Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ^n Jnkpeiiknf Jfamilj) Ifcfospaptr: ?m lj;t promotion of f|t political, jjorial, ^grirulfnral anb Commmiai Interests of % Soitfj). j TERMS?$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. ______ YORKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY. DECEMBER 15, 1886. 3STO. 5Q. ? ferial ftotg. BEAUTY'S SECRET. BY ALAN MUIR. CHAPTER VI. A SLEEPING WOMAN KISSING A PICTURE. And now, the field being clear for her operations, oar little Agamemnon in' petti' coats prepared for her part of the affair. She was fully determined to root out of her daughter's mind the memory of Percival Brent, and to marry Sophia brilliantly before many months were out No sooner had the young lover departed than she perceived how much she had furthered her own ends by her indulgence to her daughter these last few days, especially at the parting hour. Sophia was quite tender with her when they met kissed her, fondled her, and was all the evening so affectionate amid her hardly-repressed grief, that the little plotting woman began to discover a soft place in her own stony heart She was gentle with Sophia, and took no direct notice of the poor girl's tears, which would come once or twice during the evening, only, as she passed, stroked her head softly, intending to signify that she sympathized with her, which she really (lid. To-morrow she would turn over her new leaf. . "Sophy," she said at breakfast, 'It is ten years .this month since we were in Paris. I have a fancy to go over there before the weather gets too hot. Would you like it?" "Anywhere with you, dear," Sophy replied, cheerfully. She .was determined not to mope, and to begin early. "That's pleasant," the mother answered, with a beaming look. "We shall start this day week." Dreesee had to be ordered, hotels bad to be chosen, a hundred preparations had to be made, and Mrs. Temple saw with exultation that Sophia entered into all the plans with great spirit The mother read in this a sign alr-oadv Pn-rn'-cal wna fadinir out of mind. "I was sure be would," the little woman said to herself. "Of course he must as time goes on." They stayed a month in Paris, and the whole of the time she managed to keep Sophia entertained in the most diverting way. They had friends there, and the days were / passed in a set of choice little pleasures; and whatever that inexhaustible purse of Mrs. Temple's could do to burnish the hours was done with her own taste and tact, "I shall show 3ophia what the world is!" the world's worshiper said to herself; "add the Australian boy will soon vanish from her mind, and love in h cottage with him. Cottage, indeed! not if you can get a house; and not a house if you can get a mansion! O, it is wonderful how slow Sophia is to see the value of life! But she is beginning, and with her good sense she will soon be able to teach instead of being taught" And now, to Mrs. Temple's unspeakable gratification, there appeared on the scene a ' man who was plainly t.hinVing of making Sophia an offer. Had the little woman been choosing a suitor she could not?so she said afterward?have made a more promising selection. I must not say much about him. He was ten years Sophia's senior, sedate but not gloomy in his manner, his fortune was ample, his birth high, and his. appearance was considered prepossessing. * He had long been resident in the neighborhood of Kettlewell, but in Paris they were first introduced. He met the mother and daughter at dinner. Mrs. Barbara Temple, hearing of him before, had already wished inly that he might be struck with Sophia. She marked him as he walked into the room, and at sight of him her wishes redoubled. During dinner she watched him narrowly. For a time he did not seem to have even noticed Sophia, but at last he looked at her. The little mothor saw his gaze , arrested in pleasurable surprise, and for the rest of the evening he managed to look at the young girl as often as possible. The next day the stranger, whose name was Prendergast, made some excuse for calling upon them, and you may be sure he was graciously received. His conversation pleased Sophia, that was plain; and Mrs. 'Temple, watching him, saw in his manner that which delighted her beyond expression Next day a fresh invitation came from the friend at whose house they had first met?just a hasty party, the note said. "Aha," little Mrs. Temple said to herself, 4C* Veefw if 1 ruf tin of-. f-V?o infffiiTflfinn ftf Prendergast, I dare swear. Sherwood and he are such friends. If Prendergast does not take Sophia down to dinner, I am much mistaken." He did. And he proved a genial companion, with plenty of talk of the quietei sort He could interest cultivated women, being artistic and literary, without being a - pedant or a bore?that, at least, was his friends' opinion of him. "Don't you think Mr. Prendergast very entertaining?" the mother asked as they drove home. "Very," Sophia replied, emphatically. The little woman nearly skipped off her seat for triumph. During these early days Mrs. Temple could never quite make out whether or not Sophia perceived that this promising Mr. Prendergast was.'in love with her. In love he clearly was, but his manner was so unobtrusive, and his general conversation so lively, that even Sophia might not have detected what wa. plain to the watching eyes of her mother. I was a nice point for Mrs. Temple to settle. Sophia evidently enjoyed their new friend'? society, and as she was no coquette?not at much as she ought to be, her mother used ta say?she must either have forgotten one lover or not recognized the other. Which was th? fact Mrs. Temple longed to know. Sometimes she thought Sophia was in reality preoccupied, and only assumed a vivacity to cover her want of interest At other times, and more frequently, Mrs. Temple felt con vinced that she was truly pleased with Prendergast, and would, after a decent interval, confess her "satisfaction. At last an evening came when Prendergast, calling in upon the Temples, found the mother and daughter at home, and, after a ittle conversation, music happened to be mentioned, at which Mrs. Barbara made the most casual remark about Sophia having sung a particular song the night before. Prendergast asked if he might hear it, and Sophia, consenting, with a listless air sat down to the piano and sang. Prendergast praised the song, asked for another and another, and Sophia complied in the same list less way. She sang well, but her eyes had a kind of far-off look, very suggestive of Australia. The little mother, however, could not see Sophia's face; Prendergast's she saw, and it told her a great deal. At last Sophia began, "Oft in the Stilly Night," and now (no doubt because the theme touched her) she sang with great expression and tenderness, and her admirer stood over her, radiant with love and admiration. "O, that I could see her!" murmured Mrs. Barbara. She scanned Sophia eagerly when the song was finished, but her expression said neither "yes" nor "no." Shortly after, iknm nrA/vl nirrKf. nn?l pa. rrcuuci^tui/ urn uivui 6wx? wivi .w strained, as his manner usually was, he now, either through accident or with design, let Sophia know the state of his heart Mrs. Barbara Temple saw a flush come out on her daughter's pale face as she withdrew her hand from his. "Now we shall see," thought the little woman. "Very prettily he managed it, too? I observed nothing." She resolved not to ask Sophia any question until next morning;' but after she had retired a little while, curiosity