
connection of the old Lancashire family of
the same name. But though English in
blood and name, he was not English either
by birth or upbringing. Ho was a colonist,
and had been born ami had spent all his life
in Australia. The scandal-loving throng with
whom I mixed in the hotel or on the promenade
made light of his origin. There were
some, indeed, some who professed to know
on that "best authority" which the tale
bearer always has at his command, that he
was the son of a convict, a man who had
disgraced his family in the early part of the
present century, and who had expiated his
sins by transportation. There were others
who even hinted that ho himself was not
free from reproach. But upon two points
there was 110 doubt in the mind of anybody.
The first was, that the man was enormously
rich?rich beyond tbe dreams of avarice?
and tbe other, that lie was a bachelor of
something more than middle age.
As to the manuer in which he had mode
the five millions sterling, with the possession
of which he was credited, all sorts of stories
were told, it was or course in Keeping witn
the way of the worl 1 that some of these
stories should bo anything but creditable to
the millionaire himself. But, young as I was,
I had learned enough to know that it does
not do to believe all the evil that is spoken of
one's fellows, and for my part I inclined to
the more charitablo theory which alleged
that Mauleverer's wealth had been accumulated
by the simplest and most natural of all
processes?the enormous increase which had
taken place in the value of land in the colony
in which ho had been born. Starting life in
the days when Australia was still in its infancy,
as the owner of vast tracts of country,
theu comparatively valueless, he had seen
his great sheep-walks, and the barren
stretches of sandy soil which he owned in the
neighborhood of the little ports that had
since developed into flourishing cities, turned
literally into gold without any effort on liia
own part.
"Five millions, if it is a penny!" This was
what a young barrister named Harding,
whoso acquaintance I had made in the hotel
smoking room, was never tired of saying.
"Five millions, and not an encumbrance of
any kind, or cluck or child to whom to
leave it."
"My dear follow," I responded feebly, for
I felt but little interested in this all-absorbing
topic, "what does it matter to yon or to
me how much the man is worth f We shall
never reap any benefit from his gold."
"Ah, you are youngs" said my lively com
panion, who was really no older than myself.
"You don't understand the world yet,
Fenton. Haven't you seen how all the dowagers
In the hotel here are laying their plan9
to capture the unfortunate wretch as soon as
he makes his appearance among them?
When you have lived a little longer you will
begin to realize the power of gold. I tell
you, sir, that there isn't a woman in this
place at this moment who wouldn't sell her
daughter in marriage to this man Mauleverer,
though he were old as Methusaloh and as
wicked as Satan. And there isn't a girl in
the place, either, who wouldn't cheerfully
say 'yos' to the bargain if it were proposed
to her. Five millions I Why, the man who
owns it can do anything."
"Why do you talk such nonsense?" I said,
angrily. "You cannot mean what you say.
You wish to make all women out to be as
bad as a few men are."
I was hot with indignation. Why I hardly
knew myself. I had no near female relations
of inv own?none for whom I cared. But,
somehow or other, when Harding talked in
this style, sneering at all womankind as
though all alike were bad, the face of the
girl I had met in the train rose before my
eyes, and I felt constrained to do battle with
him, if it were only upon her account.
He laughed lazily.
"You excite yourself, my good fellow,
unnecessarily," he said. "Of course I am not
even hinting at the possibility of there being
any mercenary persons among the ladie3
of your acquaintance. No doubt there are
exceptions to every rule; but for my part I
have not yet seen the woman whom five millions
would not fetch. Wait and see for
yourself, when the great man deigns to put
in an appearance at the morning parade."
"I thought ho had already done so," I replied,
feeling a certain amount of compunction
at the anger I had shown. "H? has
been in Scarborough for some time, has he
not?"
"He is in this hotel at the present moment;
but ho is laid up with some illness?gout, I
suppose, as it is the rich man's special ailment?and
has never been out of doors since
his arrival, two weeks ago."
This was only one of the innumerable occasions
on which Mauleverer and his millions
were dinned into my ears, until I grew
to hato the very sound of the mail's nama
It seemed to me that this vulgar image of
brazen wealth, about which everybody
talked so constantly, wa? a rival even in my
heart to that other image of youth and
beauty upon which my fancy wai fixed. I
tried to shake off Harding's unpleasant suggestion
with regard to the readiness of all
women to yield themselves to tha seductions
of the man's gold; but I coul 1 no: do so altogether,
and in the state of min I to which
my passion had brought me, I positively began
to wish that this Mauleverer would take
his departure from Scarborough before I
had again met with the lady o.' the train.
