Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, March 09, 1887, Image 1
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RETRIBUTION
BY "THE DUCHESS."
CHAPTER I.
The coffee and toast are suffering, the
eggs and kidneys are growing cold, the
butler is looking distinctly aggrieved,
and Sir Thomas, lifting his head from his
well aired Timos, gazes across the
table cloth, with a solemnity even more
pronouncd than usual, at his stepson,
Granit Boyle.
"Your mother is late again this morning,"
he says testily. "This is, indeed,
the third time this week she has been behind
time."
"Old age begins to assert itself," suggests
the younger man carelessly.
Something in the indifference of his
tone nettles Sir Thomas. His brow contracts,
and he stares angrily at theother,
betraying how very little love is lost
between them.
"Age has nothing to do with it. Your
mother is not failing in any way, however
much i hat thought may find favor
with you! Your entrance into your
kingdom will not be yet, I hope and believe."
This reference to his inheritance of a
considerable estate on his mother's death
raises a smile upon Boyle's lips and a
contemptuous movement of his shoulders.
"I see no disgrace in old age myself,"
he says. "It has its drawbacks, perhaps"
?with a look of studied insolence at Sir
Thomas?"but its privileges too." He
laughs slowly. "As you see, my mother
is late?her privilege is to oversleep herself."
"Your mother, sir, has not been the
same woman since the robbery of her
jewel case, a month since. It has preyed
upon her cruelly, as any one?who?
who"?in his odd, fuming manner?
"had a spark of feeling in them might
have seen. But you are too devoted to
your racing, your cards, your town dissipations,
to spare a thought for one of the
best women, the best mothers, who
ever"
His indignation is cut short in a very
summary manner. The door is flung
wide, and Lady Valworth, entering, totters
to the nearest arm chair und sinks
into it.
"Oh! Thomas! Oh! good heavens!"
sfie cries. "The diamonds!"
Sir Thomas, flinging down The Times,
starts to his feet, and turns to her.
"Why the deuce can't you speak, Lucinda?"
says he.
"They are gone!?gone, I tell you!
I've searched everywhere, and they are
not to be found. This is the second robbery?and
where is the fault to be laid?
What on earth is to be done?" The poor
woman, growing quite hysterical, covers
her face with her hands, and sobs aloud.
"Your diamonds! The family diamonds!
Bless my soul! Has the world
come to an end?" cries Sir Thomas. "But
there must be some mistake. When"?
putting on his most magisterial air?
"did you see them last?"
"Two nighta ago. I wore them at the
Eyers' dinner. You remember, Granit?
You came with us."
"Yes, I remember," says Granit.
"It is absurd. It is outrageous! Is
there no law in the land?" fumes Sir
Thomas. "Have you sent for the police
?a detective"
"Of what use was the detective we got
dowu from town about my emeralds?"
asks Lady Valw. .rth despondingly. "No;
it i? a conspirecy?a deeply rooted one!"
"Nonsense!" growls Sir Thomas; "it's
burglars. D'ye see your mother's concern,
Granit?what do you think, eh?"
"Servants, I should say," laconically.
"Oh. my dear Granit!" cries his
mother. "But which amongst them,
would you first suspect? We have had
excellent characters with them all: and
Johanna, as you know, has been with me
for twenty-eight years?in fact, ever since
you were born. Her character is surely
established."
"It is the people with established
characters who invariably enrich themselves
at the expense of their employers.
In the long run, they reward themselves
for the years of correct living that they
have endured. Take my advice, and
keep your eye on Johanna."
He laughs cynically. There is, indeed,
what one might almost believe to be an
under current of amusement in his tone.
- "This Johanna should, indeed, be well
known to you!" breaks in Sir Thomas;
"she was your nurse, I believe. She, as
I have learned, is devtoed to you?has
given you almost a mother's love."
He is gazing at the younger man with
a slow scorn in his old, but yet brilliant,
eyes.
"Surely all that is no reason why I
should seek to defraud justice of its
dues," says the young man, with an indolent
uplifting of his brows. "You, as
a magistrate, would surely not suggest
such a course?"
"What d'ye mean, sir?" cries Sir
Thomas, turning upon him so fiercely
that Lady Valworth, who has had cause
to dread a collision between them, rushes
into the breach.
"Pray reserve discussion, however
amicable, until later on,' she implores
excitedly. "I cannot listen to it now, I
am so unstrung?so wretched. The
emeralds were bad enough; but if nothing
comes of the loss of these diamonds
I don't believe I shad get over it. If they
had been my own, I shouldn't so much
have cared; but being yours, Sir Thomas,
and expected by your heir?I"
She breaks down again, and subsides
into tears and her handkerchief.
"Now I must beg you will not so allude
to this unfortunate affair," says Sir
Thomas, a strong affection underlying
the pomposity of his manner. "Let
nothing outside the loss itself distress
you?and, besides, there may be no loss;
all yet is mere conjecture. Recovery of
these jewels (if, indeed, they are gone) is
sure."
"Positively certain," says Granit Boyle,
with his inscrutable smile.
"In the meantime, as you are so unstrung,
I shall recommend you a change,"
says Sir Thomas, layiug his hand very
kindly upon his wife's. "Go to town for
a mouth or so, to your sister, Mrs. Brand
?she always does you good?and leave
me here to light out this mystery."
But though he fights it out hardly, so
far as money and perseverance can, go,
nothing comes of his exertions. The
family diamonds have vanished as entirely,
as mysteriously, as did the emeralds
belonging to his wife a month before.
CHAPTER II.
Lady Valworth had been rather glad to
avail herself of Sir Thomas' suggestion
to spend a few weeks in town with her
sister, Mrs. Brand?a fashionuble woman,
of the world with a very kindly heart,
Miilillncu linronlf hurl u/lnntorl thp
daughter of a dead sister, now a charming
girl of seventeen, and engaged to
Granit Boyle, her cousin. She is, however,
hardly to be regarded as a young
lady fairly launched upon the world, as
she is still undergoing a course of study
with various masters, and reading in
German three times a week with a governess?a
girl of about her own age, who
had lived so much abroad as to be an almost
naturalized Prussian.
Nadine Roche counted herself lucky
when she sought and found employment
in the home of Mrs. Brand. She had
drunk sufficiently deep of the waters of
affliction to be almost on the borders of
despair, when Fate, who is not always
unkind, shunted her on to the line that
led to, at least, a glimpse of prosperity.
Her pupil blossomed into her friend.
Mrs. Brand took a special fancy to her.
Her feet seemed to have dropped into the
primrose way, and she felt at last, poor
little soul, that she could lift her head to
heaven with the firm assurance that she
could walk, without fear of falling, upon
the earth beneath.
