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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J gin $ndtpcnd<>nt ^milg JjJtioBpjifr: <Jbi] tto| $romolioa of tlti) folitiqal, $oqial, gigi[italfuiiii^aad <$ommti[tial Jatfrests of the _^outh. |terms?-$2.(m/a tear en advance. xtwt. Qry YORKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1891. ' NO. 37. f? ? r? - " j I THE MAN Wl' BY W. C. v# ? "Whose Nom de Plum Author of* "The E [Copyright, 1891, by Caseell Publishing Co ment witl CHAPTER L *"V "WHY, IT IS BLOOD!" October of eighteen hundred and seventy-nine, and a brisk evening. The hour is nine. People walk rapidly under the stimulus of the cool night air. One of the number, however, does not Closely examining the buildings on either side of the street, he moves along slowly. Sometimes he stops on the cnrbw stone and gases intently at a house upon the opposite side. Thus he makes slow progress until he reaches the corner of Broadway and Bleecker street. Here he stops and peers down the cross street Apparently he debates with himself as to which way he shall go. Slowly he walks off in the direction of the Bowery and?into the middle of events which powerfully influence his whole life He was a tall, athletic man. A careless observer would have said he was nearly forty. Bat he was in fact barely thirty-one. The stern, deepseated lines of his face, suggesting settled grief or harsh experiences in life, made him appear older than he was?these, and an expression of habitual melancholy. His course lay upon the lower or south side of Bleecker street. Crossing CrosV by, he walked a few rods and then stopped in front of a house upon the opposite side. "That is the house," muttered the young man on the other side of the street "To what base uses we may return, and so forth. I have a fancy to see the inside of it" Crossing thfestreet the yonng man en0 tered the basement which was given over to a wine shop. Inside be swept the zoom with his eyes, and an expression of ^ astonishment mingled with disappointment passed over his face. * To accommodate the business of tho dispenser of wines the partitions had I been torn out so that the whole basement floor was one room. Where the hall had been the bar was, and behind the bar a stolid looking German, smoker ing a long pipe, contemplating without the suggestion of an expression upon his large, round face, a group noisily playing a game of cards. In the rear of the room were two billiard tables. In the corner on the left as ono entered was a round table at which there were four chairs and on it several newspapers. "ShaU imrudi^ifi wat myself at this tabler The young man sat himaelf at this table. At one of the small tables in the middle of the room and in close proximity to the card players sat an old gentleman, perhaps seventy, deeply engrossed in his newspaper. As the young man entered he lifted his head. Something hi the newcomer's appearance arrested rhis attention. He laid his paper upon his knees and followed the young man with his eyes, and his face took on an expression of perplexity. Though he resumed reading his eyes ever and anon wandered to the young man in the cor ner. Soon his paper lost interest for him, for he again laid it on his knees and looked into space over his spectacles, without losing his thoughtful, perplexed f expression. The young man summoned the stolid proprietor and ordered a stoop of wine and a cigar. His order complied with, he.ptruckamatch, and as he held it up in the air wi$h hip right hand until the sulphur should have burned away, he held his cigar within an inch of his lips with his left hand. The old gentleman, watching him covertly, smiled; the w wrinkles on his brow vanished, the perplexed expression passed away, and nodding to himself approvingly he returned to his paper. By and by he beckoned to the proprietor, and by a gesture indicated that he desired the erhpty glass at his elbow refilled. An unusually loud outburst came from the card players; with a smothered exclamation of disgust, he picked up his glass and crossed to the table at which thr young man was sitting, saying politely: "Shall I he intruding if I seat myself at this table? Our friends, the card players, are boisterous; they annoy ma" "By no means," replied the young man. "1 imagine every vacant chair in the room belongs to the man who claims it" With a bow the old man sat down. "Perhaps so," he said, "but an etiquette obtains, or should obtain, even here, and I would not intrude upon one w wishing to be alone." "I am alone," returned the young man, "not because 1 wish to be, but because in a whoje cityful of people 1 am." "A stranger to the city then?" inquired the old man. "Yes and no," was the reply, in the 3* :jji. ,,1 manner 01 one propounding a nume. i am not a stranger, for 1 was born here. 1 am because I have been continuously y absent for the past eig'it years. I walked the streets today without seeing a face J knew, and I do not know where to go to find one 1 formerly did know." "New York is a large city, and like all large cities its face takes on a new expression each year. Yon have but jost returned then?" "This morning." * "It is strange the more celebrated places did not attract yon." "I stemjed ont of mv hotel near bv for the fresh air, and I strolled hither under the influence of a recollection of my boyhood, almost infantile days." For an instant only the old man