What, I thought to myself, if she wore to be
brought within the reach of the magical influence
of the millions?
That she was still in tha town I never for
a moment doubted. Why I should have
clung so stoutly to this conviction I cannot
pretend to say. But so it was. An instinct,
some secret presentment, assured me that
she was still neaf me, though unseen, and
that I should meet her again.
One lovely morning, when the golden sun '
tha how n nrl fha croniftl
Millie; HUB uwuuuijj "JO WJ, v?v/ 5V???
summer warmth^ tempered by the pleasant
sea breeze, was tempting everybody out of
doors. I went for my usual walk in tin irpa
grounds. Perhaps it was the weather that
had stirred the young blood in my veins,
and had made me feel more confident than
I had ever done before of success; but whatever
may have been the cause, it is certain
that as I walk id across tho bridge by winch
tho grounds are entered my step was more
elastic and my head lighter than on any previous
visit to the place.
"How well you look this morning!" cried
Harding, whom I found seated on a bench
not far from tho entrance to the grounds.
"Scarborough suits you, I see. Come and
sit beside mo for a little. We can see all the
world as it passes."
"Thanks; I'll join you presently." I said.
"I would like first, however, to stroll to the
end of the promenade."
Something within me urged me onward.
"Ah!" ho replied, with a light laugh of
genial mockery. "You are liko everybody
else, I see. But how long is it since you
vowed to me that the man's gold would
never?no, never?attract you?"
I looked at him in blank surprise and said
nothing.
"What! have you not heard?" he continned,
after reading the truth in my puzzled
face. "Why, I thought the news had
spread by this time to the uttermost nooks
and corners of Scarborough. Why, he is
there?down below by the band?Mauleverer,
the millionaire. That is why we
have this end of the gardens to ourselves this
morning. It is just as I told you it would
be, all the old dowagers are lighting for
places near him, but unfortunately for their
chances the young ladies have been beforehand
and have made a regular ring round
the man. It is quite a pretty spectacle, I
assure you, all the beauty and talent of the
queen of English watering places'?that's
what they call it, is it not??concentrated
in one particular spot an 1 all for the benefit
of one poor mortal in the ordinary dre<s
of a Nineteenth century tourist"
"Confound the fellow!" I said. "I care
nothing for either him or his money. I shall
stop with you." And I seated myself beside
him.
Harding lifted his hat, und made me a lpw
bow.
"What a compliment you pay me! Beliewe
me I am grateful. But there, my good fellow,
don't waste your time on me. Even if
you don't care about the millionaire it will
be we 1 worth your while to have a peep at
the pretty faces. There are some fresh ones
to-day, and some of them, I assure you, are
not unworthy even of your attention. Go;
and I'd wait lor you, to hear what you think
of the spectacle."
He lighted a cigarette with that air of
1/uoyant self-posse sion which I could not
help envying in him. and I felt compelled to
comply with his wish.
Perhaps ha had exaggerated a little when
he de cribe.l the popular excitemont over
Mauleverer's advent There were, at any
rate, some worthy people sitting* under the
veranda, or by ihe side of the sea wall, who
seemed more intent upon the enjoyment of
the sunshine, or of each other's society, than
upon mobbing the man of million*. Indeed,
when I reached the open space in the middle
of which the stand for the musicians is
placed, though I was conscious that the
attendance at that point was unusually large,
1 saw nothing of the excitement of which
Harding had spoken. People were sitting or
wulking ubout very much in their usual
fashion, and if there were some special center
of attraction, I, at all events, was unable to
discover it.
1 looked round to see if I could identify
the man about whom I had heard so much.
There wore elderly gentlemen of every complexion.
style and character seated in the
bright sunshine; and once or twice I thought
that I had fixed upon the millionaire. But
invariably, in such cases, the person who
seemed to me to suit the character was accompanied
by a lady of nearly his own age,
who appeared to exercise over him all the
authority of a wife. None of these per.-ons,
therefore, could be Mauleverer, who, I had
been told, was not married.
I was on the point of turning away with a
cynical reflection in my mind upon the difficulty
of identifying any particular character
by the outward appearance of a man,
when I saw that which made my heart for a
moment stand still, and .then beat with a
violence mac aiiuosc suueu inc.
She was there 1 Seated in one of the most
sheltered corners of the open space, her face
half hidden by the parasol which she held,
she was leaning buc? listening to the music
and taking little notice of the crowd around
her. I know her in an instant; knew her in
spite of the fact that the parasol shaded her
face, and that she was dres ed in a different
style from that which she woro when I last
saw her. The heavens seemed suddenly to
have opened themselves above me. The
scene had been brilliant enough before, in
that glorious morning sunshine; but it
seemed to have Leon darkness itself to what
it was now, when I had found hor ugain.