Her pupil, Millicent Grey, is almost as
pretty as she is, if not quite. A tall,
stately girl with fringed litis, from which
the brown eyes look out as if in wonderment
at the world outside, and soft sleek
hair of a dark shade, that contrasts
oddly .with her retrousse nose, and that
is so altogether put in the shade by the
charming Grecian feature that distinguishes
her governess. To many people,
indeed, Nadine's merry mouth, and fair
dancing locks, and eyes blue as a caverhed
sea, would have had their objections;
but the child herself is so sweet, so
gay, so suggestive of all things good and
pure, that it would be impossible to regard
her in any light except a kindly
one.
With only the memory of a dear father
?who had been a general in the Prussian
army, although an Englishman?and a
mother, very dear, but very dependent,
to sustain her, Nadine, up to her connection
with Mrs. Brand, had been compelled
to look at life through anything
but rose colored spectacles. And of late a
chance of still surer escape from her
dreary surroundings has suggested itself
to her. Into her life (how, she hardly
knew) a young man has fallen, who,
while declaring his love for her, has at
the same time repelled her almost as
much as he attracts her. There had
been a slight touch of romance in the
manner of their meeting, Tmt yet nothing
very worthy of comment. A dull Janu
ftry night, ignorant of stars?a crowded
crossing?a young man who had kindly
come to her rescue in the absence of the
necessary policeman, and who had piloted
her across, through the tangled moss of
vehicles, and landed her safely on the
pavement at the other side. Ho had
laughed aside her thanks, and when she
had insisted on them, had demanded
largesse in the shape of permission to escort
her to her home. "The night was
so dark, so stormy, so destitute of comfort
in any form, and she was so evidently
timid about the conquering of
those terrible rubicons, the crossings, and
he was so entirely master of his time for
the next four hours."
It hardly took him one, however, to
guide her to her home. She had steadily
declined his offer of cabs or hansoms,
but hod felt it ungracious to refuse him
further when he said he would traverse
the distance with her on foot. In truth,
she had been glad of his escort, and not
altogether blind to the beauty of his face;
and yet, as I have said, there was a repulsion
as well as a fascination even then
in her feelings toward him.
Theiewas one other thing that puzzled
her. Had she seen him before!
Those marked features, those soft brilliant
eyes?were they familiar? It seemed
to her "that somewhere in the rather immediate
past she had seen him; but yet
when he so kindly came to her aid on
that crossing, just as she left Mrs.
Brand's house, she could not connect him
with anv olace or period, and after
a while felt that her imagination had *
played her false in the matter.
When he had taken her home that
night he had stood lingeringly upon the
door step, until at last, in an uncertain
way, half reluctant, half longing, half
desirous of his departure, half eager to
show some gratitude to one who had
been so courteously kind, she had asked
him to come in and let her make him
known to her mother. The invitation
was accepted with alacrity. Mrs. Roche,
a gentle, tender voiced woman, received
him with a little soft dignity that astonished
him; and two hours later, when he
left them, as they fondly but erroneously
believed, on his way to his bed, he
laughed aloud to himself on the deserted
pavements of that anything but aristocratic
neighborhood, as he called to mind
how he had indulged in tea and toast at
that hour, and enjoyed them too. What
eyes that girl had! What a mouth! How
gentle, how sweet, how lovable! Yet
there was a fire about her too, that suggested
many things, and made the pulses :
beat, and added ten thousand charms to i
those she already possessed. Well! IIo
had lost his dinner, certainly, gazing at ]
those beaux yeux, but there was al- i
ways one's club, the gods be praised! and
a supper that would be undeniable. i
The acquaintance, thus opened, had <
been followed up with an ardor that per- :
haps astonished no One so much as the
young man himself. He soon?astonish- i
ingly soon, as it appeared to Mrs. Roche
?mastered the hours of Nadinc's days.
Knew when she was off duty and when :
on. Never put in an appearance on the
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays on
which she gave her German lessons to
Millicent Grey, Mrs. Brand's niece; but i
invariably dropped in on the afternoons
^ r .1 MT ..1 1 3 TT* T .1 r\ ~
Oi iuonuuv, n cuunuuy auu r 1 iuit). uu ;
Sunday his visits were uncertain, but he
came even on that day more than he
stayed away.
Mrs. Roche was troubled a little about i
him at llrst, but crew accustomed to him ,
later on, and admiring him intensely as
she did yarding him, indeed, as a ,
breath from that old world in which she
once had moved, but which had proved
cold and forgetful when fortune's sun
went down upon her life), was openly
glad and gratified when one day her
daughter canie to her and told her how
Mr. Annerley had usked her to marry
him, and how she had given him "Yes" ]
for his answer.
The girl had not seemed either elated i
or, indeed, moved in afly waj when tell- i
ing her story, but had sighed rather, and
been a little petluant and impatient?a
most strange thing for her?during the (
remainder of the evening.
Paul Annerley had followed up his
proposal by a graceful word or two to the j
girl's mother that had more than prepossessed
her in his favor, and the courtship
had run ever since very smoothly,
all things considered?the man being
passionately in love, the maiden cool, if ^
always gentle and sweet, and as adorable
in manner ns in face.
From the first Mr. Annerley hud been
extremely open about himself and his
prospects. lie would talk continually
of "our office," and was always positively
eager to enter into any question that re*
lated to his status in life, his "business,"
as he called it, or his income.
"It is neither big nor small now," he
would say, with his charming smile, that ,
showed all his beautiful teeth, and lit up
his handsome eyes. "But it will improve.
I have many irons in the fire,
and one sure thing, should all else fail.
No, I never tempt Providence too fur. ,
I despise the man who puts his all upon
the die. I would have a reserve fund
somewhere, however small it might be.
Not that I should speak despairingly
either"?with another brilliant smile?
"of the little I can really call my own. |
It is sufficient to give bread and butter
at least to not only one, but two?perhaps,
indeed, three, should the desires be
modest."
Here the handsome eyes fall meaningly
upon pretty Miss Roche bending
over her knitting, and then pass on to
Mrs. Roche with an even more meaning
expression in them, that the good lady
would catch and dwell on afterward
with a maternal delight.
Ah! if her Xadinc could but be placed
beyond the fear of poverty?beyond the
hateful drudgery of teaching. If her
daily bread might be earned for her, instead
of the dear feet being press d every
day into the toilsome path of labor!
Yes; certainly Paul was very open, very
explanatory about his prospects; though,
perhaps, after all, the explanations did
not amount to much. He had an office
? somewhere. An extraordinary press
of business?sometimes! lie was utterly
destitute of relations?his father
and mother having died when he was
"quite a little fellow," and he was an
only child. His sisters, his cousins and
his aunts had no resting place upon the
face of the earth?he was, as he would
remark often in his deep pathetic tones,
"alone in the world." He had friends,
of course. Oh, yes! Every man had
friends somewhere; but he found friendship
a cold affair when all was told, and
in fact he was a rather shy fellow about
making acquaintances. He had never
been so happy as since his fortunate
meeting with Miss Roche, which had enabled
him to gain an entree into a house
where, etc., etc. Perhaps this was true.
Of his love for Xadine, indeed, there
could be 110 doubt at all. llis eyes seemed
never at rest except when followng the
girl's movements, and drinking in each
expressive glance of the exquisite face.