got the better of her, and in her dainty dressing gown she crossed over to her daughter's room, and tapping gently at the door stepped in. She saw?not what she expected. Sophia was not at her glass, nor chatting to her maid, nor gone to sleep. The poor girl was at her prayers, and had not heard her mother enter. The little woman stood a moment irresolute, then vanished from the room with a kind of hop; she scarcely liked the prospect of confronting the serious face which she knew wouia rise to greet oer irum those uplifted hands. "I shall go to bed," she said, when she regained her own room, "and I shall talk to Sophia in the morning." She sat down, however, and fell into a muse, and a look of unwonted gravity ruled her face and features for a time. Probably she was recalling past scenes; for two or three times she shook her head with a kind of reflective sadness, until she was rousea by the second chime which had sounded since she last sat down. * "I wonder if Soph}' is up now?" she murmured. She can't be at that so long." And changing her mind she again stepped over, and, finding the door ajar as she left it, sue entered the room once more. The lamp was still burning, but Sophia was in bed, ana, her silence indicated, sleeping. The mother walked softly across and looked at her daughter. She was fast asleep. The night was warm, and she had thrown back the quilt a little, and her arm, her brown hair, and a glimpse of her white and innocent breast, together with the repose of her expression, made up a picture which many an artist would have given a year's income to paint She looked the very image of purity and peace, and even little Mrs. Barbara, who was shot-proof against most forms of emotion, felt moisture stealing into her ayes as she gazed. She bent a little down, and then she saw that the face, now so calm, had been traversed by recent tears. Yes, Sophia had been crying since she lay down, and she had fallen asleep with wetted cheeks. Something in her hand caught the mother's eye, and she looked closer stilL Her hand was beside her face, and the little article she held was placed so that--her sleeping lips just touched it. With great caution and stillness, Mrs. Barbara Temple lowered her eyes, and, stoooine and stretching, she managed to see what her daughter was holding. It was a miniature of Percival Brent BOOK FOUB. LADY BEAUTY'S CHOICE CHAPTER L "THE SPIDER AND THE FLY." [In one of the passages of his narrative, Ay old friend, when speaking of "Prendergast," uttered the pronoun "I." As this escaped his lips, he tried to catch back his word, and reddened a little. The secret was out, of course; but seeing his confusion, I affected not to have noticed anything. This artifice, however, did not deceive him, and heiminediately told me that he wets himself the Prendergast of the story, and an old lover of Sophia Temple. I have thought it well to inform my reader of this fact; but, for convenience of narration, I shall continue to describe "Prendergast" as he originally appeared in the tale. To introduce him afresh, speaking in the first person singular, would, I find, embarrass both writer and reader.] Greatly was Mrs. Barbara Temple disappointed when the day came for leaving Paris, and still Prendergast had made no further sign. What could it mean? He was the last man in the world to play the coquette masculine; and it was plain that he had assumed the flirtation posture toward Sophia in his sober sort of way. WThy advance so far, and then stapd still? Mrs. Barbara Temple pondered. : Then cries she to herself: "I have hit it!" Her explanation was this: Sophia had quietly signified to Prendergast, by one of those tokens with which love's intercourse abounds, that she loved him not And he, retiring, and even aixnuenc, naa tanen me hint submissively. "Very provoking of Sophy!" the little woman said. "Very provoking, indeed! If it would do any good I should lose my temper with her. But it would not do good?not yet Prendergast was just the man for her. I am angry; but I will keep my temper." And she had her reward- To her great joy, no sooner had they returned to Kettle well than Prendergast appeared on the scene again, and his attitude toward Sophia had not shifted by a hair's breadth. Evidently, then, Sophia had not repulsed him after all. "How fortunate I did not get into a passion!" the ruler of her spirit remarked to herself. "It is a good maxim: Never be really angry; dont even seem to be angry often. I should have had Sophy crying, and set her against Prendergast for life, and all on account of my own hasty judgment." Prendergast's coming to Kettle well was in a marked way. He did not stay with anybody, but put up at the hotel; find, when he called on the Temples, he said that he had run over for a few days, in the hope of increasing the pleasant acquaintance with themselves. ' Mrs. Barbara Temple beamed onr him one of her brightest looks. "You speak of your pleasure in renewing the acquaintance," she said. "You say nothing about ours. I can never forget all your attention to us in Paris. And what a pleasant time that was!" "Part of my visit to Paris," he remarked significantly, "I enjoyed more than anything in my life." MR. PRENDERGAST. He spoke quietly; and Mrs. Temple, glancing at her daughter, saw her bend over her little morsel of lacework with a crimson cheek. "She knows now, at all events," the mother said triumphantly. And when Prendergast took his leave, Mrs. Temple resolved fairly to open her mind to Sophia. "I have never, Sophy," she began, "never in my life seen a man who more takes my fancy." The door was hai-dly shut upon him. "At first I thought him rather dull and, well?sanctified." Here our little vivacious sinner made the smallest and genteelest face of sco^n. "But that soon wears off; and I declare that, in spite of my first impression, I find him the most truly lively, entertaining, accomplished man I have ever met. What do you think, Sophy?" "He is very agreeable,'' Sophia said seriously. "Polite without affectation, witty without coarseness, serious without cant," Mrs. Temple went on, in true Eighteenth century high style. "He is a specimen of moderation in all things; and moderation, Sophia, next to repose of manner, is the great mark of a gentleman. A gentleman should be a little of everything, and not too much of anything. Have you ever met so accomplished a man?" "Yes," Sophia replied, dexterously affecting not to hear the last part of her mother's speech, "he is all you say. 1 like him greatly." "I am going to ask him to dinner," Mrs. Temple said. "What, mamma!" exclaimed Sophia. "Company so soon! Wait a little." "Not company, child," the mother answered. "All alone. He will like it better than a party." "And spoil one of our little snug evenings," Sophia murmured. "Don't, mamma." "Now what is there in our evenings you so enjoy, Sophia?" "Oh," that dear hypocrite answered, "I enjoy the quiet?and?and our music?and? and your talk, mamma, and all your funny, lively stories. You are the best comp&ny in the world!" She put her hands caressingly round her mother's neck, and the mother, who always showed herself pleased with every mark of affection from her daughters, drew one round white arm along her lips, giving it a succession of tiny kisses. "Poor Prendergast will find it terribly dull at the hotel, Sophy. Really, it would be quite barbarous to leave him there alone." "Well, if you must have him, mamma, have some people to meet him." "I don't think he would care for that" "If