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' _________^_____ v lewis m. grist, proprietor. J An Jnbepcitbrnf Jfamilj fjkfospaptr: Jfor tjjc ^promotion of % ^Political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial interests of t|c Souflj. |terms--$2.50 a tear, in advance. VOL. 33. YORKVILLE, S. O.. WEDNESDAY, NQVEMBEE 34, 1886. ISTO. 47. J. ftital ftoro. BEAUTY'S SECBET By ALAN MUIR. Author of "Vonity Hardware,1 "Golden Girla," Etc. BOOK ONE. LADY BEAUTY S MOTHER -XL CHAPTER L DARKNESS IN BEAUTY'S ABSENCE. For the room had, grown darker to a certainty. No doubt glass and silver shone as clearly as before, the damask was as white, the bloom of the flowers as rich, and the mingled lights?sunlight straight from off the green lawn outside, and lamplight just coming into radiance on the dinner table?had not lost brightness~by one ray. And, yet the room was darker. Everybody felt that. I , spoke it aloud, and we all looked round the table and the walls, and confessed that the room was several shades darker. "It always is darker," whispered an old gentleman at my side, "when Lady Beauty , leaves the room?always!" There were six other men at the table; but as we spoke two of these fell into discussion upon the old theme of Tory and Whig. Two more?parsons?struck off into some conversation about "high" end "low." How the third pair employed themselves I forget, but they did not join our conversation. Plainly the elderly gentleman and myself were to start a dialogue of our own; and as plainly we should neither be interrupted nor overheard. I did not know my companion's name; but his fine figure and his cheerful face had already made me feel an interest in him, and I resolved to keep up the talk which he bad so pleasantly begun. "Who may Lady Beauty bef 1 asked. "You are a stranger here," replied the old man, with a smile which pleased me more than ever. I. confessed it. "Or you would know who Lady Beauty is. Her praise is on everybody's lips." "But," I said, "generally I pay every lady / in a room the tribute of at least one look; xand?and?I did not notice a young woman here this evening." "I said nothing about a young woman," my friend continued, with a vivacity which gleamed in his eyes and carved scores of humorous little wrinkles round the corners of his mouth. "Lady Beauty is not young?by the almanac, that is." fThen who can she be?" I reflected. "Hot surely that spare aggressive-looking woman that sat between you and me and talked of female suffrage and the higher education of woman f My old friend laughed with great relish. "That is her eldest sister." "Well, surely not that tall, artificial-looking old maid?is she an old maid, by the way??who bad such a fine outline and such a suspicious bloom upon her cheeks?" "No, not her; that is the second sister," the old gentleman answered, with another laugh. "A widow, too, my young friend." "I have it!" cried I, slapping the table a little in my excitement, so that the Whig and Tory glanced up, but seeing it was nothing, * resumed their argument. "It was that lady in black, with, the silver hair, neither stout nor slim, who spoke so clear and low, and seemed to keep everybody in good humor about her. Pity I sat so far away! I was envying the people near her all dinner time Am I right?" "You are," he answered. "That was Lady Beauty; and when she left the table she did take some light away with her. You thought you were making a gallant sort of joke applied to the sex generally; but you spoke more truth than you fancied. The room teas darker when she left Darker to me it always is,"-and my old friend breathed a sigh, which interested me more than ever. "I did not know it was she who carried the light away," I said. "I had scarcely noticed _ her." "There is her praise," the old gentleman answered, warmly. "She does not force herself upon you. And I dare say many days you dont look at the sun; but when sunset comes you miss him none the less." By such pleasant paths we entered into a conversation. My friend told mo many things about "Lady Beauty," to which I listened with an attention which pleased him greatly; so much that, when we were about to leave the table, he took me gently by the 0 sleeve, and said that, if I had nothing better to do that night, and liked a chat and a cigar, and would accept a seat in his carriage, he would tell me all the story of Lady Beauty. I was too much interested in himself and his narrative to say no; and the story, so commenced, and continued on several subsequent evenings, I have here recorded without any attempt at art, just in the simple way I heard it. I offer it here for the acceptance, amusement and instruction of that portion of creation who, as they are the fountain of life and its best prize, may, by the use of the gifts God has so choicely bestowed upon them, be not alone the ornament, but the joy of the men they love. In which high art I respectfully ask them to learn a lesson from "Lady Beauty." CHAPTER II. "MRS. BARBARA TEMPLE?THE MISSES TEMPLE." Something like forty years ago there fell vacant at the other end of this town a large house with a spacious and splendid garden. Its originul proprietor had lived in it for sixty years, and being a man of great wealth and fine taste he had transformed what was once a comfortable family residence into a mansion, filled with all luxuries, and surrounded with green houses, hot houses, vineries, stables, coach houses and all the othec appurtenances of a grand house. He died, and his hundreds of thousands ran ofT in a golden river of good luck to a nephew in the north of England, who had his own estate. Immediately the question was asked in our little provincial set: "Who will take the Beeches V' for by that simple name the mansion was known. Everybody was afraid of the Beeches; afraid of its gilded rooms, its noble halls, its green houses, hot houses, vineries, stables and coach houses aforesaid; afraid of its splendid traditions, gone, we felt, never to return; afraid of comparison with the former owner?a poor sickly shadow in later days, but even then such a lord at the head of his table, such a judge of wines, so plentiful with his choice vintages, too; such an expert in gardeners and cooks, as our town of Kettlewell never saw before, and was never likely to see again. So the great house stood vacant month after month, and year after year, haunted by no ghosts except memories of magnificence, which did indeed seem to glide through the vast damp rooms, down the wide stairs, or through the noble gardens, now returning to wilderness season by season. Everybody was afraid of the Beeches. "VVe all said, "The Beeches will never let again." Let it did, however. There came a little lady one day, erect, commanding in her manner and rich in her attire. She asked to see the house. She went from room to room, wifl> onnmn'nir eve how clorious was the place: and sharply she inquired of the agent if there was any reason why the house had not let, except the alleged one of its extraordinary grandeur. He assured her that there was none. At this she broke into a little laugh, which meant, "Kettlewell people must be fools." "What rooms for dancing!" she ejaculated. "What staircases, up and down!" And then she set her own dapper figure in one of the glasses of the console tables, and murmured, "Admirable, admirable taste!" "I shall take this house," she said aloud, as she set her foot on the threshold. And as she went from room to room she kept repeating, "I shall take this house." "Bedroom," "dressing room," "morning room," library," "boudoir," "servants' hall." With such words of assignment on her lips she went about, and the whole mansion was allotted to separate uses when she had completed her inspecting tour. She came back into the empty dining room, and the young man who, full of awe, had followed her round the house, heard her say to herself, "0, what a room for a dance!" Then he, going out on some errand, and suddenly returning, saw the little dame step down the empty floor In some formal dance, -most mysllc lnlils eyes, and bowing with aristocratic grace to some