When away from her he would laugh
aloud to himself at times at the vague,
wild, but unconquerable longing, that
?l-^J????i
never left him, to go to her, to see her, |
to touch her hand, to hear her voice '
again. His love was a passionate one?an |
idolatry! He recognized It as such, and, 1
whilst marveling at this strange feeling
that had taken such entire possession of
him, gloried in it, and clung to it with >
all his might.
CHAPTER III.
"I am tired to-day," says Millicent,
with a little, pretty, weary gesture, |
throwing her arms above her head and j
laughing softly. "And idle, too. I
shan't do any German, so you may as
well sit down and gossip with me, instead."
"But"? begins Nadine feebly. She
is plainly delighted at the chance of
scamping the German.
"I've told auntie I'm going to look at
a book to-day, so you may rest yourself
in that chair with a quiet soul. I
wouldn't be as conscientious as you, Nadine,
for a king's ransom. Not that that
would be much nowadays, with all these
JNininstic doctrines gaining gruunu us
they do. Are you comfortable In that
overgrown chair? You look a trifle lost."
"I am quite happy," says Nadine, with
a sigh of content f n
She is feelingTagged and nervous, and
is glad to reet in Millicent's pretty room
with no chance of being allowed to move
for an hour at least. "Lucky you!"
says Miss Grey, dropping down upon the
hearth rug and taking her knees into her
embrace. It is only April yet, and very
chilly. "I'm not. Oh, yes; I know!
You needn't finish what is on the tip of
your tongue. I have everything the heart
of .girl can desire?the best of aunts,
plenty of money, a season before me (a
lirst one, too), a lover, and pretty much
my own way?and still I am not happy!
I sav, isn't it a shame keeping me at my
lessons, when in another month I shall be
eighteen, and presented, and all the rest
of it?"
"Well, I certainly think they might as
well have let you oil the month."
"It's downright mean of auntie?and
as u rule she isn't that, eh?"
"I think she is the kindest woman I
ever met," says Nadine, with sudden
fervor. _
Her English is exceedingly pure, hut
there Is just a suspicion of a foreign accent
in her tone when she grows in any
way excited.
"She is?there isn't a doubt of it," declares
Miss Grey, who likes to hear her
auntie praised. "But, like the rest of
us, she has her little weaknesses. Well,
never mind. I dare say there are more
unpardonable things in the world than
M. Liere and Professor Vredenburg.
Nadine?say?that's a sweet little frock
you have on. Where did you get it!""
"I made it. You really like it}1" She
stoops forward, and her lovely face grows
pink with a pleased surprise. "I confess
I thought it?well?not bad, myself?but
to hear you praise it!"
"It is the nicest thing I have seen this
many a day. I congratulate you on it.
Next month, as I have told you, I Hhall
be an emancipated being?free of even
monsieur and the professor?with permission
to order my own gowns; and then
I shall b'y myself the exact foe-simile
of the one in which you are now looking
so fetching. It will be a sort'of satisfaction
to you to see how exceedingly badly
it will become me."
"Ah! probably I shan't see," says Nadine.
VUiCK uiurs rise iu ner eyes, it is nut
only that the loss of her engagement will
be a serious lessening of the grist she
brings to the mill, but she is fond of Millicent;
and to lose her?the pretty, saucy,
kindly friend?that seems very bitter.
"Won't you, though? What do you
mean by that, pray?'
"Why, that I shall disappear with
monsieur and the professor when you
step upon the world's stage."
Miss Grey, bringing herself nimbly to
her feet, drags Nadine from her chair,
and compels her to stand in front of her.
"Now that I have brought matters to
the correct point?now for the stage
effect," she says airily. "You see, we
are both very stagey in our sentiments
to-day. Now, listen to my arrangement,
and be warned in time that if you object
to it murder will be done?here, in this
very quiet room in Park lane. Auntie
is of opinion that I am unlit to go about
without a keeper, and you are to be appointed
such. ' See? According to auntie,
you are a very model of propriety, and I
am exactly the reverse. You are to take
me in hand, and make me altogether
such a one as thyself."
"Oh, Millicent!?impossible! I could
not do that."
"And why , then? What a tone! what
a voice! Is it possible you are going to
say 'No,' to my proposal? Have you forgotten
that the consequences of such folly
on your part will mean death? My dear
Nadine, really, though, what is it that
you object to?"
"I shouldn't do at all as your companion"
"Why not, you ridiculous mouse?
Well, there!?let us say 110 more about it
just low. I never think myself, but I
am always sure it is an excellent thing
for-other people to do when a little perplexed.
However, before you begin to
think, tell me one reuson tor relusing to
be my guide and mentor."
A quick flush rising to Nadiue's brow
dyes her face crimson.
"You are going to be married?" says
Millicent quickly, noting the signal of
distress.
"It is true?yes."
"Anil you never told me!" There is a
strong reproach in her tone. Then?seeing
the pallor on the face before her (the
strange, sorrowful whitening of the beautiful
face), that has chased from it the
unwilling roses of a moment since?and
as she marks the mournful drooping of
the lips, and the look of terrible depression,
nay, fear, that betrays itself in the
shrinking form?pity overcomes her
sense of ill usage, and some sharp inner
sense conveys to her the truth of it all.
"You are afraid of something! You do
not love him!" she cries impulsively, |
slipping down on the ground beside the
lounge on which her friend has sunk as
though unnerved and exhausted. "Come,
you shall tell it all to me now, I am determined?late
in the day as it is for your
confidence. Is he old, ugly?a veritable
Bluebeard, with coffers lined with gold;
and are your people compelling you to
marry him for the s ke of his money?"
Her tone is half playful, half serious?
wholly winning.
Nadine gives up to it.
"No. It is not that," she says. "My
mother would be the last to urge me to
such a marriage. And?and?lie is not
old, or ugly, or overburdened with
wealth."
"Am I to think, then, that lie is
young, and handsome, and poor, and tiiat
you are still blind to his attractions?"
"That is it," returns Nadine faintly.
"I?when he is with me, talking to me,
looking so kindly at me (he is very kind)
?I tell myself that I do love him! But
when lie is away from? Ah!" with 11
quick shudder, "I know then that my
thought is vain."
"Romance is dead!" declares Miss I
Grey. "Handsome as an Apollo, und I
poor, and yet you cannot be touched with
the eternal fire. Fie upon you, then, you
degenerate girl! After all"?with a sudden
change of tone from the melodramatic
into the distinctly commonplace?"you
are just like me. My young
man (phruse borrowed from Mury Jane, |
you will perceive) is quite all you have
described yours to be?barring the poverty?and
yet I like liim quite as little as
you do yours."
"My dear Millicent! And I always
understood that"
"It was to be a true love match! A
very ideal marriage! A veritable cooing
affair! IJisabuse your mind of that at
once, my good girl. It is a match loved,
indeed, by my aunt and my other aunt;
but by nobody else, so far as I can see.