he wants society, it is just what he would care for mamma." "But he does not want society," the mother replied; "only a little friendly chat and music. Yes," she added, resolved to carry her point at once, "I shall sit down and write a note to him this moment." The note was sent that evening, but no answer came. Mrs. Temple began to think she nmst be altogether out in her surmises. But at twelve o'clock next morning, when Sophia was walking in the town, the name of Mr. Prendergast was announced, and he stepped into the room with an apology for the early call on his lips, and yet with an air which plainly said: "My business is my excuse." Mrs. Barbara Temple assured her visitor that his call was not inopportune. "In fact," she said, with one of her engaging laughs, "I am famished for a little scandal. Scandal, if you please!" "My call," Prendergast remarked quietly, "is not of that character. The fact is," he continued, opening his business at once, "I have been greatly struck by your daughter, I wish to use no flattering language, but 1 assure you that never, never have I se n anj young lady who seemed to possess half hoi attractions. She is a lovely girl!" He stopped, and a slight moisture in hu eyes signified that he was speaking from hi heart Mrs. Temple made a graceful incliua tion of her head. "It is always agreeable to a motner to hcai her daughter praised," she said. "You kav< not overrated Sophia, as I, who have watche.'; her from her cradle, can tell you." "I came to see you this morning partly or your account," Prendergast continued. "1 know the responsibilities and anxieties of e mother, left in solo charge of so attractive e girl. I do not wish to add to them, and the least intimation of disapproval of my suit or your part will be sufficient to make me abandon it at once, and finally." Possibly this grave gentleman, having eyes in his .head, may have known that the little mother was dying to call him son-in-law and this noble speech may have had a trace Of hum Dug Ul II. DUt .lurs. utu uaia icyoi enced this sort of humbug. It was mon spicy than reality. She would not hav< liked Prendergast for really meaning all this civil consideration; but for pretending tc mean it, and for uttering the pretense witt an air so perfectly pharisaic, she could hav* kissed him there and then. So, Pharisee feminine against Pharisee masculine, she looked at him with a small and pensive sigh. "How few men show such consideration." "I came also," said he, "on my own account If Mi*s Temple is engaged, or if she is not likely to look with favor upon me, 1 had rather know it At least you might perhaps give me your?your?advice." Mr*. Temple liked him better than ever. ' Sly fellow." she said to herself. "If h< dances as neatly as he plays demure he musl make a good figure at a ball." Aloud she remarked: "In these matters I always like to speal with the greatest possible frankness. Wean not driving a bargain across a counter. Your offer is to me, so far as I know you al present," the defenseless woman inserted thii attorney clause with the sweetest smile "most gratifying. I believe you would trj to make Sophia happy, and would succeed.' It was Prendergast's turn to incline his head now, and he did it "As to Sophia," continued the mother joining the tips of her fingers in a pondering sort of way, "that is a much more intricate matter." "She is not engaged, is she?" the suitoi cried hastily. . "She is not. She is perfectly unfettered. But there has been a sort of attachment; hei affections have been " "I understand," Prendergast said with a grave face. "You wish to break it gently t< me. I can assure you I should never try it the remotest way to take from another mar affections I should so treasure if they were my own." He was speaking his real mind now, anc Mrs. Temple looked at him, hovering betweer admiration and amusement She had lived in a world of honor, but not quite honor ol this sort; however, she nlw-s made her bow to virtue when it was well dressed and expressed itself genteelly. "A most high-minded feeling," she said, "Just as I should feel myself. But in th( present case such scruples would be out ol place. This is only a boy and a girl affair there is no money, no prospect, no hope. 3 have said myself?kindly, but firmly?that e marriage, or even an engagement, is out ol the question." "And you do not think Miss Temple's hearl irrevocably given away?" It was a lesson in posture and grimace tc see the little worldling's pantomimic answer. She disjoined the finger tips, and her white hands with upward palm, her gently raised eyebrows, her shoulders quivering with a scarcely perceptible shrug, her quick significant smile, were each members of an unbroken sentence. The meaning was, "The female heart?our heart?is seldom given irrevocably. Try for yourself." It was perfectly Parisian. "In that case," Prendergast said, reading her like print and with rising spirits, "I am full of hope." "You ntay be," 6he answered; "but still my daughter is not an ordinary girl. Then must be gi-eat care. Every step must be taken with thought, and with an end in view. In a word, Mr. Prendergast, I think you had better be guided by me from first to last.' "I shall most thankfully," he said; and | tnen ne composed mmseu u> jisu.'h iu ui& munr | tress. CHAPTER II. j "HONOR YOUR PARENT" AND "SERVE YOUR SELF." Mrs. Barbara Temple was in her glory, For a less complicated or a mora immediately hopeful undertaking she would scarcely have cared. Sophia, she well knew, was not ar easy woman to turn, and sti 1 less was she easy to beguile. Percival Brent had really taken the girl's fancy. He was more prepossessing, with his youth and his generoui ways, than this grave, rerious stranger, verg ing on middle life. Ard the mother hac found by experience that affection witl Sophia was not mere wbim or fancy, mucl less self-interest or passion. Its roots struci deep. For Mrs. Temple's present purpose the mere vulgar bril?es of wealth and ease wen not enough; all kinds of motives must be en gaged, auxiliaries from innumerable quarters must be united; the campaign mast be care fully planned, the advance made neither toe early nor too late, just at the moment ol fate; and then the kingdom of Sophia's hearl would be won. But all this only kindlec; Mrs. Barbara Temple into excitement Mar rying Car and Sibyl had been child's play here was a game for a mistress. She felt the same exultation which a chess player feels who, long used to engage with adversaries tc whom he can give a castle and win easily, sits at last facing an enemy who would wir if he got a pawn or a move. "Everything "must be done at the righl tune," she said. "Everything must be done in the right way. Whom can I trust foi that? Whom? Nobody except myself!" First of all she talked to Prendergast her self. Mingling a certain deference for hii opinion with unconcealed reliance on her own she told him that for the present he had bet ter not make any advances to Sophia. "Rather the opposite," she said. "Seem t< retreat Sophia has already noticed you] liking for her. Now, if you withdraw for ? while, you will puzzle her. She will say 'Did he admire me alter all, or not? Has he on coming to know me better, found me less attractive?1 You will excite her curiosity which, let me tell you, is a great thing for i lover to do. Besides, although Sophia ma] not care for you, having once secured youi admiration, she will not like to lose it N< woman wishes that a man who once admirec her should cease to admire