invisible partner. The young man recalled his own hops at the citizens' ball, and wondered what this grave measure could be. But the little lady pulled up all of a sudden, with [ a whistle of her silks, and repeated for the ' fiftieth time, "I shall take this house." "Mrs. Barbara Temple," was her reply when the agent asked her name. She delivered it with decided emphasis, as if the syllables might be pondered; and forthwith she gave orders for many things to be done to the house and grounds, saying that ahe'would come in next month. You may be sure we were all alive with curiosity to knotf everything about Mrs. Barbara Temple. She turned out to be a widow?a widow for the second time, we heard?and with three daughters. She had first married an old man of vast wealth, who died when she was twoand-twenty, leaving her with no children and a great fortune, settled on her. Next, to avenge herself for the privations of her first marriage, she allied herself to a young ensign of twenty-five, handsome and penniless. With him she lived happily lor seven years, during which time she gave birth to three daughters. Then the young officer died; and so, having got a fortune by the first husband and a family by the second, Mrs. Barbara Temple was now making ready to lead the remainder of her life according to her own heart 1 The family came into residence on the last Friday in April, 1S58. Nothing was seen of them, you may guess, on Saturday, and everybody was on tiptoe expectation for their entry into the parish church on Sunday morning. Thither they came, regularly enough, like good worshipers, having, by the way, spoiled the worship of everybody beside. First comes my little dame, natty and brisk, and with something in her movements that almost made you fancy she must be a puppet animated by enchantment Silks, feathers of the rarest sort, a fan?the weather being hot?and her frame braced up into such erectness, that each of her inches was worth two; so Mrs. Barbara Temple walked into church. There was spirit in the eye which went round the building, not with unpleasing boldness, but with most unmistakable courage. There was a vigor in her step which told of a good constitution, and she held her fan in a way that signified temper. Indeed, when the pew-opener blundered over the latch of the door, and kept her waiting in the aisle, she dealt one glance at the woman ?one only?but what a rebuke was in it! At sight of the flash, old Sparkins, the doctor, who had been watching the new-comer rather obtrusively, was struck with fear that ' he might catch the next; and he dropped into , his grayer book like a bird shot in mid air, trying to look as if he had seen nothing since service began. Three daughters came behind. The first impression they gave us was of a profusion of rich dress, chosen and worn with taste which was simply faultless. The next impression was of tallness of figure, the more conspicuous for the tiny dame who led the way. The third impression was of beauty, i set out in style and fashion such as our little town could not rival; and we did not think ourselves provincial in any but the geograph- i ical sense. After this, we had time to 1 J 1 ? ? J ? ?? * V-wi Vi/\n1111(. rrirl Ktt fflpl JUUgt) tuiu JJI aL-rc urn urouww "j e" ** Girl the first, walked with a mincing step, j and a toss of her head which, though strictly j within the limits of good breeding, was ! noticeable and significant Clever she looked, i too, and her eyes were clear gray, eyes that could search you?and did search you?reading your face with great rapidity and appre hension. She was the most striking figure of ! the three, being very tall, and with splendid shoulders. Her face, it is true, would not . bear much looking into; and had you taken it feature by feature, as the children were taught to break the fagot in the fable, you might have proved it a poor face enough. But taken in its wholeness, and set upon that superb bust, it was a face which I should not have recommended a young fellow to gaze at too long unless he meant matrimony. And then her dress?her dress! 0, never tell me that a woman cannot double?treble?her ; looks if she has money in her pocket and taste in her eye! But the next was prettier; indeed, pretty was not the word appropriate to a woman who was unquestionably handsome,who knew her beauty and was proud of it The second Miss Temple had a nose of most exquisite shape, large melting eyes of gray, ready to turn blue, and she had a lovely mouth, perhaps with a little too much of the chisel about it, too finely finished, wanting in expression, and with a slight hint of disdain carved on its fine comers. Beauty, professed beauty, confessed beauty, and clad to distraction; so she glided into her pew, and we had time to consider girl the third. Girl the third! Shall I ever forget her face, then in the first sweet flush of youth! Shall I ever forget the light that shone in those deep serious eyes!?the thousand possibilities of tender or delicate expression that seemed to hover around that mouth, ready to alight and unfold themselves whenever summoned! I had been thinking a thousand frivolous and misplaced thoughts, but something in this face restored me by the most delightful of recalls to the mood of a worshiper. Never, never, outside heaven, ' snail I see such a face again. It was like the dream of a painter, and he a painter whoee fancy had drunk of some celestial stream of feeling and idea, until he had caught on his canvas a face which had in it all that could be heavenly in a thing of earth, and all that could be earthly in a thing of heaven, i Laugh not at me, neither call me irreverent, if I say that one could have fancied her soma painted Madonna descending from the walls of a church, taking human form, and wear- j ing modem vesture. On this girl vesture gave you no hint of fashion; her countenance etherealized her attire, so that she might have been wearing an angel's floating drapery instead of the last Paris fashion. , But I see you smile; and is not every rare emotion bound to hide itself, lest, being seen, i it should be ridiculed for eccentricity? Those eyes could shine with earthly or ! heavenly love. In each case it would be love deep, pure, intense, with not a thought of evil on its white and living page. That mouth could kiss as daughter, or mistress, or ! mother, and which kiss would be sweetest who could foretell from one who seemed fit to perform every womanly duty in the most j womanly way ( In her look there was something neither of ago nor youth, but of what I should try to describe as fullness; the meridian of the nature when the early and the later sentiments meet, in equal strength, the simplicity of youth, the grateness of serious life. She was fair, and her hair light brown; j and I ttrw f^fcice of a little foot as she turned i into her pew. But when she knelt and covered her face, I did the same quite unconsciously. It seemed l ight after the vision of her. CHAPTER III. THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. That week everybody called upon the Temples. The universal impression was favorable, and we all rejoiced over so vivacious an addition to our society, and already the question was flying from lip to lip among the ladies: "Whom will the Misses Temple marry?" That on the grounds of social position and education the new comers would stand high amongst us was not doubted for a moment, while their easy fortune was proclaimed by their dress, the furniture of their house and their manner of life generally. Each successive visitor had something new to tell. One remarked how finely the furniture and ornaments were fancied. Another marked the glories of the harp and the piano. "The pictures are lovely," said a third; "not a poor one on the walls!" And carpets, and oilcloths and the coloring of the walls came in for commendation in due course. All of us were delighted with the lively conversation of the atirl wn mopvolo/1 nnnnimrniklv of. ? 