He is to have me and auntie's money; I
am to have him and his mammy's money.
That's the urrungemcnt. Fancy being
flung upon a season with such a stone
aroudd one's neck, and expected to enjoy
one's self!"
"It is your cousin?"
"Yes; Gruuit Boyle. You have never
seen him; so I jnay as well say he is as
good looking as any girl could desire,
save me. I am bent on an ugly man.
Nadlne?be sure of that. Simply because
he is handsome, I dislike him so much.
And yet"?she breaks off, and a little
angry laugh widens her lips?"when you
said a moment since that so long as
your lover was with you you liked him,
but that when he was gone you felt the
full weight of his disagreeability press
upon you, you said exactly what I should
have said, hail I been the first to explain."
"That is strange?a coincidence. But
?but why marry him, if you feel so to
Mr. Boyle?"
"Captain, an' it please you, madame.
He is one of her majesty's men. I am
not so sure that I shall marry him. But
I have been pressed into the matter because
of auntie's desire to see me Mrs.
Boyle (there is a remote title somewhere
in the family, that she believes will some
day descend upon me, anil make me 'my
lady') So I am supposed to bo willing
to barter my present for the sake of my
future. But I am not! So there!" She
somewhat angrily rattles the poker
against the bars of the grate as she
speaks. Then she looks up sharply at
her companion. "Why are you marrying
Mr. ? You did not mention his name,
by the by."
"Paul Annerley."
"A- masterful name?nearly as bad at
Granit Boyle?that sounds like the resistless
rock as the wave beats hopelessly
against it." She pauses as though sunk
in a light reverie. "I am not a hopeless
wave, however," she continues presently,
her pause being so slight as to be almost
imperceptible. "A rock myself, rather.
Yet I look so frail?so fragile!" She gets
up and turns to a mirror, and pushing
back the soft silky hair from her low
brow examines her face critically. "Yes
?a rock!" she says decisively. "So, if
my dear cousin docs not improve on acquaintance,
I warn him I shall not bo
dragged to the altar to suit his whim.
I'd cut off my hair ilrst! It was by the
hair the mediaeval parent dragged his
child, eh?" she asks, turning to Nadine
with a sudden smile.
"I believe you like your cousin, under
it all," says Xadine, laughing.
"Well, I do, and I don't, as I have already
said. Just now, I don't. But
there arc few men in town so handsome.
so much l Know, tnougn l nave not as
yet come out."
"Describe him to me."
"He is tall, (lark, earnc it in expression.
That is disappointing, I know; the modern
villain being always tall! fair, insouciant.
But?variety is charming. My
villain is as I have said."
"Paul is dark too," says Nadine, arching
her brows.
"Ha! So! The plot thickens! Two
villains in one drama is extravagant.
I wish, however, Paul had been of tho
fair, die away order, if only to make a
diversion. Nadine, tell me, why are you
going to marry your unloved villain?"
"He isn't a villain," begins Nadine;
but Millicent interrupts her.
"Oh, yes, he is!" she says. "You take
my word for it. Well, go on."
"I am marrying him because?because
I think I do like him, and that my absurd
repulsion when absent from him is a
mean feeling only to be conquered to disappear
forever. And?and mamma will
be happy if I marry him. She is so
afraid that I may ever come to real want."
"lie is rich, then? A man of property?"
"No. He has a clerkship somewhero
iu the city."
"Somewhere? Vaguo I call that! Well,
my good child, I'd see about that clerkBliip,
if I were you, before putting my
foot in it."
"Well?as a matter of course," says
Nadine. Th >i she breaks into a merry
laugh. "Naturally I should see it before
putting my foot in it. But you need not
be uneasy about that. Mother has made
all inquiries, and he has entirely satisfied
her."
"After all, my warning wus absurd.
People nowadays don't go about masquerading,"
says Millicent. "Tell me
more of him."
"There is so little to tell. His eyes are
a very dark brown."
"So are Granit's. I hate very dark
brown eyes."
"His mustache is brown too."
"So is Granit's. I like a mustache
myself."
"And I like a man with no mustache,"
says Nad i ne softly.
"You don't say," cries her friend,
with affected interest. "Tell me who he
is."
Her shaft is a random one, not meant
to strike home, yet Nadinc shrinks from
it as if hurt, and her cheeks grow deadly
white. She clasps her hands together
with a little impulsive motion upon
her lap?clasps them so closely that her
nails grow white.
Millicent, who though frivolous in a
certain sense, is neither unobservant nor
wanting in affection, marks these signs
of emotion, but with a strange reticence,
for her, refrains from taking any notice of
them.
"A truce to lovers!" she cries gayly.
"I, for my part, am sick and tired of
them. Here is a second piece of news I
would impart to you. Uncle Timothy
?you know my Uncle Timothy??well,
dear old man! he is going to give me, on
the occasion of my 'first appearance,' the
most exquisite set of diamonds and sapphires
that are, I hear, in the United
Kimlrum. I am to be his heiress as well
as auntie's, you know; and these jewels
are to be worn by me?on my coronation,
I was going to say?but I suppose I
meant on my presentation. They tell
me 'her most gracious' will pale with
envy at the sight of them. Going now,
VfwliiwkV Vmiuntico' Van miict. IIU va
ytmv ten first. I'll have it served here,
and it will keep you warm all the way
home. Poor little cat! You look tired!
Have a glass of sherry instead?it will be
much better for you."
CHAPTER IV.
It Is quite 0 o'clock as Nadine leaves
the house in Park lane and turns her
face homeward. It is very dark for even
an April evening, and the lamps are all
aglow, making her immediate world so
pretty that she is rather glad than
otherwise of her inability to meet with an
empty tram car, and turning into Piccadilly,
walks leisurely down its picturesque
hill with a thorough appreciation
of the charms surrounding her. It is late,
certainly, but women?unless they go
half way to meet it?seldom meet with
impertinence; and Xadine, pretty and
distinguished in appearance as she is,
pursues her way in an even, uninterrupted
fa.hion toward Regent circus.
A great, bulky woman, loaded with
parcels, coming somewhat abruptly
against her, stops her progress for a moment,
and compelling her to swerve
aside, throws her almost into the arms of
a tall man, who very gravely laid his
hand upon her arm. A little shock runs
through Xadine's veins. She stops dead
short, and looks up at her companion in a
dull, stupid way. She grows deadly
white, and her heart feels as though it
were about to stop beating.
"Ah! you! Mr. Duran," she says
faintly. "You?you frightened me?
I?" she pauses.
It is impossible to nccount to him in
any natural way for the emotion that is
overpowering her.
He is a man of grave exterior, hardly
good-looking, but with a strange, earnest
expression, that goes far to redeem
the irregularity of his features. Ho
is about 35, but looks considerably
older than his age, as some men will,
(irief, said many, aged him?his wife
having been taken from him when he
was only 26, and when he had seen
but two anniversaries of his wedding
day. But as usual, gossip was wrong;
those two unhappy years of wedded bliss
having convinced Mr. Duran that all
was vanity, so far as his wife was concerned.