her. She ma] not care for him?she may even have ai aversion to hhn?but she likes him to can for her. And, I say, if Sophia finds thatyoi grow cooler, she will wonder, question witl liovc-olf fool n Utt.lfl "nimipfl * niul thpn. i you turn round again and confess her ]K>wei ?well?well?she will be rather more dis posed to give you some slight encouragement Am I letting you into too many of oui secrets, Mr. Prendergastt" "With j our knowledge of the heart," hi answered, "I could have vanquished Cleo patra." Sh bowed, but scarcely took time to tasti the flavor of the compliment. No sooner wa luncheon over than, making some excuse foi dropping Sophia at a friend's house at one en< of the town, she drove out to see Sybil, the firs ally whose co-operation she meant to secure Sibyl was alone in her drawing room, an< certainly all around were abundant signs o the magnitude of the price she* had fetchec in the matrimonial exchange. She lookec very handsome, quite superb, Mrs. Tempi thought, as she rose to meet her mother Bu there was discontent in her face. "Sibyl, dear," the mother said, "your tast is nothing short of perfect. This drawinj room grows lovelier every day. Where die you pick up that little picture?" "In Boncl street," she answered, listlesslj'. "You paid a price for it, I can guess?" "I know nothing about prices," Sibyl an swered haughtily. "And never need," replied her mother quicklj'. "Happy girl!" Sibyl made no answer. "I have come, dear," her mother now said "to ask j-our assistance in a very delicat matter. Prendergast wants to maiTy Sc phia." "Sophia will not marry at present," Siby remai kefl. "Not unless we are very judicious. Bu with management she will. Prendergast is i man after her own heart, just the sort o man she would have fallen in love with i [ this ridiculous affair with Mr. Brent's son did not stop the way. Now Sophia must not pass , this offer by. I am determined she shall j not Prendergast is very rich, and he is willing to settle down here." "And what of that?" Sibyl asked. "What of that? Why, here you three girls will be in the one neighborhood, and that a pleasant one. Each will have a handsome establishment; and think how you will be able to put yourselves at the head of everything. You will soon be the leaders of the county; with your looks and your cleverness and your taste you ought to be. Yon can have your London houses, you and Sophia immediately, and Car when those old people die. You can have your trips to the continent, your entertainments at home?0, Sibyl, why had I never such a choice when I i was your age? How I should have enjoyed the world!" "You did enjoy it, mamma." < ".now, oiDyi," me mouier went uu, nut > noticing this remark, "there is one thing which I wish you to impress upon Sophia; > that is the comfort of riches. You can sp< ak > from experience; tell her how fine a thing i wealth is. Impress it upon her. You might > even say, foryou'know Sophy's turn of mind, i that you find yourself able to do much good > j ?to help the poor?charitable work? ? j churches?anything can be done with money. > That is my special charge to you, Sibyl; the next time you and Sophy meet tell her something of your experience of riches. Now where is Archibald ?" ? "He went into the library after lunch," Sibyl said rather sulkily. "He wanted to read The Times." Two minutes later Mrs. Barbara Temple was confronting her son-in-law Goldmore, > who, with his newspaper laid across his S knee, waited to hear what it was of which her shrewd face was full. "Sophia has had an offer?at least it has t been made to me?from Mr. Prendergast" > Goldmore bowed his head in a way which signified approval of Mr. Prendergast. Then i he said: ?- "It would have been a good connection if " ' "If what?" ' "If Sophia had not fallen in love with ? Brent" "Now, my dear Archibald," cried Mrs. i Temple, slapping her hands together slightly ; in her vexation, "surely you know better > than that Sophia has not given her heart away; it is a girlish whim, and we might safely leave it to cure itself; only time | presses. Sophia must rnarry Prendergast I should die of chagrin if I saw another woman's daughter get him now. In this matter you can help me. You have weight and digl nity, and you speak in a commanding way. ) Now, I want you to press this marriage upon i Sophia, from the point of obedience, duty i and prudence. You can tell her how much i my heart is fixed upon it; and you might say something about the blessing attached to 1 | those who obey the fifth commandment" i I Here our little mother coughed slightly, blessl , ing being rather a foreign expression to her 1 j organs of speech. "Sophia is a serious girl, ' i and will think of that." I "Put Mrs Tpmnle." Goldmore renlied. "I fcardly like to use such nn argument with Soj phia. From what I have seen of her, I > should not for a moment doubt that her con scientiousness is much greater than my own; ; and it seems rather hypocritical, and even op[ pressive, to urge upon the girl an obligation t for which, as a matter of fact, she has a J greater regard than I should have had myj self. Besides, if she really loves this young i ' fellow " | "A lad without a sixpence, and without a ? prospect! 0, Archibald, you are not giving your mind to the subject! Tell me now"?the i little woman faced him like some warrior of 1' argument?"ought not both men and women i. to regulate their lives with an eye to prudence, common sense and the main chance?" Poor Goldmore! Prudence, common sensp, ) and an eye to the main chance had been his laws of life; prudence, common sense, and an eye to the main chance bad made him a two 'hundred and fifty thousand pound man. His [ own deities were before him, and he must do i , them reverence. I "You are a wise woman," he said; "I will I do as you desire. I will talk over the matter s with Sophia." ? "Now," Mrs. Barbara Temple said, as her trim little chestnuts whisked her along to the i residence of Egerton Doolittle, "I have se1 cured,Sibyl and her husband." I ; She checked off two fingers. "I want thfee more. I shall get them; and i then, Sophy, dear, I think your future will I be safe; and in years to come you will thank your poor old worldly mother!" CHAPTER in. , ; EGERTON DOOLITTLE GIVES HIS VOICE FOR ' j SEVERE MEASURES. ! 1 When Mrs. Barbara Temple was ushered 1 into Cai-oline's drawing room, she caught * sight of the young husband and wife sitting r ' side by side on a sofa. Her coming was evi* dently unexpected, and Egerton, ejaculating } j "My gracious!" dashed out into a conservatory adjoining the drawing room, while I Caroline, composing herself, met her mother l i with just the smallest signs of momentary con1 ; fusion. The little woman glanced at two * love birds perched side by side in a cage > which hung: over the conservatory threshold, > and then she retailed Sibyl, sitting in her lonely splendor. ' "For some things," our little Filpay remarked privately, "for some things a young > fool is better than an old sage. But these are t only the etceteras of life; Sibyl has secured t the grand thing, after all, and more of it 1 than Car. Life is pretty equal." "Caroline, my dear girl," she said after a ; few casual w ords, "I have come this morning i to consult you on a matter of the greatest ims portance. I know your good sense, and the ) energy with which you can act when you have decided what is right to be done. If it i was not for you, Caroline, and your tact and judgment I should be in despair." t ; With this insinuating