peered over his glasses sharply at his companion and then said: "I am much attached to this house, not because my habit leads me here nightly, but because 1 have been familiar with it ever since I was a young man." The old man lifted his glass and sipped his beer, apparently unconscious that he bad said anything to attract the increased attention the young man gave ^ Mm. "Even younger than you are now," he continued. "Lord! Lord! what dinners I have eaten?what gay times I have had in this very room. A young friend of mine?we boarded in Chambers street together in those days?bought this house while it was yet building, and when it was finished carried his sweet young bride into it And a great housewarming we had too. I was opposed to it?that is, to the house; I thought it too fine for him to begin on; for you must know, young sir, there were few finer houses in this city when this was built. Yet he could afford it Young as he was, he was the head of a flourishing ^ business, built up by his father, who had died and left it to his only son, with a number of old and experienced clerks. Yes, indeed, no house in this city stood higher than that of Dorison and Company." rH A THUMB. HUDSON, l? is Barclay TVorth, diamond Button." mpany and published by special arrange1 them.] As the old man indulged his remi niscentiai vein, tne younger Kepi um (lark eyes fixed upon him, and at the mention of the name of the firm the color crept slowly into his cheeks. "Yes, there have been gay times in this old house," continued the old man. "I have seen the beauty and chivalry of old New York gathered within these walls. Sometimes when the weather is fair I venture out to the park to see the ladies drive by, whom as young girls, in all their bravery of silks and laces, 1 have seen sweep up and down these stairs. Happy times, indeed! 1 was always welcome here as the confidential friend of the head of the house, and 1 love it in its degradation. I have seen sorrow and mourning here too. 1 have followed each one of Dorison's children through the door above to their gravessave the youngest, a boy. But the time came when this house was not fine enough for Dorison, and he moved into' a browns tone front in Twenty-third street There disaster fell upon him. His wife died and he was never the same man. He retired from business?a mistake, for the time hung heavily on his hands, and he drooped. His only interest was his only son?only child, in fact 1 saw him daily if in town, bnt in those years, having interests abroad. I was away from town a great deal." He interrupted himself to sip his beer. Had he looked at the young man he would have seen a most singular expression on his face; high color showing through his dusky skin and eyes intense and burning. The old man did not for he continued calmly: "Dorison and his son lived in this fine house alone for some years. Then one morning early a servant entering the library found Dorison bent over the table at work. Wondering at the early rising of his master he spoke. Receiving no answer he went up to him. Dorison was dead. He had died in the act of writing a letter. The most singular thing of it was that his executors found that he, whom we all supposed bo rich, had not a dollar. The very house he lived in was mortgaged to its full value." The young man leaned forward, and extending his hand laid it upon the arm of the elder man. saying with great decision: "You have a purpose in telling me this story!" The old man looked up with a surprised air as he replied: "What purpose, young sir, could 1 have in telling such a story to an entire stranger?" The young man made no reply for a moment, but continued to gaze steadily into the eyes of the elder one, as if thinking profoundly. Then he said in a deep, low voice, quivering with emotion: "I will continue the story. Mr. Dorison was fond of the young man, his sou, treating him indulgently and giving him a most generous allowance. The son was a youngster caught up <n the whirl of fashion?a member of the leading clubs, following what you doubtless would call a fust life, but, as compar ed with others, not fast if extravagant, he brought no trouble upon his father; if reckless iu his life, no disgrace upon the name of Dorison. The letter his father was writing when he was so suddenly stricken with death ruined the son. To whom this letter was addressed, or what the father's motive in writing it, never was known, and it is doubtful now whether these things ever will be known. The letter ran thus: " 'My Dkaii Fkiknd?The end is well nigh reached. Indeed, if you cannot immediately give me the assistance 1 - l.j rrr'i.1 .u need it is even now reacaeu. " iui t utu assistance and a few years more of life ill can be repaired. 1 am a broken man inspirit and in health. The last few years I have been tortnred as no human being ever was, I believe. 