All thought of the millionaire passed clean
out of my mind. If I had come upon a thousand
Mauloverers at that moment I should
not have seen one of them.
And yet I did not obey the first wild
prompting of my heart and rush forward to
claim acquaintance with her. An unaccountable
shyness came over ma I dared
not make myself known to her again. How
could I tell that she wished to see me once
more? In her mind I must be associated
with a painful and humiliating incident It
might well be that she would wish never to
meet mo again.
But even as this dark thought crossed my
mind,, sending a sudden chill through my
veins, like that caused by the passing of a
thunder cloud across the summer sky, I remembered
her look when she bade me farewell,
and hope and joy again gained the
ascendancy. I felt that there was between
us a link of sympathy, the nature of which I
might not perhaps understand, L'ut the reality
of which I could not question.
What joy it was to stand there, unseen by
her, and watch the beautiful face! I only
now began to understand how deeply I loved
her. The world might laugh at mo as it
?ct
She was there!
pleased?a month ago I should have been
ready to laugh at myself; but for me this
was the one woman of all women?my love,
my life, my fate. I knew it now, if I had
not realized it during the long days of restless
torture which had passed since I last
saw her.
Her face was paler than it had been then,
I saw, and her whole expression was more
subdued, more pensive than it was when we
conversed in the railway carriage. There
was something in her eyes which I could not
understand?a far-away, dreamy look, as
though the mind were engaged upon quite
other scenes than those which were impressed
upon the retina. A pang of jealousy shot
through my breast as I noticed this.
How dear she was to mo! That was what
I whispered to my heart. It seemed as
though I had known her and loved her all the
days of my life; and when once, with a
gesture which I had observed when I sat opposite
to her in the railway carriage, she adiusted
one of the dark brown tresses of her
hair, the sweet familiarity of the movement
m*?d9 ioy eyes moist with sudden emotion.
Her companion was a little man, plainly,
almost shabbily, dressed, whose gray hair
and bent frame indicated that he was advanced
in life, and who showed by the manner
in which he used his glasses that he was
shortsighted. I could trace no resemblance
to her in his features. Once or twice she
spoke to him, and I saw that when she did
so he always turned toward her with a quick
movement of attention, and that his withered
old face lighted up with a smile of love.
I stood half hidden by a pillar, feasting my
eyes upon the sight that was so dear to me,
and absorbed in it to the complete exclusion
of everything else.
Somebody touched my arm. I turned and
saw Harding standing beside me with a
cynical smile unon his face.
"Thi3 is worse than I expected," he said in
bantering tones; "I never thought that you
of all men would have succumbed so quickly;
but I have been watching you for the lost
ten minutes, and I'll swear you have never
taken your eyes off him for the whole of that
time."
"Him? About whom are you speaking!" I
asked, impatient at the interruption.
He laughed. "What innocence! What
blissful ignorance 1 As if there could be
anybody here this morning worth looking at
save the man of gold! Your instinct did not
deceive you. You are quite right in supposing
that shabby old gentleman sitting beside
the pretty girl in navy blue to be Mauleverer,
the millionaire."
"You don't mean to tell me?" I began in
dismay.
"That the spectacled gentlemau in the gray
coat and the venerable felt hat is Mauleverer?
Yes, I da llut surely you know it beforehand;
for you bavo looked at nobody
else since I joined you, a/id you were so completely
absorbed in studying him that you
uever saw uiu wu i iuuuucu y uu. unu.
Prom the height of joy I felt myself suddenly
plunged into the icy-co!J depths of
despair. The man beside whom the girl I
loved was sitting was none other than tbo
millionaire himself. It seemed as though a
great gulf had been instantaneously opened
up between us. I could still see every feature
of the dear face, but she herself had been
removed to a distance from which she was
inaccessible to me. /
Harding eyed me closely.
"You do not look so well as you did when
you came into the grounds," he 6aid presently.
"Are you unwell? Let us go back to the
seat whero you met me. We shall see them
pass when they go to tho hotel."
He put his arm in mine, and led me away.
I made no resistance; and yet I felt as though
I were leaving the best part of my life behind
me. By an effort I nerved myself and said;
"Do you know anything of the lady who
was with himf
"I know that she is wonderfully good
looking?quite tho prettiest girl on the
ground?and that he seems devoted to her.
But we shall soon know all about their relationship,
if there is one, and whether she is
or is pot likely to carry off tho grand prize.