preface she told the > ; story of Prendergast's proposal; and after (xpanding in the most glowing style in praises of his person, character and estate, she turned i to the dismal topic of Sophia's infatuation for > i that penniless Australian boy. , l "For this whim, this caprice, this idea, - , which is not worthy to be called an idea, she | will actually sacrifice a man who is not only ) a man of family and fortune, but whose character is of the very pattern she most professes i to admire. I protest, Caroline, it will drive , : me wild." . | "It certainly is unfortunate," Car said, s "And unless you co-operate with me, work , with me, and work hard and wisely, too, i Sophia will lose the best chance in life she r ever t an have. I can do nothing without r your assistance, dear." ) "I shall do all in my power, mamma," Carl oline replied; "but you must tell me what T you wish." l "It was on my tongue, dear girl. You s must have a conversation with Sophia?let it l seem accidental?and say you have heard l about Prendergast. Praise him a little; but f that is not your particular point. Set before r Sophy my delight at the idea of the marriage; the happiness it will give me; how miserable I shall be if it goes off. Sophia is r an affectionate girl, and I believe would do a very great deal simply to show her love a to me. Now, you mast put before her strongly my feelings and hopes; for, indeed, dear, if Prendergast does not marry her I a shall die of vexation. Now go over and over s this matter with Sophia. You know, Car, r she is not like you?clear-headed, of sound l judgment, seeing wnat is rigut at a glance, t and firm to carry out her ideas. She is soft, yielding, tender-hearted. If I were you I 1 should coax her a little, kiss her, he tender f vith her; all that will tell with Sophia. Now i I know, my love, I have given you a dif1 fieult task to perform, and nothing but b my knowledge of your tact would have t encouraged rue to ask you to undertake it. But you will do it, and do it well. 0 Sophia will marry Prendergrast, and the y ! praise of the affair will be yours." J ! The little mother had not said one syllable about Car's cleverness which was j unmerited ; but however astute that ! young lady might he, she was like an osier wand in the skilled hands of her " mother. With wonderful enthusiasm j Car took up the scheme, and not less w mderful was the simple obedience with . which she resolved to follow out the dij rections that were given her. Iudepend|, ent aVid inventive as she was in herself, e she yet learned her mother's words by h heart as faithfully as if she bad been getting up a scene in a play. Khe did not j insert a word of her own ; and the more j she showed her readiness to follow her . 1 mother's infractions implicitly, the more did that unrivaled student of human na* turo laud her quickness, her resources, * her capacity for maneuver and benevtt . lent stratagem. Presently Egerton looked in from the conservatory giggling and blushing. ' 'I have heard all you have been saying to Carry," he said. "Twasn't listening, I hope. Could't help it if it was, the other door being locked. O, Mrs. Temple, do you know I really think you must be a clever woman ; i really ttiink you must be. You seem to know everything and to manage everybody. I quite agree with you about instilling things intoSophia's mind. Impress upon her"? here Egerton teapottod himself and with outstretched hand began fluently?"impress upon her the tremendous importance ot' marriage. Tell her that marrinorpv la Mi? anrt nf t hiiic t hnt must t>o dnnn v"* - pi - w..v, you know. You ran assure her from me that it is tremendously important. And you can tell her that my experience is that it isn't so much matter whom you marry as the thing itself. Do that, and the rest will follow. Of course I was not speaking of myself quite, you know, not altogether; for Carry is such a tremendously nice girl that I don't hardly know" that I could have found another wife who would have made me so happy?at least, not without a great deal of trouble, you know. But I mean you are to impress on Sophia that, in a general way-, it does not much mattor whom you marry. And then, if she won't see itwell, I scarcely know what to advise." The stream now became intermittent, and Egerton began to show symptoms of wandering in his mind. "I was reading some book lately about a girl that would not marry somebody ; and what her parents did was, they shut her up in some tower somewere, and kept her on bread and water. But you see you have no tower at the Beeches. Still, you might try the bread and water. It is wonderful what diet does." , Off flew our elderly little Venus once more, charioted hither and thither on the errands and the mischief of love. She knitted her brows, she made her little glove finger tips meet, she set a reflective mouth, and thus she conned over the state of her plans. "Sibyl is to place before her the comforts and the advantages of wealth; Sibyl will do it well. Archibald Goldmore is to press duty upon her and take her on the ground of the fifth commandment. I can see him now?slow, solemn, parsonic. 0, if I had time to laugh over it, I should. And Caroline will work on her feelings; that will come best from Car, who has not much feeling of her own, because Sophia will reason: 'Well, if Car thinks so, there must be something in it.' Interest, obedience, affection. Yet, it is not bad. And there is more to come. Sophia, I shall marry you, without a tower, or bread and water, either! Simply by tact, dear?by tact." [to he continued next week.] RICHARD A. ARNOLD. It looks very much as if the Washington Police Department would have to be thoroughly re-organized, or else become an object of so much resentment on the part of Congressmen, as to make it difficult to secure decent consideration from that body. Major Walker, the Superintendent of Police, has instucted his Lieutenants to watch the movements of Congressmen, and Major Walker himself has promptly preferred charges before theJ)istrict Commissioners of "conduct unbecoming an officer" against Lieutenant Richard A. Arnold. The trial of several charges were begun in November, 1880, and there is'consequently no little stir among political circles at Washington. Numerous witnesses were called upon to testify and Lieutenant Arnold set the report, about the proposed surveillance of Congressmen, in motion, but it is assumed that there will be no attempt made to disprove any of the testimony so far given. A statement made by Major Walker has apologized for circulating the report, and had asked to be reduced to tne ranns, is regarueu as damaging, but the general opinion seemsto be that the Lieutenants were given to understand that there was to be watching and reports, and that some sort of control over Congress was to be exercised in that way. Should the - trial Board consider it wise to whitewash the Superintendent and punish Lieutenant Richard Arnold, it is not probable that this course will prevents Congressional investigation or a general re-organization of the police depatment. TUB EATERS OF OLIVES. The extent to which the olive is used varies greatly in different countries. In northern countries it is used chiefly as a relish eaten by itself, or as a sauce, seasoning or stuffing for meats, fowls or game. It is on the tables of the rich what the French call a hors dVeuvre?that is, a side dish or table superfluity. But it is far otherwise with the poor in the south of Europe to whom it is an important article