In truth, he had never loved her,
but only learned that fact too late.
There is a suggestion of strength in
his whole face, and specially iu his
mouth and lower jaw, that makes itself
felt, and would perhaps be oppressive
but for the almost womanish softness and
gentleness of his large hazel eyes. A
heavy mustache conceals a handsome
mouth, and it and the hair about his
brow arc slightly tinged with gray.
"Clytic writes to me to say she misses
you terribly," Mr. Duran says presently.
They have turned, and are now thread
I lng their way slowly through the ever
| increasing crowd. Conversation under
' the circumstances is difficult.
"Dear .little thing!" says Nadine
' warmly, and more naturally than she has
, yet spoken. This other little pupil of
\ hers, this little daughter of the grave
i man walking heside her, is very dear to
i her. "Tell her I miss her too. Will you
I tell her that, Mr. Duran, please, when
! you write, and that I count every day to
the one that will bring her back to me?"
"I shall tell her."
Then he looks at Nadine keenly. The
girl seems to feel the earnestness of his
regard, because presently she throws up
her head, as if in challenge, and looks
ct'rnlcrYif of
"toil are thinking?" she asks rather
defiantly.
"How impulsively you express yourself,
and how tenderly?and how uncertain
I am whether you mean it or not."
"You give yourself great troublo to
thus study your daughter's governess,"
replies she coldly.
They have reached a crossing and a
tram car at the same time.
uYou will permit me to see you home?"
says Mr. Duran quietly.
' '"Ho, thank you. There is no necessity.
ThftP?fad looting the tram car?"will.
leave mc almost at my own door."
"Still, if you will allow me"
"You are very kind, but I would not
give you so much trouble for the world."
There is n decision about her manner,
gentle as it is, not to be mistaken.
"As you will, of course," says Mr. Duran,
"and having seen her carefully into
wiu cur ue uruws uuck, ana lets ner proceed
on her way alone.
CHAPTER V.
"It may be as you say, but, my darling
girl, if you would only listen to reason,
I"
"I can't bear reason, as you ought to
know by this time, and I don't think that
is n very correct way to address a girl
who is engaged to be married!"
"A very correct way when she is engaged
to the wrong man."
"Do you think you are the right one?"
demands she saucily.
"I don't think it, I know it," says he.
"Such knowledge is, no doubt, full of
comfort," retorts she.
Drip?drip?go the fountains indoors,
where they are sitting, behind the cool
evergreens in the lurgest conservatory.
Plash?plash?go the larger ones in the
illuminated gardens outside. From somewhere
beyond comes to them the last
dying bars of a dreamy waltz?all urounR
them the air is heavy with the breuth of
sleeping flowers. Massareene, leaning
forward, lays his hand on hers.
I wish you would think of it, Milli
cent," he says, in a low tone.
"Of what? My aunt's indignation? my
uncle's contempt? the combined wrath of
my entire family?"
"No. Of flinging oil the bands that
now bind you, and of love and happiness
with me."
"Would it be happiness?" she sighs
impatiently, and then shuts up her large
fan with an angry click. "I tell you it
is not to be thought of," she says presently.
"Things have gone too far for any
change to be now made. My marriage
with my cousin Granit Boyle is as much
a fait nccompli as if we had stood, he and
I, before my Lord Bishop. "
"You can talk very coolly of it. It
can't, after all, be so very displeasing to
you. this idea of marrying a man you
profess not to love," says the young man
beside her, regarding her with affronted
eyes. lie rises quickly from his seat and
goes a good way from her, leaning against
a marble pedestal that stands in one corner.
"Don't pose," says Miss Grey calmly;
"I'm not a photographer. And don't talk
nonsense cither. I am not one of tli6
hysterical sort, and can certainly talk
coolly of this marriage that is being
forced upon me. I have had time to grow
calm over it, you must remember, as we
were betrothed to each other when I
was almost a little baby in white muslin
and blue ribbons. It was in white muslin
then," says she with a little curious
laugh; "now I ought to be in sackcloth
and ashes. I feel so bad."
"And he?" demands her companion
with an effort.
"Wears his sacrificial wreaths with
quite a jaunty air. I am an heiress, I
would have you remember, my good sir.
Gran it lloyle is wise in his own generation."
"He's a mighty poor lot, to my way of
thinking," says Mr. Massareene, in high
disgust. Sometimes his Irisii breeding
makes a breach through his English education.
"Don't mention his name to me
?I can't bear to hear it."
"I don't believe it would cause me
much of a pang were I never again to
hear it myself," returns Miss Grey, who,
if candor be a virtue, is possessed of it to
an extraordinary degree.
After this a little silence reigns between
them, then:
"Surely you arc not mad enough to
think you will be happy with him?"
says Massareene excitedly. "He'll be
the deatli of you. Looks like a man who
would break a woman's heart. After
all, supposing you do quarrel with your
people?what then?"
"Then I should not only forfeit their
esteem, \*hich, after all"?with a swift
glance at him from under her long
lashes?"means a good deal to me, but
I should cease to be auntie's heiress, and
have my name struck out of Uncle Timothy's
will. All that, my dear Gerald,
would mean that I should be?still a
lovely girl, no doubt"?with a rather
constrained laugh?"but as certainly a
penniless one.'
She lifts her eyes resolutely as she
says this, though it costs her something
to do it, and looks keenly at him. If she
had expected any disappointment, or
| blank, or awkwardness on his decidedly
ugly face, she is mistaken. Gerald
; Massareene looks, if anything, relieved,
j in that now hope seems to have entered
; into him.
"My dearest girl, try to face that
thought," he says, leaving his distant
position, and once more dropping into the
seat near her?much nearer this time.
"I'm not a Croesus; but if you could
make up your mind to it, we might bo
able to make both ends meet."
"You have exactly seven hundred a
year," says Miss Grey, who disdains
subterfuge. "I found that out long ago
by making inquiries."
Massareene laughs.
"You are worth a dozen of your sex
in every way, but especially in one
way," he says?"you never go in for deceit,
however harmless, and you seldom
beat about the bush. Yet TOO doesn't
exaggerate it, and?ahem!?there is ul
ways, you know, the chance of the title
when my uncle?Lord Ballymore"
"Pouf!" interrupts Millicent, contemptuously.
"When yott linve sluin
your uncle, you mean, who is almost ui
young as yourself, and who is as likely
I us not to have an heir at any moment."
I "Not at any moment, my dear girl'
j The last?a third girl?is only a fortnight
! old, and several moments, at ull events,
I must ellipse before the arrival of the
| heir. And if it shouldn't come"
i But Miss Grey declines to listen to any
i such weak imaginings, and Mr. Mussu!
reene, a little crushed, rather falls out of
j the conversation.
Being a young man, however, of ini
domitable courage, and an unbounded
supply of perseverance, he presently recovers
himself, and returns to the charge
valiantly.