1 have been compelled to sit helplessly by and nee a fine property devoted to covering the consequences of crime; to making good forgeries on my own name, against which 1 could not even lift my voice in protest; to repairing losses of others by robberies and defalcations; to stopping the wheels of justice, which if permitted' to go on would have brought exposure and disgrace, and all the while have been compelled to sustain and conceal the knowledge that all this was done and brought upon me by an ungrateful son, who' "Death fell upon him," continued the young man, "the moment he had condemned the son. To whom was this letter addressed? Crushed and agonized, the son in a frenzy sought the one to whom it was written as a means of proving that the condemnation of the son by the dying father was untrue. All efforts were unavailing. The fact of the condemnation was bruited about; it became known in the clubs; it became public property; it was published in the papers; the police undertook to bring the crimes alleged against the son home to him, but they were no more successful than he was in his efforts to disprove them. His friends fell away from him; the doors of his acquaintances were closed against him; he was cut on the streets. Efforts being made to expel him from one club, he resigned from all and fled the city, practically penniless, under an assumed name. Seeking employment in a western city, he remained until a f >w days ago, when, under an impulse ho could not restrain, he returned to the city of his birth after eight years' absence. 1 am he?John Dorison?disgraced by his dead father, not by himself." "I was sure of it; 1 was sure of it," murmured the old man. "You, too," continued the young man, his voice trembling with the violence of Wo omnfinn "vnn. too. a friend of mv father, believed and do now believe the libel my father left me as his only heritage." There was something so despairing and even pathetic in the attitude and intensity of the young man that the spectacles of the old gentleman became dimmed with moisture. There was no appeal for belief in the tones of the young man. The elder read utter hopelessness in the intense dark eyes bent upon him; he 6aw the grief underlying the strong face which he had newly aroused was an old settled grief, not one finding expression in wild gestures and fierce words, but one that had come to abide with the young man forever, with which its possessor had become familiar as with a daily companion from whom he never expected to be parted. The old gentleman, regarding the face of the younger closely and for the first time openly, replied slowly and forcibly: "No; I did not believe the charge when I first heard it; I never have believed it; I do not believe it now." The reply was unexpected. Dorison fell back in his chair with a gr-sp, staring blankly at the elder man. At the end of eight years, and for the first time, he had found one who believed him innocent of the charges. "You ? believe ? me?innocent?of? those?vile?charges?" "I do," emphatically returned the old man. "When your father died I was absent from the city. After I returned and 1 learned the circumstances 1 sought you to say so and to offer my assistance, but you had left the city." The young man luughed bitterly. "Your words, the first of belief in my innocence I have ever heard, are grateful and comforting. If your belief were based upon more substantial reasons, it would give me wnat l am now utterly wi thout?hope. My life has been ruined oy that unfinished letter. Such is the only result 1 have reached after eight years of endeavor to fathom the incomprehensibility." "My dear young sir," said the old man kindly, but with a tone of pain in his voice, as he leaned forward and laid his hand upon the arm of the younger one, "I can understand your bitterness. 1 sympathize with you from the bottom of my heart. ' I admire you, that with the strong feeling you naturally have, you have given expression to not one word of abuse of the parent who did you this aJmost irreparable injury. However, it 1 is time for me to go to bed. Come and see me tomorrow at my office. We will talk this matter over then and see what can be done. Here is my card. Good night." The old man went ont briskly. Dorii<on remained staring at the. card, which bore these words, "Job Nettleman. Commercial paper negotiated. Number ? Broad street, New York city." He fell back in his chair in a confu1 si on of thought Light seemed to be breaking upon his dark horizon. Would the sun rise? One man believed him innocent It was not much, to be sure, but he could not let go the fact Suddenly he was startled into consciousness of external things by a cry of horrified surprise. It Came from one of the card players: "Why, it is blood!" CHAPTER IL A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. At 'hit feet lay the body of a woman XDCltcrhiQ hi her rnvn blood. There was commotion in the room at once. Every one sprang to hi3 feet Crowding about the table from whence the outcry came, they looked up to the ceiling, from whence the drop which had excited the exclamation had apparently fallen. A long, irregular crack in the ceiling was plainly visible. At one end, that over the table, a small, dark Bpot was to be seen. Dorison, who bad come with the rest, sprang upon the table. Hardly had he assumed an erect position when the small, dark spot, resolving itself into a globule, dropped off, barely escaping his clothes, being immediately succeeded by another spot. "It is blood," he said. "It is dripping through this crack. It must come from the floor above. Who occupies itT All eyes were turned upon the German proprietor, who, in reply to this mute questioning, said: "I don't know. Dey haf shoost move in. Dey vos kostumers." "Some one may have been murdered," suggested a voice in the crowd. In an instant, as if by a common impulse, every one ran out and mounted the steps leading to the front door, leaving Dorison alone