'Temple's wide knowledge of the world and the briskness with which she uttered it. Nor was one of these praises undeserved. The drawing room of the Temples was a charming contrast to most of those around. Ease, cultivation, liveliness, whatever is choicest in sooial intercourse, seemed to pervade the very air and you felt as you entered the room that you had passed into a region where refinement reigned supreme. ' The Temples were, somehow, above us all. IVe felt it, and with increasing diffidence, as we realized our inferiority, was the question asked, "Whom will the Misses Temple marry f" But old Sparking, who was our shrewdest head by a long way, hearing this question asked at Miss Whiflin's house one afternoon, remarked, with a comical face to fix our attention, that we had not disposed of the mother yet. Surprising that so natural a thought had not suggested itself before! Mrs. Temple, as we understood, had been married very early, and pur most competent female critics declared that she could not be~more than forty-fivo, or, rather, I should say, they put it that she could not be less. We had several widows and spinsters of ripe years, and these agreed that forty-five was still a ? marrying age; indeed, some of the ladies declared that it was the liest time of all? an opinion in which Sparking concurred with much vehemence and solemnity, only the old fellow was caught winking slyly at a confidential friend immediately after, which aroused some suspicion. That Mrs. Barbara Temple might be married before any of her daughters, that she was yet an attractive and marrying woman, we all admitted. There was that in her manner with men which told thatsjie had not yet abandoned either the hope or the methods of conquest; and it was plain to us all that less likely women are married every day of the year. Besides, the fortune was hers?absolutely?as we had discovered on undoubted testimony; and since the fortune could not be less than three thousand a year, we began to see that for the present it was Mrs. Temple, not her daughters, who was likely to be the prize in our next matrimonial mce. So, having settled this in our minds " "? "-rtnnnrlnA li'lfft ltofmnol Koinrro f/j r>lin/KA n **tj [;i VAXUAVAl Itau l UViuiiUL wv vmvwv % husband for the animated widow; and with scarcely a dissentient opinion, wo came to the conclusion that our rector, the Rev. Anthony Brent, would be the happy man. We were not altogether wrong in this conjecture, as my story shall disclose. But Mr. Brent does not emerge on our historic page at present. MRS. BARBARA TEMPLET. Let me tell you here that, in the course of a long life, I have never met a woman who could match Mrs. Barbara Temple. Cleverer women, handsomer women, wittier women I have met In scores; but the secret of Mrs. Barbara Temple was her utter and hearty love of this present world. Of this present world she was, I believe, the sincerest and most unquestioning worshiper that ever lived. She put no strain upon herself to become what she was; she quenched no aspiration and repressed no misgiving. WorldJiness was the simple honest expression of her natural disposition and her judgment on affairs. Never religious devotee was so completely inclosed in a creed as she. For, indeed, it was a creed, and a life, too, and Mrs. Barbara Temple loved the world just as a flower loves sunlight; she obeyed a law of her own nature. But the cheerfulness with which she obeyed it; her unquestioning faith in tho power of the world to satisfy every want; the absence of suspicion that there could be any higher motive in life, or, indeed, any other motive at all, and the cheerfulness and alacrity with which she followed out her convictions, made her of necessity a vigorous and original character. All that makes what such people call "the world" she longed for and prized. Accomplishments, money, taste, health, the good opinion of society, these, and a thousand kindred matters, she regarded as severally constituents of happiness, to be sought with the utmost solicitude every hour of the day. She was grateful to the world for being what it was to her?an ever-running fountain of desire or pleasure. Have I sufficiently sketched her figure? Will a few strokes more make her a clearer image in your mind's eye? She was short, as I have said, trimly built, perhaps a trifle too stout, but that might be disputed. Her nose was rather large, but finely cut, like her second daughter's, and she dressed her brown hair in short ringlets, which well suited the style of her face. Her color was good and high enough to make people ask questions, and her eyebrows were not free from suspicious traces of making up. Her dress was always rich and admirably suited to her figure and years; for she was careful to look full forty-five. She avoided all absurd affectation of youth, and although n kind of sprightly dancing step, which she often fell into, mitrht have seemed rather a fault in this direction, most of us considered this gait nothing but surplus vitality acting on a frame so light and plump that it seemed made to skip, or bound like a ball. CHAPTER IV. FIFTY AND FORTY-FIVE. Our little town of Kettlewell had inhabitants to the number of ten thousand, and three churches; but of these latter, two were what at that date were called district churches, and the great ancient parish church was the ecclesiastical center of the town. Like many another such noble structure, it was but poorly endowed, and the rewards which it offered to its minister were chiefly the contemplation of venerable architecture, and a social position of considerable importance. The saying always was that none but a man of fortune could be rector of Kettlewell. Consequently, at each vacancy the bishop was in a difficulty. Rich men he could find, able men he could find; but to find one rich and able, too, was not so easy, and at the j last appointment, being unable to meet with j a clergyman thus doubly qualified he had j chosen a wealthy parson of rather meager i abilities, who was now our spiritual j chief. The Rev. Anthony Brent was a cheerful man, undersized, with a merry nose of ruby, and a countenance denoting neither deep learning nor that isolation of character which is natural in men who live above the world. Indeed, Mr. Brent did not live, nor affect to live, one inch ubove the level of commonplace cheerful life. He told us from his pulpit that human things are frail and nothing worth, and that man is full of misery; but having folded up his sermon, he seemed to have folded up his theology too, for when you met him on week days he was full of comfort and good cheer. Perhaps we are fastidious people; perhaps we are ignorant; ceitain it is that we never could quite satisfy ourselves that Mr. Brent was altogether a gentleman. His manners were no better than a blithe lissom creature such as he might have picked up in ten yeiys between twenty-five and thirty-five. He bad a way of alluding to "mv tra tvlonor" mul "lliv banker"' which seemed to show, so Sparking said?Mr. Brent employed the rival practitioner?that some time in his life he had neither bank nor garden. It is very ]>ossible that had he not been so good natured, his vulgarity might have been obvious, which it never was; for, indeed, we could not be quite sure that he was vulgar at all. Another thing puzzled us; where had his fortune come from! He was very wealthy and a widower, and our idea was that Mrs. Brent had brought the j money. This, too, was guess, and nothing i but guess. Such, then, was our rector; a man liked, but not greatly respected, and yet a man whom none could condemn or fairly despise; a shallow man, equal to reading his newspaper, and no more; on good terms with the world, able without any strain of conscience to preach saintly sermons, copied out from standard divines, and at the same time live an easy average life; a comfortable man, with good intentions, sound digestion, a full purse and cellar, and one who never let his kitchen chimney freeze. It was the reverend widower Brent whom we upon consideration had assigned to our lively Mrs. Bartwra Temple as third husband; | mid events went ranidlv to show that our forecast was not inexact. Mr. Brent was j about fifty; Mra. Barbara Temple was