Trust the matrons of Scarborough to find
out everything on that subject"
I sat silent and perturbed. The thought
that was uppermost in my mind was that I
had only found her again in order to lose
her altogether.
And even as I was chewing tho cud of this
bitter reflection, Harding lightly touched
my arm and whispered in my ear something
which I could not catch. I looked up quickly,
and there, approaching us at a distance of
not more than a dozen feet, were Mauleverer
and the girl whom I loved. Suddenly she
saw ma The pallor which I had noticed on
her face disappeared, and a rich blush dyed
her cheeks; for a moment her eyes met mine,
and she bowed, with a smile that made the
sunshine itself seem dark beside it, and then
she was gone.
I had seen nothing but her as she passed
me. Her companion, so far as any consciousness
of mine told me anything, might
have faded into space at the moment when
i - ?:>-.i tj... ir?i: j
slit) bxiiueu uiiu.i inc. uuu uutuiuj, uu<_*
noticed ljini. Ho turned to 1110 with a look
of bewilderment.
"So you know the young lady, do you, my
quiet friend/ You ought to bo proud of having
produced that scowl of jealousy which I
saw upon Mr. Muuleverer'3 face just now.
It is not every day, you know, that a man of
your age is allowed the privilege of running,
even in a losing race, against a millionaire."
CHAPTER IJI.
DAISY.
I went to my room at the hotel in a state
of agitation which I found it difficult to conceal
from Harding. I had soen the woman
who exercised so strange a fascination over
me?but under what circumstances? She
was the companion of a man whose incredible
wealth mads him a creature apart. I
dm as little inclined as most men to worship
mere money, but I had not needed the cynical
advice of Harding to grasp the bitter truth
that in these times there is a great gulf fixed
between the rich and the poor. I myself, it
is true, was not poor. My father had left
mo in possession of a moderate competence;
but in comparison with the fabulous riches
of Mauloverer my little income was shriveled
into absolute nothingness.
Moreover, there was the bitter fact that I
did not know the relationship between her
and the millionaire. Might it not be possible
that, like many other men who have
reached the ago when mind and body alike
are beginning to decay, he cherished the illusion
that ha might renew his youth by
uniting bis own lifo with that of a beautiful
girl?
And yet, a? 1 vexed myself with these
ideas, I could not subduo the joy I felt at the
thought that I had at last found a clew to
my unknown love, and that at this very
moment I was under tho roof which also
sheltered her. Chi this point I was indebted
-
to Hardin? for my knowleigo. Ho bad 1
Bpeedily discovered from 0110 of his friends j
that Mauloverer bad been accompanied by
tbe young la Jy when be returned to the ; Grand
hotel. To discover ber name and tbo
relationship in which she stood to the millionaire
was now Harding's mission. , j
While ho was pursuing this congenial task s
among the gossips of tbe saloon I retired to ^
my own room and sat there wrapped in t
uneasy contemplation. By and by I was
roused by a tap at the door, and thinking *
only that Harding had brought me some in- c
formation, I called to him to enter. I turned u
to greet him with an eager question when, ^
to my amazement. 1 saw that instead of
Harding, .Mauleverer himself was standing J
before me. t
Hit: nnruinrnn^ u*aa on rrrnof n (nirnnQA fhflh fl
I was only able to face liim in silence, while j t
he on his part showed a certain amount of ]
embarrassment and even shyness. He stood j
before me, a withered, prematurely-aged j
man, with pale, wrinkled face, and dim eyes
that looked out feebly through the specta- .
cles he habitually wore. It was difficult to
conceive that this forlorn looking creature, '
who bore all the marks of decrepitude and *
suffering, was the man whom everybody in c
this gay world of Scarborough was envying. 6
As I looked at him I forgot all about his t
millions, and only saw in him the feeble q
valetudinarian to whom existence itself must {
be a penance.
He spoke at lost, and when he did so my c
heart leaped with joy, for I thought I de- ^
tecfed in the mild sweet accents of his voice ?
something that reminded me of my companion
of the railway carriage. There was J
a grave smile on his face, too, that redeemed *
its careworn ugliness. 1
"You will forgive me, sir, for intruding ^
upon you," he said, with a shy hesitation, \
by which I was surprised and touched. "I t
did not know, when my niece recognized you 1
this morning, that you had rendered her so
great a service as that which she has de- ^
scribed to me. I am very grateful. I ought ^
to have been there to protect her; but, unluckily
for me, I was laid up here with the ,
throat complaint that so constantly troubles
me. I have come to thank you in her name
and my own." s
His niece! That was the first thing I ^
grasped as he spoke. Then at least we were t
not rivals! I am afraid that Mauleverer
must have thought my conduct rather pe- r
culiar. When he held out his hand at the j
close of the little speech I have just repeated, ^
I grasped it with a fervor that made him g
wince, but I found it even more difficult |
than he bad done to express myself in words, j
\Ji l'uur>v i aiiawei eu uim mui uiiy iuuii i
would have been only loo proud to have had 1
the opportunity of serving his niece; and I ?