of diet. In ancient times the poor made an entire meal of bread and olives. It is still the same in some parts of Europe, where a peasant thinks himself prepared for a journey with a piece of bread under his arm and a handful of olives in his pocket. In southern Italy no meal is made without olives. The olive merchants pass regularly at supper time through the poorer quarters of the city. It is the Spanish habit to eat olives at the end of a meal, but not too many. Three or four are usually thought enough, or if they are very good one may eat a dozen. An Italian author recommends the preserving of Spanish olives?that is, of those grown on Italian soil?but prefers those called St. Francis, which is common at Ascoli, where it attains the size of a walnut. It is, however, generally ageed among gourments that the smaller olives are best for eating. The manner of treatment has, nevertheless, perhaps something to do with the coarse quality of the Spanish olive when found in the peninsula. Olives are preserved in Italy, as elsewhere, in weak lye or brine. They are also bruised, stuffed in the Bordeaux manner or dried. In eastern countries, wnence trie olive came, the fruit forms still an important article of diet. A traveler relates that he found delicious a meal of eggs, olives and grapes offered, him by the monks of the monastery of Mount Libanus. It is traditional in theCatholic church that the monks living in the desert fed principally on olives. Throughout Turkey, Asia Minor, Greece and other countries about the Mediterranean the olive has remained, as in most ancient times, a substantial article of food | and a necessary means of existence to the toiling millions.?Cor. Mm I I Miscellaneous grading. | BILL NYE AT THE PLAY. Last evening I went to hear Mr. Edwin . Booth in "Hamlet." I had read the play before, but it was better as he gave it, I think. The play of "Hamlet" is not , catchy, and there is a noticeable lack of local gags in it. There is considerable dis- , cussion among critics as to whether Ham- , let was really insane or not, but I think that he assumed it in order to throw the ; prosecution off the track, for he was a ' very smart man, and when his uncle tried to work off some of his Danish prevarications on him I fully expected him to , pull a card out of his pocket and present ( it to his royal tallness, on which might be j seen the legend, j * * j i I AM SOMETHING OF A LIAR MYSELF!! 1 * * ! But I am glad he did not, for it would have seemed out of character in a play like that. ; Mr. Booth wore a dark waterproof cloak all the evening, and a sword with which he frequently killed people. He was dress- | ed in black throughout, with hair of the | same shade. He is using the same hair j in "Hamlet" that he did twenty years ' ago though he uses less of it. He wears black knickerbockeis and long, black, ( clock less stockings. Mr. Booth is doing well in the acting business, frequently getting as high as $2 , apiece for tickets to his performances. He ' was encored by the audience several times last night, but refrained from repeating the play, fearing that it would make it late for those who had to go back to Belladonna, 0., after the close of the entertainment. Toward the end of the play a little rough ! on rats gets into the elderberry wine and , the royal family drink it, after which , there is considerable excitement, and a ; man with a good, reliable stomach pump, | would have all he could do. Several of the royal family curl up and perish. They do not die in the house. During an interview between Hamlet ; and his mother an old gentleman who has ! the honor to be Ophelia's father hides behind a picket fence, so as to overhear the conversation. He gets excited and says something in a low, guttural tone of voice, whereupon Hamlet runs his sword ' through the picket fence in such a way , as to borea large hole into the old man, ; who then dies. I have heard a great many people speak the piece beginning: To be or not to be, but Mr. Booth does it better than any one I have ever heard. I once heard an elocutionist?kind of a smart Alickutionist, as my friend the Hoosier Poet would say. This man recited "To be or not to be" 1 in a manner which, he said, had frequently brought tears to eyes unused to weep. 1 He recited it with his right hand socked into his bosom up to the elbow and his I fair hair tossed about over his brow. His teeming brain, which claimed to be a kind 1 of a four-horse teaming brain as it were, seemed to be on fire, mid to all appearances he was indeed mad. So were the people who listened to him. He hissed it through his clinched teeth and snorted it through his ripe, red nose, wailed it up into the ceiling, and bleated it down the aisles, rolled iloveragainst the rafters of his reverberating mouth, handed it out in big capsules, or hissed it through his puckered atomizer of a mouth, wailed and bellowed like a wild and maddened tailless steer in fly time, darted across the stage like a headless hen, ripped the gentle atmosphere into shreds with his guinea hen voluntary, and bowed to us and teetered off the stage. Mr. Booth does not hoist his shoulders and settle back on his "pastern jints" like a man who is about to set a refractory brake on a coal car, neither does he immerse his right arm in his bosom up to the second joint. He seems to have the idea that Hamlet spoke these lines mostly because he felt like saying something, instead of doi ng i t to i ntrod uce.a setof healthlift gestures and a hoarse, baritone snort. A head of dank hair, a low, mellow, union depot tone of voice, and a dark blue, three-sheet poster; will not make a successful Hamlet, and blessed be the man who knows this without experimenting on the people till he has bunions on his immortal soul. IN A DEAD MAN'S POCKET. Stephen Allen Price was a man who was liked and looked up to by all who knew him. He was honest, kind and true, a warm friend and a good neighbor. The boys and girls all liked him because ho novor forcrot. thnf ho hud hppn votinir . once himself. He was never stiff and cross and bossy with them, but was their good friend. He became rich, was made mayor of New York city, and lived to be very old. He lost his life in a steamboat disaster. Those who found his dead body found a scrap of printed paper in his pocketbook. It was so worn with oft reading that they could scarcely make out the words, but this is what was upon the paper: Keep good company or none. Never be idle. If your hands cannot be usefully employed attend to the cultivation of your mind. Always speak the truth. Make few promises. Live up to your engagements. Keep your own secrets, if you have any. When you speak to a person, look him in the face. Good company and good conversation are the very sinews of virtue. Good character is above all things else. Your character cannot be essentially injured except by your own acts. If any one speaks evil of you, let your life be so that none will believe him. Drink no kind of intoxicating liquors. Ever liye (misfortune excepted) within yur income. When you retire to bed, think over what you have been doing during the day. Make no haste to be rich, if you would prosper. Small and steady gainsgive competency with tranquility of mind. Never play at any game of chance. Avoid temptation through fear you may not withstand it. Earn money before you spend it. Never run into debt, unless you see plainly your way to get out again. Never borrow, if you can possibly avoid doing so. I)o not marry until you are