well known to be about forty-five; so that on the score of age there was nothing against the match; and as to inclination, the rector soon made it evident that there was no obstacle on his side. Everybody remarked that he took the Temples up with remarkable warmth. He gave dainty little lunches and snug little dinners for them; and he was forever calling in his carriage to take one or other of the girls a drive, the little mother attending as chaperon. At first we were in doubt as to which he was pursuing?mother or daughters; and we even thought that grave Sophia, with her heavenly face, had attracted him; but we forgot that ho was a man of some common sense. Mrs. Temple was his choice; her vivacity, her polish, her knowledge of the X world, her untiring e'hSrgy, were all after his da own heart. He soon began to drop hints, as men do who have matrimony in their heads, re "Mrs. Temple was a remarkably fine woman." in "Forty-five was the exact age that the wife of a man of fifty should be?the exact age." "Mrs. Temple did not look forty-five" (he ad- on mitted that), "but"?and be would drop his voice?"he knew she was every day of it" sa: The intimation was that he had either seen the register of her baptism or she had told re him the fact direct, and he declared over and ha over again, with amusing earnestness and pub- ' licity, that forty-five was the age he approved an of; that for a man of his standing one year 1 younger would be one year too young, and of one year older one year too old. Of course, yc so far he had not said that he hoped or wished w< to marry Mrs. Temple, but the drift of his ' conversation and conduct was unmiitakable. ini In the meantime it was evident that the lively widow did not dislike attentions 'which an had now become so marked that even those ' saw them who could see nothing. She ex- tis changed compliments freely with the rector, ou invited him to her house, praised his sermons, and she was actually found one even- ar ingat a missionary meeting over which he tb n resided. She listened to his speech with the th utmost attention, sitting erect, and keeping her eyes fixed upon him, although it would an have been hard to say whether she knew or ta cared less about the subject. She could not sw have told in which continent the district if spoken of lay, nor whether the people ' were white, brown or black; but va she listened as attentively as if she thi had been hearing of dear relations in a fai far-off land. In short, with garden parties ' and lunches and dinners and drives, things an went so far that we all considered the matter ' settled; and when we heard that no proposals co: had yet been made, we all agreed that there mi must be a tacit engagement, which, for some lef private reasons, was not just yet to be avowed, pa To all intents and purposes, we regarded Mrs. be Temple and Mr. Brent as affianced; and, on its the whole, we approved of our rector's choice, shi Certainly we should have liked a lady more otl interested in religious affairs; but then, we co: argued, it was much better than if he had ' married a young woman. So, balancing cle matters, we accepted the event with satisfac- pk tion. is i The rector was in ecstasies. He was in his ' element, dancing attendance on these four tc brilliant women; and really a careless ob- dr sr rver might have been puzzled to tell which to of the four he was pursuing. In the most th polished of hats, the newest of suits, the most w< faultless lavender gloves, and looking all gr over a comfortable ecclesiastic, he would flit he around them, glowing and beaming with ta satisfaction. The girls, for their part, ac- Wl cepted his civilities with charming freedom; qU and their mother?shrewd woman?never hii manifested the smallest jealousy. In this, ch beside proving her own good sense, she paid a her admirer a compliment which he fully de- lit served; for he looked upon the three girls as ( daughters already, and was fond of them in tw the most parental fashion. th< "Ah, Mrs. Temple," he said one day, when ho he was getting hot, as the children say in 1 their hide-and-seek game, "I have but one "I child?a son, a dear good fellow, away in wc Australia. I always longed for daughters." Le Whereupon Mrs. Barbara Temple turned bl< full upon him one of her keen looks, which nu said: "I understand," but a good humored 1 look all the time; and then she broke into a ch, little bland laugh and made herself more rcx comfortable in her seat, for they were driv- thi ing. The rector was just going to propose th< then and there; but it happened that the car- tri riage, speeding down the dusty road, met the roi curate, who was footing it home from somo in remote part of the parish, where he had been th< visiting a sick old woman. He signaled the tio carriage to stop and addressed the rector: coi "Old Spearman is dying," he said. 1 "Poor Hannah Spearman!" the rector re- of plied, shaking his head. "I have known her no many years. Poor Hannah Spearman!" wl "Polly," the curate remarked?"Polly die Spearman." _ inf "Of course, it is Pofly," the rector rejoined, tri "In visiting about a parish like mine"?he or turned to Mrs. Temple?"ono's head gets so pn full of Pollies and Sallies and Billies that one dis is apt to take the name that comes first. I tin am sorry for poor Han?Polly. But what die can you do in a case of natural decay?" frr " It is not natural decay," the curate coi answered, with a waggish dryness in his wa manner. "She fell down stairs." an< "To be sure she fell down stairs!" little Mr. he Brent cried, reproving his faulty memory by do: a gesture of his gloved hand. "How came I flxi to confound the two? complaints?" Tei "Perhaps because you are suffering from a cx< third," reto rted the curate. He loved a joke the and had before this broken a jest on his own ag< bishop. And our rector was a temptiug ob- did ject, being not apt to take offense, and not sto one to inspire great respect or fear. pri The carriage drove on; but for once little Mr. Brent was downright angry. orc "Rather an impertinent speech," he said, ^1U1 glancing diffidently at Mrs. Temple. ^el "Impertinent!" cried easy-humored Mrs. ca| Temple. "Nothing of the sort." s*1' "Milligan has no sense of propriety." Pr( She gave a little laugh. 013 "I like Mr. Milligan." * At this Mr. Brent took heart, changed his As view of the matter, reddened with pleasure, j and gave himself up to laughter, which lasted Ba until the tears were chasing each other down n? his rosy cheeks. But somehow the proposal A." was not made that day. ma onl CHAPTER V. Jj8 VANITY CAN VANQUISH LOVE. mo The following morning Mr. Brent received a letter from his son in Australia, announcing his intention of returning to England for a few months. The reason of this return the letter went on to furnish. The son said he 6 feared his father would think him very the foolish; but love was bringing him home, and me here was the worst of the matter?love under clei very peculiar circumstances. He had fallen dra in love with?a picture! He had seen the cal portrait of a girl whose face had impressed ing him as never the living face of any woman Sib had, and having ascertained that the original wa of the picture really lived, and was English, ani and not a duchess or a princess, which well hoi she might be, but a girl of his own rank in of life, young Brent was determined to find her anj out and try to secure her for himself. The kin letter wound up in very ingenuous language, the admitting the apparent absurdity of the " whole proceeding; but protesting that the pas- ing sion was true and deep, and that nothing yoi could end it except realization or absolute 1 and ascertained hopelessness. cit< Rector Brent was a good natured man and the a kind father; so he shook his head and vai 6miled over his son's folly, being a sage him- the self. But he wrote a kind reply, saying the that his son would be always welcome home not under any conceivable circumstances, and got that though ho must confess the expedition to ] seemed rather wild, yet he well knew that in J the latter scenes of the affair his son would dec be ruled by his own good sense and his for father's counsel. rec "And now," the rector said, as he sealed mn this praiseworthy epistle, "I think before Per- Inc cival conies home I had better have my af- hes fairs settled." This he said, and as he spoke It1 he looked at his own likeness in the chimney Ba glass. Something struck him. "Dear me," wa he exclaimed, "I must get some new teeth!" rer For fifty years of good living had told upon the this portion of his mechanism; and now re- to 1 fleeting that he was about to marry, he yet reasoned thus: "At such times we refurnish ^ our houses. Think of a man refurnishing his Ba house, and not refurnishing his mouth! If I Bin am to have a new dining table, I ought to ow have a new set of teeth to use at it. Besides?" doi He grinned in the glass. "Yes," he said, hoi shakiner his head, "not at all nreDossessine." ^ He grinned again, and this time by the power ng? of fancy set new white teeth in the vacant scii spaces. "Not a doubt of it," he murmured; Kn the greatest improvement!" he So that morning, instead of making a pro- h?