asked eagerly if she had suffered from the (
shock of the encounter nt York, telling him t
that I thought she had looked pale when I
met her on the promenade. I
He regarded mo steadily for a moment (
with his mil 1 eyes. I could see that ho did ^
not altogether relish my comments on her t
appearance.
"Thank you very much," he said with his
old fashioned precision of speech; "Miss
Stancliffe did not suffer nt all from her
' journoy, owing to your kindness; but I am
sorry to say she has been an absolute prisoner
ever since then through my illness. She is
an excellent nurse, and when I am ill, as I
too often am, unfortunately, she allows no
one else to wait upon me."
And then he explained how it had happened
that she had been traveling without
male escort when I met her. He had come
down to Scarborough merely to engage
rooms, intending to return to London for his
niece. But a sudden blast of the treacherous
east wind had laid him low, and instead of
going back to town to escort Miss Stancliffe
(What a pretty nam?! I thought to myself)
he had been compelled to telegraph to her to I
ask her to join him at once in her favorite !
capacity of nurse.
By this time we had both of us recovered
our self-possession, and wero chatting almost
on the footing of old friends. He took up a
book which was lying on my table. It was a
volume of Wordsworth.
"You are fond of poetry? So is DaisyMiss
Stancliffe. She reads a great deal now,
and I often get the advantage of her reading.
You see we have very few friends. We are
strangers in England, my niece and L"
"I don't suppose you will have to wait very
long before you will have an abundant supply
of friends," I ventured to remark, with a
smile
He answered me quite seriously and simply.
*1 do not know. There are so many things
to be considered. One must be very careful ;
in a place like England?so I have been told
Sometimes I think we made a mistake in I
coming home; we might have been happier (
over there." (
He rose to go, again holding out his hand ]
"Excuse me," I said, "but with your per- ]
mission I should like to tell you who and ,
what I urn." And then I hurriedly told him j
my name and how I had been brought up, /
* * #-4.1 It'4-4-1/% "
me omy cmia or my iuu?, uu um .iuwu
property In Hampshire?a mere cottage with
a few score acres of ground around it; how
I had begun the study of medicine, but had
been compelled to abandon it owing to my
father's o:ig illness, when my services as a
nurse were in constant requisition; and how
his death six months before had left me my
own master?aud quite alone in the world.
He heard m > with courteous attention, his
pale eyes lixed on my face all the time I was
speaking, and when I finished my little autobiography
with the account of my father's
death, he pressed my hand sympathetically,
but all he said was:
"Ah! 1 see that, like my niece, you have
had experience in humoring the weakness
and attending to the wants of feeble old age.
Good-day to you, sir. I hope you will forgive
me for troubling you with this visit." j
And then he went out of the room with j
that quiet, meek manner of his that con- |
trusted so strangely with the reputation he ;
enjoyed among the people around him; and j
I was left alone to dream as Alnaschar him- !
self never did.
It was not until the next morning that I
saw either Mauleverer or his niece again. !
Harding had not been idle during the day. |
He, too, had ascertained the relationship between
the millionaire and the young lady;
he had even learned her surname. But in i
addition to this he had been told by one of his |
informants that, after all, there was a little
doubt as to whether Miss Stancliffe was in j
reality the niece of Mauleverer. "There is
some mystery about her," he remarked care- i
lessly, not knowing how .deeply I was in- i
terested in her. j '
I had taken a liking to Harding. His j
cheery cynicism acted as a wholesome cor- i
rective to my boyish optimism, and I had j
found in his talk at the dinner table and in j
the smoking room almost the only enjoyment i '
I had yet tasted in Scarborough. I fe.t that \ I
it was due to him that I should give him ! (
some explanation of my acquaintance with j ]
Miss Stancliffe; but I was careful to say
nothing of the scene at the railway station |
at York. i
I "wall mw w- " 1m cai'H whfln T had fin- 1
ished my recital which included an account j
of Mauleverer's visit to my room, "all I can j
say is that you are deucedly lucky. Why, :
you have made friends with the prettiest
girl and the richest man in England! It is ^
always you quiet dogs who carry everything 1
before you. Don't be surprised, however, if <
I try to cut you out" l
[TO UK CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.] ]
Going Security.?I affirm that i
the system of indorsing i9 all wrong, 1
and 'should be utterly abolished. I i
believe that it has been the financial
ruin of perhaps more men than?per- i
haps?all other causes. I think that i'
our young men, especially, should |i
study the matter carefully in all its t
bearings, and adopt some settled pol- <
icy to govern their conduct, so as to J 1
be ready to answer the man who asks t
them to sign his note. What responsibility
does one assume when he in- i y
dorsesa note? Simply this: He is 1
held for the payment of the amount j t
in full principal and interest, if the I j
maker of the note, through misfor-t1
tune or mismanagement or rascality j
fails to pay it. Notice, the indorser j y
assumes all this responsibility, with ; f
no voice in the management of the I y
business, and no share in the profits i 1
of the transaction, if it prove profit-. t
able; but with a certainty of loss if!