able to support a wife. Never speak eyil of any one. Be just before you are generous. Keep yourself innocent if you would be happy- _ , save wnen are young to spenu wnen you are old. Ilead over the above maxims, at least, once a week. 1 AN ALASKA FOREST. Wandering around near a camp I was < struck with astonishment at the great size of the trees of the forest into which we 1 had crept. Within twenty feet of our \ camp-fire were two trees, one of which measured twelve feet, seven inches and c the other seventeen feet in circumference ( at the height of a person's arm from the t ground. The latter had its thick, shaggy i bark stripped off nearly to the ground, { being a dead tree, and thus losing much i in its measurement. About thirty yards from camp was a tree that gave twenty- s one feet in circumference at about six feet from the ground. The most astonishing part was that such a forest should be c found actually surrounded by ice ten to twenty miles across in every direction, c Of course it is reasonable to suppose that c trees were here before the ice, and that this forest probably once connected with the forests of the great flat lands. Here was undoubted evidence that this small forest was being obliterated rapidly by the advancing front of the Guyot glacier, the foot-ice grinding the huge trees into pulp and splinters as surely as a quartzcrusher grinds the rock into powder, rrees five and six feet through were bent :>verand splintered as if they were brush, while some of the fallen trunks were split longitudinally into perfect kindling-wood. It was the mills of the gods grinding slowly, etc. Nor were they grinding so very slowly, either, as one could see by comparing them with other glacial action near by. But a little way off, probably a half-mile to a mile away, was a small clump of woods, into which the glacier in the past had protruded, as shown by the fallen shattered trunks that lay near the edge of a small moraine, from which the glacier had now retreated a great number of rods. Out from the bristling line of shattered tree trunks piled over each other for nearly or fully a hundred yards all the spruce trees were dead but still standing, their whitened trunks and long, gaunt limbs contrasting strangely and conspicuously with the trees still covered with foliage that formed their background. These dead evergreens had been actually killed by the proximity of the ice without its touching them, and either by its chilling influence, kept ujj throughout the year for probably centuries, or the constant application of the ice-water about their roots preventing their growth, for along this loot-ice there was always a marshy stream of ice-water draining off to the nearest muddy creek or rill. This was true of the glacier foot not over fifty yards from our camp in the forest, for here we cht nnr water for onnkintr nnrnnses. but here, also, the ice of the glacier had evidently come forward so fast that the trees were rather killed by thedirect crushing of their trunks and limbsthan by the 3lower one of the influence of great masses of ice near by, and it was possible to sit clown on this foot-ice of the Guyot glacier, probably ten to twenty feet thick at that point and at the same time be under the shade of a huge evergreen tree, if a person desired two such cooling influences at the same time. Thus I came to the conclusion that the front of this great glacier was like the fingers of some huge radiati nganimal prolongi ng themselves outward and retracting again at long intervals, that would require many human lives, one after the o her, to measure a single stride and its backward flow.?FrederickSchwatkci, in N. Y. Times. THE IRISH*ALPHABET. Our alphabet came to us from the Irish missionaries and professors of religion and wisdom, who taught Christianity to the heathen Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, Germans, Danes, and Swedes, several centuries after the death of our Lord. Instead of using the Latin names for the letters taken from the Christian Romans, they gave them names of their own. Their wise and pious men had been members of or were the pupils of a class of learned heathens called the Druids. In ancient Ireland a Druid was a prophet, priest, doctor, and magician and the name seems t.v Ww. ..,Uk A (4t-rsr* 99 T4 i'j uc luuiictiru v>itu uui wuiu ucc. it was against the rule of the Druids to write things down. They were in the habit of retiring to the deepest woods for meditation and study, sometimes attended by pupils. That is probably the reason why the Irish, among whom the Druidsretained their power the longest?because Ireland was the hardest to reach of all the great islands thereabout and the last to feel the changes takiug place elsewhere in Europe?chose this pretty system of naming the letters of the Latin alphabet when it became common. Instead of calling A alpha, as the Latins usually did, they said A, ailm, th6 word which stood in their language for palm-tree, and came, in sound nearest to alpha, and began with an A. Instead of beta they said beith, the word for birch-tree, almost the same in sound as the Phenician, but quite different in meaning. And so with tne other letters: Coll, hazel; duir, oak; eadha, aspen; fearan, alder; gort, ivy; liuath, whitehorn; iogha, yew; luis, mountain ash; tnuin vine; num; ash; oir, broom; peith, dwarf elder; suil, willow; tein, furz; ur, heath. They called this alphabet "bethuisnion," choosing out the letters B, L. N, instead of the letters A. and B, to form a name.?St. Nicholas. Value of Education.?In urging upon workingmen the value of learning, the following among other considerations have been averted to. If we compare an educated with an uneducated man in regard to their ability to make a living and get on in the world, we find : 1. An educated man is more easily instructed in any industrial pursuit. Both mental and bodily exertion are necessary in all kinds of work. An educated man comprehends better the principles of his trade and acquires a mastery of it sooner than an ignorant one. Mental activity leads directly to increased dexterity, and gives greater power of concentration upon a given purpose. 2. An educated man can adapt himself to change of circumstances or new employments more easily than one not educated. An educated man is more self-directed, not so much the creature of circumstance and accident as the uneducated. The introduction of new machinery, changes in the fashion, the failure of mines, opening of new fields to the agriculturist?these and many other things produce great fluctuations and employments and render a change of work or of its place, or of both, on the part of large numbers of workingmen. imnerativelv necessary. Here it is that the trained intelligence of the educated, well informed man comes in play and enables him to look about him intelligently and judiciously. 