< posal of marriage to the lively widow, he Tei went to an adjacent town, where a notable g'a dentist practiced, and here he had his jaws " overhauled and a plan of the projected im- dei provements drawn out. The dentist was a man of chat, and when he ascertained whence wh the parson came he had all sorts of questions for to ask about various people in the neighbor- " hood, and curious stories to tell, and gossip to cei exchange; so that our little rector, perched in of the operating chair, laughed and chirruped I and looked the image of enjoyment. Short- ski sighted man! the "By the way," said the dentist, pausing a ito moment with one of his tools in his hand, sea "has not a Mrs. Temple settled in Kettlewell gle during the past year ?" sta Rector Brent knew that a faint blush shot uni out of his cheek as he answered "Yes." "A remarkable woman," the dentist con- "ft tinued, forgetting his task, while with a med- to itative face he seemed to contemplate bygone of ys. "A very remarkable woman." "A very, very remarkable woman," tl ctor replied, determined to add an adver this very peculiar case. "Wonderful energy," said the dentist. "Most wonderful!" the rector rejoined, sti ; the augmentation principle. "And such a face and figure!" the operat< id again. "Ah, such a face and figure!" repeated th ctor, unable to refrain from rubbing h nds together. "For her years," the dentist remarked, i explanatory voice. "0, come, come!" cried the rector, in ton< remonstrance. "I don't see that. She iuthful, certainly, and sprightly; but sti jmen are not old at forty-five." "At what five?" asked the dentist, not ha1 g caught the first word. "Forty-five," repeated the rector, bold] id emphatically. "Seventy-five, more likely," the blunt dec ;t said, now intent on his tool, which we t of repair. "0,1 see, I see!" cried Rector Brent; "yc e talking of her mother. We don't kno' e mother. The mother does not live wit em now." "Unless Mrs. Barbara Temple is herse' d her mother at the same time I am n( Iking of her mother," the dentist ai 'ered. "That lady is seventy years of agi she is seven." Saying this with great unconcern, he eu need to take some further measurement c e clergyman';: mouth, and observing h ce of horror, he said, reassuringly: "Don't be uneasy; I am not going to tak ything out." The rector, gasping, waved him away. S nvulsive were his movements that for jment the dentist feared that he might hav t one of his minor implements in th tient's mouth, which implement, havin en inadvertently swallowed, was, froi unaccommodating material and unusuf ipe, doing violence to nature in one c ler of the canals which traverse the huma ntinent. 'Do you mean to say," said the astound? rgymon at lost, "that Mrs. Barbara Tern i?the lady who has three fine daughtersmore than forty-five?" 'Before one of those young ladies wa irn," the dentist replied, little thinking ho-* eadful were his words, "I made a froi th for Mrs. Temple?not Mrs. Temp en. She was a remarkably handsoir jman, something over forty?just a tint < ay in her hair. I was not surprised when ard, a few months after, that young Ca] in Temple was going to marry her. But is a little surprised when I heard subs* ently that his wife was going to preser m with a child; and when I heard that th ild was followed by a second, and that b third, I was, I confess, surprised not tie." 'But Mrs. Temple was only about two-ant enty when she married the second time, 3 rector said, still unable to credit what h ard. 'My dear sir," the dentist said, laughing have known Mrs. Barbara Temple as >man for flve-and-forty years at the leasi t me see''?he went through some half-aud s calculation?"I remember her jilting in in 1795." 'Then," the rector cried, leaping from th air and smiting hand against hand till th am rang, "I shall never believe anything i is world again except the three creeds an 3 Ten Commandments. Nothing is to b isted?not eyes nor ears nor the human ret i. Forty-five?seventy-five! jilted a ma seventeen hundred and ninety-five! Whj in, she must remember the French Revolt n! 0 dear, O dear, how very hot it has b< ne!" Hie reader who is observant and a studen his kind must have remarked that natur w and then fashions a weakly sort of brair lieh a single glass of small beer will bemud > Tn a similar wav does that bv no mean 'allible workman sometimes turn out i im wliich cannot stand the shook of Strang disagreeable tidings. Rector Brent was fo ictieul purposes tipsy that afternoon. Th closure had got into his head. It is tru it his legs did not stagger, but his reasoi L. Ho did not know his right ham m his left, and was prepared t ninit any blunder. While his min< s in a chaos of ideas that whirled roum i about like leaves in an autumnal storm said to himself that something must b ie. An insane something it was which h ed upon. Ho would go straight to Mrs tnple and tax her with dissimulation. Th nted little gentleman never considered tha s lady had not made any statement of he j with which she could be confronted. No 1 his preparation of impending absurdity p here. Fully resolved as he had been b >pose to the widow, and assured as he ha< t that she both knew his intention and fav ibly regarded it, he quite forgot in hi rry of mind that he had never oddresse< in the way of marriage. So he actualh ne before her in the posture of a betraye< tor, and, as will be seen, he used languagi >per only to that particular part in the hu n comedy. Jut this is leaping from chapter to chapter we close this one let us simply mark oui son stepping out of his carriage at Mrs rbara Temple's door. His breath is hur i, his face is red, his manner is disordered d we may be sure that these out wan rks of confusion and annoyance convey y a very inadequate picture of the state o reasoning faculties. These were, indeed that state of riot and darkness which it st cases is the acknowledged preliminary oedlam. CHAPTER VI. THE RECTOR'S FALL, itick, gloves and hat all held in one hand other hand already raised for the com ncement of his speech, so the perturbec rgyman broke into Mrs. Barbara Temple's iwing room. He saw what might hav< med his mind. The three girls were stand : in a group admiring a drawing whict yl has just been buying, and their mothei s deep in a novel. The girls looked up 1 as the merry rector was a favorite in thf lse each fair face turned to smiles at sighl him. Such rays ought to have meitea in< fry man into kindness; but no influence d or stern, could have quieted him jusl n. Young ladies," he said, abruptly, address ; the graceful three, "my business is witl lr mother?alone." Tiis odd intimation, considering the ex xl manner in which he made it, meant y thought, one thing only. Lightly the} risked from the room, but even in going y glanced significantly at each other; foi subject was so interesting that they coulc ; delay an exchange of ideas even till the} ; outside the door. The rector was going propose to mamma! lamma thought so, too. She was not ofter eived, either by her eyes or her ears, but one*, she fancied