for any of the reasons stated the prin- c
cipal fails to pay the note. ' c
I (
USyThey who have never known ]
prosperity, can hardly be said to be j
unhappy; it is from the remembrance 1
of joys we have lost, that the arrows t
of affliction are pointed. s
||lisccU<iueo?5 fUadiog.
MOW HUMAN LIFE SHOULD BE MEASURED.
Our lives should not be measured so
nuch by years as by noble deeds and heroic
acrifices for the individual and general
vellare. A thousand pounds of the soil
ipon which we heavily tread when comrnred
in value with an ounce of the preious
metals dwindles into insignificance;
ind quality, not bulk, must decide the real
ralue of things.
One single year in the life of a philoso)her,
divine or philanthropist, is of highk?*
MiAiifU 4-/-* nnlfin/1 tlmn 4Kq
'l ?Ul til iu liJiiiuviuv* man niv iii^uwv
illotment of human years in the life of
he idle profligate and easy voluptuary.
!n true living in lofty soul existence, the
nspired Isaiah lived longer than the aged
Methuselah.
He who lives in the high realm of pure
hought and ennobling purpose is longer
emembered when dead than the longest
ived individual who values existence
>nly as a season of selfish pursuits and
ephemeral pleasures, and who is commited
to the earth with no regret more sinere
than that we feel at the loss of an inelligent
animal.
Many of us barely exist; we toil of necessity
for the means of living; we eat,
Irink, and take the rest nature demands,
>utare strangers to all far-reaching symrnthies.
We never think of nor care for
he lofty concerns of our being, and sellom
seem to be aware that the elements
vithin us are to be developed and culti/ated
with a view to a nobler destiny
han man can hew out for himself in this
ife.
In the language of a great poet, only
hat life is long which answers life's great
>nd; and it is riot the reaching out into
ige we should value in living, but the forunate
reaching the heavenly goal.
A n/\nf li c% a frvlrl no that, fill r VftlirB
XX11 IS I 1IU1 pv/cv 1IUO 1V/IU Ui9 VIIUV VM> j v?. w
ihould be counted in deeds not day9, that
ve should number our hours in hearthrobs,
not seconds.
We must think deeply, will firmly, and
jerform faithfully each lofty resolve that
Heaven prompts us to make under the
:onflicting interests and impulses of our
inimal and spiritual natures.
The channel of no life is very safe and
ieep that has not been dug out by sorrow
md suffering. It is often only through
idversity and affliction that our intuition
)f life and its aims and ends become con;ictions.
Life is the highest gift God bestows
jpon man, and if when it i9 ended in our
hree-score years and ten and no exalted
ichievement has crowned it, then its full
neasurement of sublime duty, struggle
md endurance for God and our fellow
nen will be counted in days, not in years.
"He most lives who thinks most,
Feels noblest, acts best."
GENERAL L. S. ROSS.
General Lawrence Sullivan Ross, who is
:he Democratic nominee for Governor of
fexas, was recently chosen by a unanimous
vote at the Texas Democratic State
Convention, to represent his party in the
joining compaign. Mr. Iloss was born in
Ber.tonsport, Indiana, September 28th,
1838, but the main part of his early life
>vas spent in Texas and Alabama. He
jecame a student at Florence, Wesleyan
College, in the latter State, at the age of
lineteen, and graduated therefrom, with
ligh honors, in the class of 1858. During
lis vacation from college he joined an expedition
toassist in ruidingthe-Comanche
Indians, where he met with numerous injidents
and was seriously wounded. Af:er
his recovery he returned to college and
pursued the course of his studies, until his
graduation. In 1859, he was placed in
command of the frontier by Governor Sam
Houston, with sixty men under his charge,
md with this small section of an army,
icouted the neighborhood and became the
victor of several very heavy skirmishes,
lriving the Comanches into other regions,
ifter securing, by capture, over three hunJred
head of good, serviceable battle
lorses. He rescued numbers of prisoners,
,vho had been taken captive at Parker's
Fort, near Grasby, one of them having
jeen captured thirty-five years before.