"I can see I am hateful to you," says
: he.
"Oh, no! Certainly"?politely?"you
are not that."
"You can't endure me."
"I can, indeed, without the slightest
1 trouble."
"I'm an ugly fellow, I know."
"Every one can't be as handsome as
Granit," demurely.
| "Oh! to the devil with Granit!" says
! Mr. Massareeue, losing his patience.
"With all my heart," replies she,
amiably.
"I don't believe he cares for you."
"My Ueur Gerald! What a very rude
speech!"
"Well, I can't help it If I thought
otherwise, even though I .worship the
ground you wulk on, I would say nothing."
r'Do you really think that?"
"That he doesn't value you properly?
Faith I do."
"No. That a time could ever arrive
when you could 'say nothing'? Ah!
consider the cruelty of the privation."
' "There, now you are laughing at me as
usual," says Massareene, and (for fear
she'd he lonely, perhaps) he breaks into
a low musical laugh also.
"That's a charming necklace you have
on," says he, after a little bit, that I regret
to say was spent in kissing the
hand of Granit Boyle's betrothed.
"What is it??sapphires?"
"And diamonds?yes."
"A gift of?his?"
He looks really sorrowful now, as he
4-^11 ! ft.l - li.
icii iiiixiovii. iiuw impussiuie it ?uuiu uu
for him to rival such a princely gift. He
might give liis honest love?his whole
life to her service?his very life; but
there is no money with him to purchase
such a magniilcent gewgaw as this.
"No, siliy boy! Where would Granit
get it? Uncle Timothy solemnly presented
it to me on the day of my presentation.
That is quite a month ago now.
Ah!"?with a quick sigh?"how long ago
it seems!"
"Yon have spent the greater part of it
with?him'"
Mr. Massareene seems to have an unconquerable
difficulty about pronouncing
his rival's name.
"That's exactly jvhy," returns she,
calmly. "And so you admire my baubles?"
"They are the finest things I have seen
this season?or any other, for the matter
of that." He feels quite a rush of enthusiastic
admiration now he knows that
Uncle Timothy and not the detested
Boyle has been the donor. "And how
unique in shape! One could hardly forget
them, having once seen them. Those
little heart-shaped balls falling from the
necklet shine like fire in this light."
"There is a tiara, too, and a stomacher.
But I didn't feel like living up to them
?yet. xes, it was a vaiuuoio gilt, out
one rather too elaborate for a debutante.
Nevertheless, I wear It, if only to please
him."
"You seem bent on pleasing every
one, save me."
"And yet I have pleased most of all,"
murmurs she, coqucttishly?nay, saucily
?leaning toward him.
He lays his hands quickly 011 her pretty
iounded arms, and draws her to him.
Her resistance is indeed faint. He bends
his head. Their eyes meet?almost their
lips?when the sound of a coming footstep
causes both to start into a more reserved
posture. The caress, so nearly
won, is lost!
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW TO A LIVE A CENTURY.
Professor Humphry, of Cambridge,
has prepared a series of tables which
contain some interesting information
about centenarians. Of 52 persons
whom he mentions, at least 11?
2 males and 9 females?actually attained
the age of 100. Others attained
very nearly to the hundred
years. Only one of the persons reached
108 years, while one died at the
allegea age of 106. Of the 52 persons,
36 were women and 1G men. Prof.
Humphry tells us the comparative
immunity of women from the exposures
and risks to which men are
subjected, aud the greater temperance
in eating and drinking exhibited
by women are the chief points
in determining their higher chances
of longevity. Out of the 30 women
26 had been married, and 11 had
borne large families. Of the 20 women
who had been wives 8 had married
before they were 20,1 at 16, and
2 at 17. Twelve of the 52 centenarians
were discovered to have been the
eldest children of their parents.
This fact, adds Mr. Humphry, does
not agree with popular notions that
the first children inherit a feebleness
of constitution, nor with the
opinion of racing stables, which is
decidedly against the idea that "firstlings"
are not to be depended on for
good performance on the course.
The centenarians generally regarded
were of spare build. Gout and
rheumatism were, as a rule, absent.
"It seems," says Prof. Humphry,
"that the frame which is destined to
great age needs no such prophylactics,
and engenders none of the peccant
humors for which the finger-joints
(as in gout) may find a vent."
Of the 52 aged people, 24 only had
no teeth, the average number of
teeth remaining being 4 or 5. Long
hours of sleep were notable among
these old people, the period of repose
averaging nine hours; while out-ofdoor
exercise in plenty and early
rising are to be noted among the
factors of a prolonged life. One of the
centenarians "drank to excess on festive
occasions;" another was a "free
oeer cirinKer," ana -arana iiae a
fish during his whole life." Twelve
had been total abstainers for life or
nearly so, and mostly all were "small
meat eaters."?St. James1 Gazette.
VALUE OF SALT.
Salt in the whitewash will make
it stick better.
Wash the mica of the stove doors
with salt and vinegar.
Brass work can be kept beautifully
bright by occasionally rubbing with
salt and vinegar.
To clean willow furniture, use salt
and water. Apply it with a nail
brush, scrub well and dry thoroughly
If, after having a tooth pulled, the
mouth is filled with salt and water,
it will allay all the danger of having
a hemorrhage.
Salt as a tooth power is better than
almost anything that can be bought.
It keeps the teeth brilliantly white
and the gums hard and rosy.
To wash silk handkerchiefs, soak
them first in cold salt and water for
ten minutes, or longer, then wash
out in the same water and iron immediately.
Carpets may be greatly brightened
by first sweeping thoroughly and
then going over them with a clean
cloth and clear salt and wa.ter. Use
a cupful of coarse salt to a large basin
of water.
Nothing is better for a sore throat
than a gargle of salt and water. It
may be used as often as desired, and
if a little is swallowed each time it
is used it will cleanse the throat and
ally the irritation.
Salt, in doses of one to four teaspoonfuls
in half a pint to a pint of
tepid water, is an emetic always on
hand. This is also the antidote to
Ua nnn/1 ?-? Wah v\/\inrv(iin/w Fitnm nifvoffl
uc uouu aibci punuiuug iium uiinvwu
of silver while waiting for the doctor
to come.
If the feet are tender or painful
after long walking or standing, great
relief can be had by bathing them in
salt and water. A handful of salt to
a gallon of water is the right proportion.
Have the water as hot as can
comfortably be borne. Immerse the
feet, and throw the water over the
legs as far as the knees with the
hands. When the water becomes
too cool, rub briskly with a flesh
towel. This method, if used night
and morning, will cure neuralgia of
the feet.?Good Housekeeping.
J6T "To miss the good which may
be got by suffering," says one of our
old divines, "is the worst of evils;
to lose the gain which should be gotten
by losses is of losses the greatest;
but to grow worse with suffering
evil is perdition itself.?
- ?- 4>ai>
Not one person in a million
knows either when or how to perform
the useful operation of holding
his tongue.