that the tremor in the tor's voice, hi flushed cheek, his alcoholic nner, were s .gns of a lover's uneasiness leed, as to Lie manner, she without an} litation explained it as arising from wine vas still early in the afternoon, but Mrs rbara Temple was not angry. Teetotalisir s not yet fashionable, and the little woniat narked to herself: "They very often give inselves a fillip in that way before coming the point. Pity when they overdo it?ant . I don't know." ["he rector might be flustered, but Mrs rbara Temple was calm and pleasant t motioned him to a seat?not upon hei 11 sofa, but close to it; and then, laying ,vn her novel, she turned upon him witl most gracious air. Automatically (so we say in this scientific ?) he sat clown, and, still to continue the mtific style, by the actions of the law ol ivitation his hat, gloves and cane, whicl let go, went their different ways to the jr. He did not notice tho fall, and Mrs inple began inly to compute how man} sses lir> iini?t. linvn lnkpn. I hope he has not gone too far," the pru it woman said to herself; and her hop< ;w loss and less as the rector regarded hei th his red, confused visage, saying nothinj quite a minute. Then he spoke: Mrs. Temple," he said, "I this morning re ved a tremendous lesson in the hollownes the world!" klrs. Barbara Temple was not greatly lied in metaphorical language, especially ! pulpit sort; but as she knew that her vis r was not the sort of person to make re .relies into the interior of the physiea ibe, she had no great difficulty in under nding that he spoke of the human kin* der this universal symbol. 'Well, well," sho said, shaking her head lat very often happens. The best thing i be prepared for it. Don't expect too mucl men and women, and you will learn to b ' good-humoral over flieir selfishness and le hypocrisy. After all, are we much better b ourselves? At any rate, let us keep our , ' temper." She stroked her dress at these words, brush- ' ill ing off some imaginary dust, and, looking up at the clergyman, she smiled. )r ''That," the clergyman said, solemnly, "is a ' ! terribly frivolous view to take of so serious a le subject." Then, seeing the woman of the 1 is world elevate her eyebrows and smile more contemptuously than before, he added: n "Especially when the fault is our own." ; He looked at her so directly, and with such ( ? | anger, that she was quite puzzled. This is could not bo the opening passage of an offer 11 of marriage; and what could it be? Mrs. i Temple, however, had faces and manners for r- | all complications. "Mr. Brent," she said, with just the fainty j est sign of distance about her, such as could j either be effaced or deepened according aj l" j the occasion required, "I am afraid you are 13 . talking of something which I don't under; stand." ^ "\r? Tamnlo " Uio i in ( % .1 U KU tuu VI V? VAVlWVi MVWV ^ | man, lasho J up by his feelings so that hefan0 . cied himself a judge, and invested with a I judge's rights, "how old aro you?" a For once in her cool, self-possessed life Mrs. Temple was really dumfounded. She looked l" at her visitor, but found no word to utter, 3> and he, with an air of the most preposterous indignation and triumph, faced her, shaking his head, pursing his lips, and puffing at her in the most extraordinary style. At last she recovered herself. She was sorry to think it; but the rector must be under the influence 9 of wine. "Mr. Brent," she said, "I think we had bet? ter take a walk in the garden." She hoped a in this quiet way to lead him to his carriage. 6 "No!" cried the hot little fellow, "we shall 0 not take a walk in the garden." He sneered ? horribly as he repeated her words. "You a have deceived me, Mrs. Temple, shockingd ly!? r "Deceived you!" she cried, now with decidn ed sternness in her voice. "I am quite bewildered !" a "Is?it?not?true," continued Mr. Brent, L* beating time to each word, as if he were counting in a music lesson, "that?you?jilt ?ed?a?gen?tie?man?a?bout?the?time a ?of?the ?French?revolution?" The asv founding form of this question, and possibly it some fact in her actual life which it brought le to sharp memory, caused Mrs. Temple to ie change color. But she was really too amazed if to make any answer. Mr. Brent was now a 1 kind of drawing room red Indian, and in the > exact frame of mind in which these children I : of nature begin to feel for their tomahawk. 9- | "And?did?j'ou?nob?lead?me?to?belt j lieve?that?you?are?for?ty?five?and? is ' no?more?" he demanded, still hitting his open y palm as he emitted each monosyllable. a Amidst all her amazement Mrs. Temple could now see in what style she ought to treat 1- the man, and so, rising with admirable composurc, she made as if she would at the next ie word ring the bell. "Mr. Brent," she said severely, and she r? | said no more, a tie jooked striking; ner a diminutivo well-knit figure opposite his, which was in a funny posture, suggestive enough of i- tipsy rhetoric, and her stern still face looking a into his flushed and puffy visage. "You cannot deny it," he went on, a true e illustration of the old saying, that whom the 1 ? gods wish to destroy they first make mad. n | Ha might even yet have saved himself, if he d : would have fairly noted her aspect; but still 0 he believed she trembled before him i "Under that false impression I was actually going to a have married you; in fact, I might have marr> ried you, and not found out the truth till all i- . was over." >- Mrs. Temple had by this time begun to get an inkling of the whole truth, and now, like the t | general she was, she prepared to crush the 0 I enemy. First sbo stretched out her hand i? i imperiously, and signing to a small arm1 chair. s "Sit down there," she said, a | Amazed in his turn, but quailing already, e ; Mr. Brent obeyed. How he got safely seated r ' is a mystery, for he never looked at the chair, e nor lifted his eyes from her. e "When you first came into this room," she a said, in more imperious tones than before, "I 1 thought you were drunk. The next minute I 0 thought you were mad. It took a little 1 longer to show me that you are neither, but I j only impertinent" i, j The little man gazed up at her open-mouthed, e | like a dying fish. All the strength of his fury e : was gone. i. "How dare you ask me my age?" she now e demanded, driving the question into him like t a dagger. He, realizing for the first time his r | own absurdity, maae 110 answer, r ! "When did I tell you I was forty-flvef' she f I asked, changing to a cold, sarcastic tone, a j "Tell me." 1 I "Well," he stammered; "I don't exactly - j know; but everybody said that was your age, s and?and I"?be scratched bis bead with a 1 j pitiable air?"I supposed you must have told f i them." ] ; "Oh, then it seems it was not I that a said ho?" . j "Oh, no; it was not you." He made this admission eagerly, to show ^ that ho was ready to be civil. She went on, r growing colder as he grew more confused: "You spoke of marrying me; had you ever asked me*" "No; I had not," he replied; with a dismal 1 expression of consternation. "But I?I?I? i ! fancied " f 1 "You fancied that you are so engaging that y j the only question is whether you ask or not ! ! The lady's reply would be like the vote of , j thanks at your missionary meetings?it would ! go by acclamation." 1 He hung his head. It was a new ex: perience in life for poor Mr. Brent to have to ! sit silently by while the demonstration that , I he was an ass was quietly and logically - I worked out 1 I ' "Now, Mr. Brent," she said, calmly, "let 1 5 ! me enlighten you. You are an amusing ' chatterer, and you have a position in this place. - ! I did not object to know you, and to be on i ] easy terms with you. But as to marrying i ' j you, I should not have done it?not even if i j you had knelt at my feet for a year. You J j are not agreeable to me. I don't think you i would be agreeable to many women. You * I might find some one who would marry you i for your money; I tell you candidly I don't ( t i think you will ever meet a woman, be she ' twenty-five or forty-five or seventy-five, who would marry you for yourself." ' ! "Mrs. Temple," the miserable man said, now thoroughly abashed, "I feel I have made a great blunder. Had 1 not better bring this i : visit to an end;" < r ' "Not unless you wish it," she answered. \ \ "We can change the subject, that will be suf- j ' ! ficient." I ' It was the quintessence of contempt, and re- ] r duced him to the station of a buzzing fly, which need not l?e killed if it ceases to make j itself disagreeable, i ! She rang the bell, nnd until the servant ap- ' i pea ml she allowed the clergyman to enjoy > his situation in silence. 