\t the breaking out of the civil war Gen.
[loss resigned his commission, entered
ind became a private in the company of
Captain Peter F. Ross. After receiving
several minor promotions, he was advanced
to the rank of Rrigadier-General,
md maintained this title until the close
)f the war, when he became interested in
politics and was elected Sheriff of McLenlan
county, in 1873. Two years later he
,vas elected to the Constitutional Convenion,
and iu 1881 he was elected to the
state Senate, His nomination isequivaent
to an election.
?HI*?
A DEAD HOPE.
The telegram read: "Come quickly;!
iaby is dying," and the night express is
rearing the father to his only child. A
. old hand seems clutching at his heart, the
leavy throbs of which are almost stifling.
He remembers, now, the time when he
lad tried to comfort a dear friend who
lad felt the loss of a little one?how he
lad wondered that he should grieve so at i
:he call of Him who said "Suffer little!
. hildren."
Yes, these little lights had before, waved, !
lickered and gone out in darkness, but,
low his own house is to be left in a shad-;
)w? Nolittlehandstoscatterplaythings; \
10 little feet to patter in echoing, desolate !
'ooms! i
Gazing out into the night, he catches i
i gleam of light from a farm house, and J
le wonders, vaguely, if there, too, a baby j
s dying.
A mother sits opposite, and her sleep-1
ng babe hasa strange fascination for him.
Phere is something almost pathetic in her
ittitude, as bending over it like a guardiin
angel, she passes her hand lovingly
" 1?~orn rrni nrr
n*er tne smoum uruw. mcj i
lome, he thinks; somewhere a husband |
ind father is awaiting them.
lie, too, is going home?home, where a :
,vife sits pale with watching, and a babe
ies dying! The little one that had clung
:o his knees, lisped his name in childish
Drattle, and bound herself to his very
leart-strings.
lie had thought so much of the time
vhen she should be a companion to him,
ind he should guide her along the way
vhich leads upward to glorious womanlood,
but now, his hopes, his praj'ers, his
ears, are to end at?baby's grave.
He scarcely heeds the time. The shriek
>f the engine in the black night, the hoarse
;ry of tlje brakeman, the bustle and lights
>f the stations are meaningless to him.
rle is going home, and?baby is dying! The
train stops at last. Half dazed
le leaves it, and gropes his way along
he dark streets. The sound of his footiteps
is echoed mockingly, and he finds
>k'
himself listening, half frightened, at its
ghostliness.
A light burns at his window, and as
he pauses at the gate a door softly opens.
His wife meets him with a long-drawn,
tearless sob, and' he knows all.
She leads him into a dim room where,
on a white couch, lie the ashes of a dead
hope.
Ah, baby?why couldn't you wait!
Very gently she strokes the bowed head,
and very softly she whispers:
"It is best."
And here over the dead form, the eyes,
blue as the.wild vjelet, curtained forever,
the baby hands folded, the wee, tired feet
resting, they stand reconciled, while over
all, like incense, float the odors of heliotropes
and whtie roses.?Detroit Free Press.
the'mother.
mere is no nuraan love liae a momers
love. There is no other such human tenderness.
And there is no such time for a
mother's displaying her love and teuderness
toward her child as in the child's earliest
years of life. That time neglected, and
no future can make good the loss to either
mother or child. That time well improved,
all the years that follow it can profit by
its improvement. Even God Himself
measures His fatherly love by a motherly
standard. "As one whom his mother
eomforteth, so I will comfort you," He
says; and what more than this could He
say? And many a strong man who was
first comforted by his mother's loving and
tender works and ways while he was a
helpless child, has never lost his grateful,
trusting dependence on that mother's
ministry of affection and sympathy.
When gruff old Dr. Johnson was fifty
years old he wrote to his aged mother as
if he were still her wayward but loving
boy: "You have been the best mother,
and I believe the best woman in the world.
I thank you for all your indulgence to me,
and beg forgiveness for all that I have '
done ill, and of all that I have omitted to
do well." John Quincy Adams did not
part with his mother until he was nearly
or quite as old as this; yet his cry even
then was: "O. God. could she have been
spared yet a little longer. Without her
tiie world feels to me like a solitude."