^lisccUaueous HUadittij.
THE DYING BEGGAR.
He was only a poor old beggar, with
tattered clothing and burst shoes, who lay
bleeding upon the stretcher at the depot
room. Only a poor, old man, and the
pain caused his weary frame to quiver
and moans forced themselves through his
half-closed lips. The doctor showed none
of that skill and attention which he bestowed
upon the wealthy patient, but
with careless hand touched the cruel
wounds and let others wash away the '
cinders and dust from the bleeding form.
"He may live," he said, coldly, and applying
a few plasters and giving a few !
stimulants, he passed away from the
stretcher. The old man lay with his eyes
holf nnon hiaorrnv nnlfomnt ha i r fftll i nt*
in straggling curlsover his brow. His face
showed marked traces of intelligence and
culture. It was sad to see his pale face,
and to notice how he attempted to recognize
those who spoke kindly to him. For 1
days after he was removed to pleasanter J
quarters he was unable ta speak. But ;
"Where am I ?" he asked fin a surprised
tone. Then all the past rushed to his !
memory and a shudder ran over his frame.
After resting for a few minutes he raised
his head and spoke.
"Stranger," he said, "mine has been a !
rough journey through life. 'lama poor
beggar, but I was not always such. My (
early youth was blessed with happiness
and kind loving friends. I had a happy
home far down in the sunny South, but
many long, years have fled since I have 1
seen that home. I lived pleasantly there (
until I reached 19; then I fell in love
with Maud Vincent, a poor girl of our
village, and we became engaged. I went ;
to father, told him about it and asked his
consent. I shall never forget what followed.
He was a proud, haughty man,
and at once flew into a passion.
" 'You young scamp!' he said, 'what do !
you mean by loving such a poverty-stricken
creature? Don't ever mention her ;
name to me again.'
"Hut, latner, i love her ana will marry
her," I protested.
" 'Then leave this house and never dare
to enter it again !'
"Ishall never forget his words and his
angry face, as he stood there cruelly pointing
towards the door. With a slow, unsteady
step I obeyed, and left the room,
passing out of the house. I could not see
mother for she was far away visitii g her 1
parents. The night was dark and the air
bitterly cold. I went to Maud's home 1
and told her what had happened. She |
put her arms about my neck and begged
me to return to my father, but I was proud,
and hurt in feelings, and would not heed
her advice. The next week we were '
married. I passed my father often, but
he never even noticed me.
"Stranger, Maud and I struggled bravely
for a livelihood. We left the old village
and settled in Dakota. But Maud
was a delicate little creature, and when
two years rolled away the snow lay in a
white shroud aroud her grave. It almost
broke my heart, mister, when she placed
her little wasted hand in mine and asked
me to meet her in Heaven. My life was
lonely without her, and I sold the little
home I had made for us and commenced
my wanderings. Forty years?dark and
cheerless years?have gone by since I laid
my Maud in that lone grave in distant
Dakota, and all these years I have been
a beggar, with no loving friends to sympathize
with me, so lonely and unhappy"?a
tear stole down the old man's
cheek.
"The morning I was hurt I was walking
up the track. I did not look at the
steel rails stretching away, like so much
wretchedness, without end. My thoughts
were wandering far off. I was thinking
of my old home in the sunny land of my
boyhood. I determined to go back to it
again. I could see the woods that lined
the cotton lields; the lawn and its beauHfnltrnoa
unfl Hmvore TVfv hrnthprs ft nrl
sisters all seemed to be around me, and
father?cold, cruel father \yas there, too.
My heart grew bitter as I saw his face.
Curses came to my lips but they were unuttered,
for another face flitted across
my memory. Mother was there, too.
Then I wondered if she still lived ; if she
even thought of her once petted boy, 1
now an old ragged beggar; and my heart
almost burst within my bosom. I had ;
never heard from her. But, oh, stranger,
often when my only bed was a hard board,
and the stars were my only light and com- ,
pany, that tender, kind face has comforted 1
me and I have talked with her in my
dreams. As I walked along the track the
world was lost to me. Tslipped my hand
in the inside pocket of my old coat and
drew forth the picture of my mother. That
picture had made an honest beggar of me. ,
It had melted my heart time and again ,
into sadness, and I kept it as a gift from ,
Heaven. I was looking at my mother's
picture. I saw the same pitiful eyes I ;
loved to look into when a child, as she '
rocked me to sleep on her bosom. The (
pretty little mouth?so much like Maud's? (
was as natural as when it first pressed my
infant lips. The more I looked at the
picture the more my heart ached. Then j
my thoughts reverted to that lone western ,
grave, and to the dear little wife sleeping '
there. Stranger, I was so wretched that j
I just cried out: 'My God, take me to
her!' j
"Was it an answer to my prayer? I ,
know not; but suddenly there came a .
confused rushing and rumbling, a sharp
pain?and the iron wheels had rushed ,
over me and I lay unconscious beside the
*- *?!? fT'Urt ttnof Kno VvAnn o Klonlr T-ilit
irui'ht X lie icob nao ucuu a uiuim* jlju i>
last night my mother came to me in the
form of an angel, and with her came
Maud. They beckoned to me, and when
I stretched forth my arms they vanished
and I lay here all alone. But I'm dying
now, stranger. I'm going home."
His head 9lowly sank back upon the
pillow; his eyes half closed; his face
grew pale and ashy. It was a sudden
change for worse, and those who watched
his wasting breath and glazing eyes knew
that death was silently claiming another
victim.
Suddenly he.started up. "Mother, have
you no words of love for me? Ca'l Maud!
Father, forgive your wandering boy?I
have come?back home?to?!"
There was a shudder; the head dropped
heavily?and all was over with the
Eoor old beggar. The cruel iron wheels
ad done their work well, and the weary
pilgrimage had ended at last. The vision*of
the home in the sunny southland
had faded into the reality of the beautiful
heavenly home. A cruel father might
repent and write and search for an absent
boy; that cold, silent heart would never
again beat to thoughts of home, or a
mother's face and love animate it. He
was only a poor, old beggar who lay there,
but his life had been pure, and his lips
had closed forever, murmuring words of
home and loved ones. Oh, death, thou
dost not always come amiss and horrible;
sometimes the shadows of thy wings are
refreshing, and the touch of thy leaden
scepter is a touch of blessedness.
The old Southern home no doubt presents
a scene of beauty. The family circle
has long since been broken. The
aged father has gone to his God ; but the
body of the old beggar?the discarded son
and brother?lies moldering in a cold,
Northernclime, and the stranger who relates
this story alone knows him and g
weeps over his sad life and neglected c
grave.?Grant Pitzer in Detroit Free Press. {
? 1
Men Wiio Get Along Best.?It seems g
a pity to say it, but observation sustains \
the statement that men of coarse fibre, i
obtuseness of feeling and cold-headed circumspection
in dealing with their fellows
get along better than men of chivalrous h
instincts, delicate sensibilities and that a
generous credulity which those practice I
vho never meditating wrong themselves,
lever suspect it in others. The gentlenan
in the best acceptance of that term
inds Jordan an embarrassing road to travel,
and often sighs to be at the end of the
ourney. He is annoyed by impertinent
nquisitiveness, saddened by meanness
md often robbed by rascals who have
:akpn his measure as the hawk does some
gentler bird it selects for prey. The pubic
men in the country who have had a
iigh code of ethics have been constantly
nisunderstood. The rough and ready
;lass will not understand reserve, and the
schemers and scamps laugh at honesty.