5 | "Send the young ladies here," she said. . j Poor little Mr. Brent hung liis head low in- 1 r deed, as the girls came back. Suppressed fun i nnd curiosity were in their every feature; but j schooled in self-possession by their mother, ? they were careful to appear as far as possible < i unconcerned. < 5 "Girls," the little lady said, looking upon J them with eyes of fire, "Mr. Brent has been , I here on a curious mission." Ua l.^o.l-r.,1 im of nnnnnlincr fnr TTlPrPV. jwi\o? uj? ..v., 0 j, . and she returned his look with an expression which he believed denoted that mercy was j * out of the question. 1 "He has Ixjen interested about an old i woman in this parish of whom he heard much 1 that was favorable. He was going to make I J her a parish annuitant; but, fortunately, be- ( 3 fore he committed himself he was told cer- j C tain facts about her. Ho learned that she | > had misconducted herself at the time of?the < 3 French revolution, was it not, Mr. Brent 1'' j He could not answer. Ho looked at her, ' I petrified and dumb. , "Mr. Brent has been very cautious," she - went on; "he has not told mo the name of ] 3 this old woman. I don't really think, girls, ' r her history?or the business Mr. Brant called ' I about?concerns you at all. But still I I thought 1 would like to ask you if you have ' heard of any old woman in this parish who is 5 s very old, anil tries to seem very young, who 1 | misconducted herself during the French rev- 1 T I olutionf" i I ' "Never heard of her," the wondering girls { called out all together. "Dont you know her ( " name?" \ "You see, girls," she answered, "Mr. Brent i " is so very discreet that he never makes a ^ blunder. He cau hear everything and say < ! nothing. As I said, it does not concern you, ( ' nor me either, only Mr. Brent thought it did. ? "VVe shall not speak of the matter again. Now, Mr. Brent, shall we have our little 1 . walk in the garden?" He rose with them, trying to find a word which might enable him to play the part 3he assigned him: but none came. Only is they descended the flight of steps into the grounds he managed to whisper in her ear, " You are the cleverest woman 1 ever knew She turned upon him with a look full ef meaning. mnn/I ivimt )> olio lvliicnorod hnnlr i'lj mail] ouv in accents of the utmost scorn, "don't trouble yourself to say what lam. You are a (treat fool /" BOOK TWO. LA D }' BEA ZJTTS SISTERS. CHAPTER I. THE PICTURE. [In the course of a narrative by which my old friend put me in a position to relate this story, I more than once ventured to remark that he had a surprising, acquaintance with a number or facts and conversations which might be supposed to be beyond the earshot of an ordinary friend. He smiled in a very peculiar way, and I saw a faint streak of red coining out upon his eheek. Then, with a sigh, he answered that I might be satisfied that his story was a truthful one. How he came to know it so fully I need not inquire. The sadness with which this was said set me thinking; but for that time I understood no more.] Little Mr. Brent returned home that day heartily and thoroughly ashamed of himself. His bitterest enemy could not have wished him a more humbling fall. Being a great man for letter-writing, and firmly impressed with the fatal belief that the large number of human complications can be adjusted by correspondence, he sat down after his dinner to write an explanation and apology to Mrs. Temple. The number of sheets he tore up, the enormous variety of openings which he adopted and cast aside at the fifth line, the sheets be pinning "Dear Madam," tnen "My wear Madam," then "Dear Mrs. Temple," then "My Dear Mrs. Temple," falling subsequently into "Mr. Brent ventures to present his respectful compliments;" ana besides these the "I am overwhelmed with contusion;" "It is, I assure you, with the most poignant sensations of sorrow;" "What can I say?" "What can I urge in extenuation of my behavior?"?so many of these were begun,cast aside, and torn up very small, lest any one should find out what he had been doing, thatas the night wore on the rector gradually began to look like a man who is being snowed up. When, at twenty-five minutes past four A. M., after nearly nine hours of unintermittinghead work, the apology was finished, there was not left enough clean stationery in the house fox a washing bill; but in place of it there were fragments of paper lying on the floor sufficient for the manufacture of six full-sized paper pillows. With aching head, yet a little consoled withal, the rector stumbled upstairs to his weary pillow. If he used a thousand sheets for his letter it may be safely computed that one thousand and one was all that was required for the entire correspondence. Small was the paper and few the lines of Mrs. Barbara Temple's answer. "Dear Mr. Brent"?thus it ran?"I have received your letter of apology, and I cannot say that it is at all more than the occasion required. At the same time, as you are sensible of the impropriety of your behavior, I hope you will now forget it as 1 shall. Onestipulation only I make. The subject of marriage?or indeed, any allusion to what passed between us yesterday?must never be made. On these terms you are free to resume your intercourse with my daughters and myself. Trill v vnurs. BARBARA TEMPLE." - ??/ i "A handsome letter," Mr. Brent said. "I shall take her at her word," and after lunch he drove over to the house with a splendid present of fruit and flowers, and being received in the usual friendly way by mother and daughters, and his character, being a slight one, not permanently impressible, he half forgot the misery of his exit from the place yesterday. Only when he first spoke to Mrs. Temple there was a trepidation in his voice and manner; but she was so obviously determined to keep her promise that he gradually grew composed. Once only his courage quite failed him. Caroline, the student, was reading history, and with that slight affectation of intellectual pursuits, from which not even her mother's lectures could guard her, she tried to call the rector's attention to her lofty employment. The question she asked him was an unfortunate one. She was an ardent Liberal, and inquired, in a pause in the conversation, if he did not think that great good had arisen from the French revolution. The rector was so confounded by this inapposite interrogation that he nearly tumbled off his chair. The next day his thoughts were driven into another channel. At breakfast he got a letter from his son announcing his arrival in London, and saying that he would be in Ivettlewell at half-past four that afternoon. Amidst the vexation of the last two days, this was a prospect full of relief, and the young fellow was received with more than a paternal welcome. Before the dinner was over, between the influence of meat and wine and the society of his son, all acting on a trivial nature, easily moved, the rector was quite comforted. Now he could have faced Mrs. Barbara Temple with a jest and a look of ?iooconfrtr At. lonst sn ho fancied. Brent junior was a good-looking young fellow of three and twenty, with a frank, simple manner well suited to his years. Mentally he was much superior to his father, and every sentence showed it; but he behaved with a filial deference which was pleasant to see. All through the dinner there was a touch of preoccupation and even sadness about him, and upon this his father remarked as soon as they were alone. "I hope you have not left any one behind?" the father asked humorously. "No," the son answered, with a blush and