with the proprietor. The trampling of many feet upon the floor above and poundings on the door for admission was heard. Clambering down from the table Dorison asked the German if there was not a rearentrance to the first floor. "Yaw," replied tne tferman. "uo aat door owit and oop the stairs." Dorison hurried through the door pointed ont, and found at his right a flight of steps, which he ascended quickly. Pushing open the door at the top he entered a sheltered veranda. He tried the door leading into the hall, but it was locked. He sought the first window opening on the veranda, and on trying to lift the lower sash it ran up with ease. A curtain obstructed his way, which he pushed aside and stepped into a large, square room, unfurnished, save by two chairs and a worn carpet The gas burned dimly at a side jet He crossed the room to the sliding doors, which were closed, but he found no difficulty in throwing one back. Heavy curtains confronted him; parting them he passed into a room well lighted. He recoiled with an exclamation of hon-or. At his feet lay the body of a woman weltering in her own blood. Of steady nerves and strong self control, yet the scene sickened him, and he staggered back almost fainting, the while those in the hall were thundering at the door. The woman had fallen forward, and as she had done so her face had been tnrned toward her right shonlder, her right arm stretched out as if she had grasped at something and missed it Where the neck was exposed a small gash was seen, from which the blood had spurted and streamed in torrents, covering her dress and all things in her immediate vicinity. A small stand, evidently heavily weighted with articles of clothing of fantastic color and shape, had been overturned in the struggle which preceded the murder, for the goods were scattered some distance and the woman had fallen upon them. Recovering almost immediately from the first 6hock of surprise and horror, Dorison bent over the body. It was that of a young woman, perhaps twenty-six or seven. The face was prepossessing, and he conjectured she might in life have been called handsome. Immediately ut his left hand, within his reach, was a small round table. On it were two articles. Barely conscious of his act, he stretched forth his hand and took them up. One was a ring, the other a small, old fashioned oval portrait in a narrow gilt frame. He was astonished?overwhelmed. The portrait was a picture of his father, taken at least twenty years before his death. He could not trust his senses. Was his imagination affected by the horror of the scene and playing him tricks? He looked at it again. There could be j no mistake. He examined the ring. He recognized this too. He had seen it in his boyhood days, a hundred times, on j his father's finger. Confused and overwhelmed, and uuder an impulse he could not analyze, he slipped them both into his pocket. There was a new movement in the hall j and new steps, which had in them the j sound of authority. A voice said: "We can't open that door." "Then we'll break it down," said a stem one in reply. Aroused, Dorison undertook to step over the prostrate body at his feet, in- > tending to open the door. As he did 60 he saw a piece of paper in the hand of the murdered girl. Moved by an uncon trollaDie impulse, anu wunuui, reason i governing him, he bent down quickly J and gently disengaged it. Hastening j no\^ to the door, as he was about to push i back the curtain he perceived upon the : floor a large piece, which he picked up | and pocketed under the same singular impulse. Drawing the bolts he opened the door, ! just as two policemen placed their : shoulders against it to burst it open, j They fell upon him, and without his assistance would have fallen to the floor. A man in citizen's clothes pushed his way between the two policemen and i hastily swept the room with his keen i eyes. Observing the body on the floor, j he turned to the officers and said: "Guard that door. Let no one in or out." Walking over to where the body lav, j he closely examined it and the surround- | ings. Then he came back to Dorison and ' demanded: ' "What were you doing here?" "Who are you?" demanded Dorison in return. ' "An officer of the law. Answer my j question." ' "I entered from the rear while the ( others were trying to force an entrance ] from the front." ! The officer, who was the most cele- J bra ted detective of his day, bent a pierc- 1 Ing look upon Dorison, who, however, did not flinch from the scrutiny. '' "We'll see about that Dolan," he Baid, turning to an officer in uniform, ' "arrest this man." "I shall not attempt to prevent you from arresting me." said Dorison qnietly but firmly. "But you must make no mistakes, for I shall not forgive them." ! This calmness and self possession made , an impression on the officer. "How is it that you were here alone?" . he asked. "I have told you. After the alarm . was raised all who were in the saloon be- ^ low ran up to this door except myself. I , nsVwi the nronrietor if there was not a , rear entrance, and being told there was came np that way and made an easy en- j trance." "Yaw, das iss so," remarked the proprietor of the saloon from the door. "Dey vo8 all gone owit an he ask me. I say go oop de back stairs." "He was drinking in your saloon then?" "Yaw. He drink ein glass of wine and . smoke ein cigar and talk mit old Mr. Nettleman all de night." "The gentleman sat