When President Nott, of Union College,
was more than ninety years old, and had
been for half a century a college president,
as strength and sense failed him in his
dying hours, the memory of his mother's
tenderness was fresh and potent; and lie
could be hushed to needed sleep by a gentle
patting on the shoulder and the singing
to him of the old-time lullabies, as if
his mother was still sitting by his bedside
in loving ministry, as she had been well
nigh a century before. The true son nev
er grows old to a true mother.
How to Punish Children.?"How to
punish children," said Prof. Adler, in a
lecture recently, "is one of the burning
questions of the day. Upon it depends in
a greater degree than people imagine the
welfare of the State, the family, society
and the ethical development of humanity
itself. How many parents know how to
punish children ?
"A child will grow up, in nine cases
out of ten, the embodiment of the influences
that surround hiin. Never chastise
a child in anger. Socrates, the great Pagan
philosopher, refrained from punishing
a slave until his passion had cooled.
Any angry hither acts a perilous example
to his offspring. He exhibits his weakness
when he should be firm and contained.
The child drinks in the lesson, and
his moral nature is lacerated and warped.
"How many children are spoiled by
discouragement? Parents grumble and
chide the livelong day, and never praise.
It is wrong. Nothing will so effectually
crush a -child's ambition to be good and
noble. The sweet approbation of a good
mother is enough to make a young man
face fire and death in a worthy cause."
Let Us Help One Another.?This
little sentence should be written on every
ileal i, niiu aiaiupeu unuveiy meiiiury. xi
should be the golden rule practiced, not
only in every household, but throughout
the world. By helping one another, we
not only remove thorns from the pathway,
but we feel a sense of pleasure in our
hearts, knowing we are doing our duty to
a fellow-creature. A helping hand or an
encouraging word is no loss to us, yet it is
a benefit to others. Who has not felt the
power of this little sentence? Who has
not needed the encouragement and aid of
a kind friend ? How soothing, when perplexed
with some mysterious and burdensome
trouble, to feel a gentle hand on the
shoulder and hear a kind voice whispering,
"Do not feel discouraged?I see your
trouble?let me helpyou." Whatstrength
is inspired?what hope created?what
sweet gratitude is felt, and the greatest
difficulty is dissolved as dew beneath the
sunshine.
Trial
by Ordeal in Russia.?A curious
survival of ordeal superstition still
prevails to a very large extent in southern
Russia. When a theft is committed in a
househeld the servants are summoned together
and a sorceress is sent tor. Should
no confession be made by the guilty party
the sorceress rolls upas many little balls
of bread as there are suspected persons
present. She then takes one of these balls \
and addressing the nearest servant, uses
this formula: "If you have committed
the theft the ball will sink to the bottom
of the vase, but if you are innocent it will
float on the water." The accuracy of this
trial, however, is seldom tested, as the
guilty person invariably confesses before
his turn arrives to undergo the ordeal.?
Chambers' Journal.
Tiie Air of the Sea.?The air of the
sea, taken at a great distance from the
land, or even on the shore and in ports,
when the wind blows from the open, is in
an almost perfect state of purity. Near
continents the land wiods drive before
them an atmosphere always impure, but
at 100 kilometers from the coasts this impurity
has disappeared. The sea rapidly
purifies the pestilential atmosphere of continents;
hence every expanse of water of
a certain breadth becomes absolute obstacles
to the propagation of epidemics. Marine
atmospheres driven upon the land
purify sensibly the air of the regions
which they traverse; this purification can
be recognized as far as Paris.
A good reputation is important to
any man in any sphere. Yet a good reputation
is neither gained nor preserved by
anxiety about it. There is no way of getting
a reputation like deserving it. There
is no way of preserving a reputation likecontinuing
to deserve it. If you would
have others think a good deal of you, first
see to it that there is a good deal due you.
If you think too much of yourself, others
will not. If you think very little of yourself,
others may think more. Not until
you have forgotten yourself will the world
generally feel any responsibility to give
thought to you.?S. & Time*.
Value of Punctuality.?An eminent
Philadelphia jurist died the other
day, and among other bequests gave to
hisgrand-son a gold watch with this Instruction:
"Whenever he looks at the
watch he will remember the necessity of
being a correct and punctual man." There
is a lesson in this injunction which every
one may learn with profit. The man who
is always punctual does more and does it
better than he who is always late, always
behind time. Leaving duties to be performed
until the last moment and then
rushing them through makes a mess of
any work.?Norristoicn Times.
?
BSaT It is queer, but not the less true, that
people are generally quite as vain, or
even more so, of their deficiencies than of
(heir amiable gifts.