Even in the domestic circle too fine a sense
)f the proprieties misses its mark, and
society only recognizes surface manners,
ft does not care to go deeper. In fact, it
Jare not do so. It is a melancholy thing
that the man who educates his cnildren
is nearly as possible to an ideal plane of
thought and conduct simply prepares
them for sorrow and mishaps. What a
transition from the ingenious, confiding
md noble-spirited young man of twentyone
and the sobered hardened man of
fifty, who has seen all illusions trampled
imthe mUev Still, fpr. all this, it is better,
to aim high, live purely ana sincerely,
find, even at the cost of isolation, preserve
your own soul from stigmaor stain. Even
the world does late justice over the graves
of those who had the courage to speak
and act the truth.?Pittsburg Chronicle.
The Previous Question.?John C.
Calhoun, then a Senator, stated in a debate,
in 1841, that the "previous question"
was introduced in the House in 1811. Its
establishment was rendered necessary
by the long-winded speeches of Barent
Gardiner, a representative from New
York, who would speak two or three
days on some unimportant resolution
when action was promptly demanded.
Henry Clay differed from Mr. Calhoun
in his recollection. He said that
before the previous question was introduced
they had a rule in observance in
the House which acted as a great auxiliary
in cutting off debate, and that was a question
of consideration, viz.: "Will the
House now consider?" He recollected
the application of that rule in R particular
case of interest. Mr. Randolph, who understood
that a message would be sent
from the President declaring war against
Great Britain, came to the House In the
morning and commenced his famous antiwar
speech, and after he had spoken some
time he (Mr. Clay) being in the chair,
asked him on what proposition he based
his remarks. Mr. Randolph replied upon
a resolution he was about to oner to this
effect: "Resolved, That it was inexpedient
to go to war with Great Britain."
Mr. Clay asked him to be good enough
to reduce it to writing, which he did, and
Bent it to the chair. The question was
then put: "Will the House now consider
the resolution?" and decided in the negative,
which cut off the speech, and Mr.
Randolph denounced it as a "gag law."?
Ben: Perley Poore.
Artificial Ivory.?How is artificial
ivory made? Of late years the scarcity
and dearness of genuine ivory have driven
inventors to manufacture artificial com-.
pounds capable of replacing it for many
industrial and domestic purposes. These
compounds, which may almost without
exception be classed under the name "celluloid,"
are formed of divided cotton
waste, or some similar substance, soaked
in either vegetable naptha, nitro-benzol,
camphor or alcohol. Sufficient of these
solvents is used to make a soft, plastic
mass, which is subject to hydraulic pressure
and mixed with oils, gums and coloring
matter. Any degree of flexibility can
be given to it, and it can be made white
and transparent, or of any brilliant color.
It can be made hard as ivory, or retained
in so soft a condition as to be capable of
hointr enroart in lavors nvpr tpvtilft ffthrics
in the same way as paint is laid on. It
can be pressed and stamped, planed like
wood, turned in lathe, cut with a saw,
carved, woven, or applied as a varnish.
When dyed the dye runs through the
whole substance, and cannot therefore be
rubbed or washed out. An artificial ivory
of creamy whiteness and great hardness
is now made from good potatoes
washed in diluted sulphuri acid, then
boiled in same solution until they become
solid and dense. They are then washed
free of the acid and slowly dried. This
ivory can be dyed and made useful in
many ways.
Postage Sixty Years Ago.?"Walton's
Register" for the year 1823 shows that
there were 163 post-offices in Vermont at
that time, and that about $20,000 was annually
paid on the postage of letters,
papers, and pamphlets by the citizens of
Vermont. The compensation of the posmastere
was on the basis of 30 per cent, on
the first$100 of receipts, and 25 percent, on
the next $100. Brattleborough was then
the largest office in that State. The salary
of Asa Green, the postmaster, was
S630. The rates of postage were: For a
single letter of one piece of paper for any
distance not exceeding 30 miles, 0 cents;
over 30 and not exceding 80 miles, 10
cents; over 80 miles and not exceeding
150 miles, 12$ cents; over 150 and not exceeding
400 miles, 18} cents; over 400
miles, 25 cents. Letters composed of two
pieces of paper were charged triple rates,
and more than three pieces quadruple
postage. The highest salary paid any of
the 4,000 postmasters in the United States
was then $2,000, and there were only 10
who were paid that sum, while 27 received
$1,000 and upward. The population
of the State was about 230.749, an increase
of 17,835 in 10 years, of which 40,951
persons were engaged in agriculture, 776
in commerce, and 4,484 in manufactures.
There was an enrolled militia force of
20,781, and Gov. C. P. Van Ness was the
captain-general of the forces.?Burling'on
(Vermont) Press.
The Training of Women.?If a girl
loves a poor man, and he is worthy, honorable
and industrious, and her love is
Jeep and old fashioned enough to be a
tielp mate, as well as wife, then (writes a
jrandma) there is a safety in marrying,
lor by united industry and economy
wealth will come, for love makes labor
ight. But at the present day it seems
;hat so few girls marry who think they
lave anything to do but be taken care of.
She can perhaps "hold the pins:" but
even that tires them, and the husband
villsoon tireof it, too, and will feel that
le is tied for life to a selfish, useless wonan,
instead of the true one he imagined
le was marrying. And right here let me
iay that I believe many a man who is unmccessful
in life, and is called shiftless and
hriftless, and finally fills a drunkard's
jrave, is less to blame than the wife who
las neglected household affairs and the
luties necessary to a cheerful, orderly,
mppy home. His home life is a disapjointment;
he becomes discouraged ; en;rgy
and ambition are gone ; he finds
nore attractive places than his home of
iisorder and confusion and thus he starts
>n his downward career, which ends in
ltnn.HAAA si nn t V* and io fn K1ama9
lis^iavc auu ucaui y auu yyaivs 10 tu uinmv
^irst the mothers who have permitted
heir daughters to grow up and marry
vithout a thorough knowledge of all the
luties pertaining to domestic affairs. Secmdly,
the daughters who have married
vithout this knowlege.
JST For every hour of reading two hours
hould be given to thought; indeed one
an better afford to stop reading than
hinking. Many great readers are woful*
y barren of ideas; but there was never a
;reat thinker?a frequent thinker?who
vas not strong in individuality.?Denver.
Vribiine.
56T Wickedness may prosper for a while,
iut in the long run he that sets all knaves
,t work will pay them.
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