3. Education has a tendency to elevate the thoughts of the workingman, to give him more self respect, and well founded self-confidence. These all tend toward the development of the highest style of manhood. They tend to make a man more industrious and more saving, and give him a taste for a higher and more rational class of amusements. Such a man is a man more satisfactory to employ, and when work is scarce, is among the first to find employment. An intelligent man rarely becomes a pauper. His intelligence begets forethought which in turn becomes the parent of thrift and economy. It is such as he who builds the happiest homes in this favored land, where cheerful saving and intelligent industry drive away the fear of want.?Kwhanqe. Problem for Atheists.?If you meet with an atheist, do not let him entangle you into the discussion of side issues. As to many points which he raises, you must learn to make the Rabbi's answer, "I do not know." But ask him these seven questions: First ask him, Where did matter come from ? Can a dead thing create itself? Second ask him, Where did motion lome from ? Third, ask him, Where did life come from save from the finger-tip of Oranipo;ence ? Fourth, ask him. Whence came the ex juisite order and design in nature? If )ne told you that millions of printer's ;y pes should fortuitously shape themselves nto the divine comedy of Dante or the days of Shakespeare, would you not think lim a madman ? Fifth, ask him, From whence cameconiciousness? Sixth, ask him, Who gave you free will? Seventh and last, ask him, Whence :ame conscience?" He who says there is no God in the face >f these questions talks simply stupend>us nonsense.?Cannon Farrcir. Six Suicides.?The Bible gives an account of six suicides: 1. Samson, the giant judge of Israel, for twenty years without a spot on his judicial proceedings, fell In bad society, was captured by his enemies and to free himself from disgrace and the cruel sport of his enemies, killed himself by his own strength. Judges xv. 9-19 2. Saul, King of Israel, lost the battle of Gilboa, afterward threw himself on the point of his sword and ended his life. 1 Sam. xxxi. 3. Saul's armor bearer suicided as did his master, with no name recorded in the Bible. 4. Ahithophel, the most astute politician of the age in which he lived. He joined with Absolom in the conspiracy against David. His counsel against David being defeated, and seeing his own destruction, hanged himself. 2 Sam. xvii, 23. 5. Zimri murdered Elah, king of Israel, and usurped the throne, destroyed the house of Baasha, reigned 7 days and went into the palace of the king's house, and burnt it with himsfilf in it. to nrevent his caDture by Omri. 1 Kings xvi. G. Judas the traitor, betrayed his Master, and sold him for thirty pieces of silver, near $15 of our money. He brought the money back and cast it into the temple saying, "I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood," repented himself. Matt, xxvii. He had some honest traits about him. Jesus prayed for worse men than Judas. Iron in Old Times.?The supply of iron in India, as far back as 1,500 years seemS to have been well nigh ! unlimited. The iron pillar of* Delhi ! is a single piece of wrought-iron measuring fifty feet in length, and weighing not less than seventeen tons, ana is a most remarkable work for such a country as India at so early a period. How so large a mass of iron was forged we cannot tell, and one is almost forced to the conclusion, when brought face to face with great works of this character, that the ancients, in iron and steel manufacture, and in engineering must have known and practiced much that we know and practice now. Inventions possibly have been found, and have been lost, and have been found again, and we are practicing now, thousands of years later, what our predecessors actually accomplished thousands of years earlier. Be that as it may, the influence of the discovery of iron on the progress of art and science cannot be overestimated. India has very much more than repaid any advantage which she may have derived from the early civilized communities of the West, in being the first to annnlw thocp QnmP WpstPm COmmU nitses with iron and steel. China, also, had probably as early a knowledge of the use of iron as India, and had a very special advantage over the latter empire. ? ?> - -? The Night Life of Young Men. One night often destroys a whole life. The leakage of the night keeps the day forever empty. Night is sin's harvest time. More sin and crime are. committed in one night, than in all the days of the week. This is more emphatically true of the city than of the country. The street lamps, like a file of soldiers, with torch in hand, stretch away in long lines on either sidewalk; the gay colored transparencies are ablaze with attractions; the saloon and billiard halls are brilliantly illuminated; music sends forth its enchantment; the gay company begins to gather to the haunts and houses of pleasure; the theatres are wide open, the mills of destruction are grinding health, honor, happiness, hope out of a thousand lives. The city under the gaslight is not the same under God's sunlight. The allurements and perils and pitfalls of night are a hundred fold deeper ana darker and more destructive. Night life in our cities is a dark problem, whose depths and abyssqg and whirlpools make us start back with horror.?Exchange. The Terms Men and Women.? A singular change in the use of the words designating men and women has come about within the last fifty years. In the middle of the present century it was common to speak of a man's wife as "his lady." To-day such a use of the word would be regarded by many as an insult. Neither the word gentleman nor lady is used as frequently as formerly. It used to be common for a young girl to speak of her male friends as gentleman. Now, she would say a man had called on her, or four men were presented 10 ner during the evening. One is more likely to hear his barber spoken of as the gentleman who shaves him than hear the president of the United States called the gentleman who occupies the White House. It wquld be the man who is president. The terms gentleman and lady were originally used to designate a class in England with special privileges. There is no distinction in the United States, and people are all men and women alike. t&r The mere lapse of years is not life; to eat and drink and sleep; to be exposed to the darkness and the light; to pace round in the mill of habit, ana turn the wheel of wealth, to make reason for our book-keeper, and turn thought into an impliraent of trade?this is not life. In all this, but a poor fraction of the concious- , ness of humanity is awakened; and the sanctities still slumber which makes it most worth while to be. Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, goodness, faith, alone give vitality to the mechanism of existence. The laugh of mirth that vibrates through the heart; the tears that freshen the dry wastes within, the music that brings childhood back, the prayer that calls the future near, the doubt that makes us meditate, the death that startles us with mystery, the hardship which forces us to struggle, the anxiety that ends in trust?are the true nourishment of our natural being. BSF No one who has a home of his own need ever be idle. There is always something to be done to pro-' mote the convenience or the comfort of the home, and, in the absence of work giving money remun i! ? fKn hnmn cniuuil^ liic uvuio iuviv pleasant and comfortable is the best paying job which any man can undertake. It is a sign of shiftltfssness, if not worse, to see a man idle when a day's work might be well expended in battening doors and windows against winter's rude blasts, or in providing some simple conveniences long needed by the good housewife to lighten her work. Industry always finds work to do.? Western Rural. BSF Let whatsoever you say be clean. The organic law of decency in human intercourse is clean speech. One whose mouth is foul is the tainted wether that infects the flock. J8ST Man believes that to be a lie which contradicts testimony ot his own ignorance. / w . r ? '< . ' ' A - ,.v ?