a laugh. "You don't think me quite i simpleton in this matter, do you ?" "Well, Percy, you are young," the sage father replied. "At my time of life if a man fell in love with a picture, I think he would be a bit of an ass. But then I am forty-nine. I have age and experience, and knowledge of the world." "You are very kind to take it in that way," the son answered. "I really don't want to be laughed at." "Is this wonderlul picture in your possession?" Brent senior inquired next. "Yes," the young fellow answered eagerly ; and he was darting up stairs to fetch it. Pausing on his way, he said: "I had better tell you the storv of it first." -r-r 1 t? _3 - - -i. 1 Ann. irie maue no uau picture ihuisch, ic?ming carelessly against the sideboard, his lace and eyes kindling as he spoke with lelight of the subject. Little 3Ir. Brent regarded him with no small pride; and ihe young fellow, with a light bashfulness which made the little narrative the more interesting, told hisstory. "I met an artist out there, and he and I aecame greaf friends. He fell ill, and I nursed him, and when he was getting better, one day, to pass the time, he asked me :o look over his portfolio. There was a ?reat deal in it for which I cared nothing; but just at the end he drew out a little sketch of a girl?head and shoulders?with i border ot simple white dress, and, as I :hought, the loveliest face I ever saw. I was quite dumb as I looked at it, and there ind then, father, I fell in love; and I dedare to you I felt that even if this woman were only a painter's ideal, still, so had she captivated me, that I could never jive my heart to any living woman. The memory of this picture would possess me, and would hang, as it were, ibove the living face, and rebuke its imperfections. You are not laughing?" "I am forty-nine, Percy," the father said, with the calmness of wisdom. "You are twenty-four." ? "Well, I shall not trouble you with a story," the young fellow continued. "Luckily for me, my friend was lying on a couch, and did not perceive my agitation, or he might have laughed me out of the dream. I found the sketch represented a reallivinggirl?a real living girl, father!? unmarried, English, and, best of all, living not far from here. I asked for the picture, which he gave me readily. Curiously enough, he did not seem to see in it the superlative beauty which I saw. Oh, how I hung over that picture! How I idolized it! It was near me night and day, and at every glance my love for the original in creased, earner, tnat is tne woman i shall marry, if I ever marry at all!" "You must see what her character is, Percy," the father said. "And we must make a few inquiries about family?and property." "Her origin must be refined!" the lover cried. "Her character could be nothing but the noblest! As for property?property!?give me that girl, and I shall work hard enough to earn a world!" So saying, he ran up stairs, and in a mo- ^ ment returned, bearing the precious picture wrapped up in folds of silver paper. With trembling haste, but with more than womanly care, he put back one smooth sheet after another until the cardboard lay on the table face down; then, drawing a long breath he turned the picture up before his father. "There," he murmured, "let her plead her own cause." At the same instant his father uttered an exclamation of surprise. ' "Why, Percy," he said, this girl is a friend of mine." "A friend!" the lover cried rapturously. "An old friend," the rector answered. "Her mother is?ahem !?an old friend of mine?a very old friend, I may say. We are quite on intimate terms. The name of this young lady is Miss Sophia Temple!" [to be continued next week.]' HENRY M. STANLEY. It would take volumes to fittingly describe the life of Henry M. Stanley, the African explorer, whose book, "The Congo and its Free State," has appeared, and we will therefore simply touch on some of his most notable achievements with a brief mention of some of his literary works, that those who desire may go into the subject more fully. He was born, near Denbigh in, Wales, in 1840, and at 3 years of age was placed in the poor house of St. Asaph where he received an education which enabled him to teach in a school. At 15 he sailed as a cabin boy, in a vessel bound for New Orleans, and was there adopted by a merchant named Stanley, whose name he took instead of his own of John howlands. After the death of his patron, he enlisted in the Confederate service, but afterwards entered the Federal army. In 18G7 he was sent as a correspondent of the JV. Y. Herald to Abyssinia, and subsequently to Spain and other countries. His services as a correspondent were so excellent that he was chosen u? Tomoo rinrrlpn "Rpnnett, to find uy IT11, UaUJW V<V*VIVM ? Livingstone, and after innumerable hardships accomplished his purpose on the 28th of October, 1871. His success caused him to be sent by the Herald and London Telegraph on a mission of his own. He explored Lakes Albert and Victoria, N'Yanza and traced the Congo River from its source to its mouth. He describes his experiences in "Through the Dark Continent." Returning to Europe he was made a member of various geographical societies.x From 1879-72 he was engaged by the African International Society to develop the resources of the Congo, and despite the adverse action of M de Brazza did much to form the Congo Free State. His latest work, "The Congo and its Free State," describes the resources and character of the natives of that region and he predicts that an enormous trade will be developed. Mr. Stanley has been contemplating a visit to America for some time and has at last set sail for the United States to honor us with the long proposed visit. Slaves in* Western Australia.? The method of procuring these slaves is simple, but effective. The settler who desires the labor of a native man, woman or child, draws up a paper, in which the native is made to say that he offers himself for employment for a certain period. The * master signs this document, and the native makes his cross in presence of a policeman, and the thing is done. From that time the native is as really a slave as though his master owned him body and soul. He is generally ignorant of the contents of the paper which he has "signed," but it places him absolutely in the power of his master to do with him as he pleases during the term of the "assignment," and at its close he is frightened into signing again. Most of the natives thus assigned are kidnapped and brought in from the interior, and when once they have made the cross, whose significance they do not appreciate, they are held by the magistrates a subject to the Masters and Ser vants act of Great Britain, ana punisnea under its provisions if they run away, although that law was never intended to apply to barbarous people. Mr. Gribble relates many instances of the cruelties practiced on the Australian slaves, of the manner In which they are loaded with chains for trivial offences, and of the indignities which are heaped upon the women and girls. Most of the slaves are-used in working the pearl fisheries, and the punishmet for stealing pearls is in mauy cases instant death, the master acting asjudge, counsel and jury. In one day sixty of the unfortunates?men, women and children?were thus summarily ex- 4 ecuted and often the natives are shot for running away. Men make a regular business of-kidnapping the natives for assignment.?Neic York Times. When Man is Weakest.?According to the recent experiment of Dr. Buch with the Dynamoneter, a man is precisely at his weakest when he turns out of bed. .^r Our muscular force is greatly increased by hronkfw. hut it attains its hierhest point after the midday meal. It then sinks for a few hours, rises again toward evening, but steadily declines from night to morning. The two chief foes of muscular force, according to Dr. Buch, are overwork and idleness. Sweating at work deteriorates the muscles. We know that many of the great workers of the world, though not ail, have been early risers. But early rising, according to Buch's dootrine, ought always to be supplemented by early breakfasting.