with the rest of ns, captain," said another voice from the halL "When the man cried out that blood was dropping on his cards, the gentleman jumped on the table to see where it was coming from." "I see," Baid the captain in an altered tone, and turning to Dorison said, "It was imprudent of you to attempt an entrance before the officers were called." "Perhaps," returned Dorison with a sober smile. "In Buch emergencies, however, men are rarely prudent The prudent thing for me to do was to walk away entirely. As it is, I presume I have made a witness of myself for the coroner's inquest" This was so true that the detective smiled and regarded him with more favor. "What is your name?" he asked. Dorison hesitated. He had registered himself at a neighboring hotel under the name he had borne since he left New j York eight years before^-James Dudley. | He knew the next Question would be Ids | address, and if he were to give his proper j name an examination of the register I would discover the discrepancy, with a 1 resulting suspicion. If, on the contrary, he were to give his assumed name, he would, if application were made to Mr. Nettleman, since he had not given his assumed name to that gentleman, be at a disadvantage in that quarter. He perceived his dilemma without seeing his proper course. His hesitancy aroused the suspicion of the detective. With increased sternness the demand was repeated. Under the belief that less trouble I would result from using his registered ] name, he replied: e "James Dudley. I come from Du- < buque, Iowa. I am registered at the c Grand Central I arrived in town at 1 seven this morning. I have not been in e New York for eight years before." t "Why did you hesitate in answering?' 1 "BecausS I vainly thought by conceal* t mentof my name I might escape the i annoyance of being a witness, but a moment's reflection showed me the ah- x surdity of the idea." 1 This was promptly said, but frank and \ ingenuous as the reply seemed to those ( who heard it, the detective, looking into t Dorison's eyes, saw something there t which did not satisfy him. I "Do you know this Mr. Nettleman?" "I have known about him all my life c ?since boyhood." t "Does he know your "Yes." t At this moment two men in citizen's clothes, who were admitted by the uniformed officers, entered and took rip ? their stations respectfully behind the de- 1 tective. c "What did you see when you entered?" * asked the detective after a long and keen 1 examination of Dorison's face. "That," replied the young man, pointing to the body on the floor. "I had but just entered when you came." The detective did not permit his eyes to follow the pointed finger of Dorison, but still continued his stern and searching*examination, while Dorison fully appreciated that he had become an object of suspicion. There was a slight diversion at the door. A man of average height, inclined to be 8tout, perhaps sixty, with shaven face, whose only striking feature was a pair of eyes, small, dark, keen, active and restless, who had been standing without the door, pushed his way in. I The officers guarding the door made a j motion as if to stop him, but upon an almost imperceptible nod from the cap- 1 tain permitted him to enter. n The newcomer crossed to the table covered with blue felt, his hands in his j vest pockets, and leaning against the end furthest from the body sent his eyes into every part of the room with rapid darts, 6 finally fixing them on Dorison, without 1 abandoning the motionless attitude he c had assumed on entering. J The detective began a systematic in- ; ' spection of the body, the room, the i 1 entrances thereto. He took the names j r of all present and those in the saloon j when the drop of blood was discovered. , c He closely questioned the proprietor, j 4 The only fact he elicited was that two j weeks previously the rooms had been | rented by a woman, who announced that j ohft wnnld rnnduct a costumer's business, ; and that the saloon proprietor had never ; seen but one person he knew to be con- j nected with the business, and that an old woman, and she but once. Brought in to examine the body, he declared he had never seen the woman in life, and did not know who she was or where she came from. The detective turned to Dorison again: ; "When you ascended those back stairs ; was the door at the top open or shut?" "Shut." "Did you try the door leading from the veranda to the hall?" "I did, and found it locked." "How did you enter?" t "By the window, next the door." i "Was the sash raised as it is now?" 1 "No; I threw it up." t "It was not fastened then?" c "No." B "How did you ent?r this room?" . t "Through those sliding doors." j f "Were they opeu as now?" "No; I threw them back." e "Was there a light in the back room?" > "Yes; just as there is now." c Turning to one of the men in citizen's < clothes at his back, the captain said: "Jones, go into thut yard and see if it t is possible for q man to make his escape i over the fence and reach the Btroet." t "It would be possible for a man to i descend those back stairs, enter the saloon f below from the rear, and so gain the 1 street," said the old man with his hands t in his vest pockets, without moving. t The detective looked at him sharply, I and replied: "That is true." t "He even might have sat down and < drank beer afterward and been in the J saloon when the blood was discovered." e "That also might be true," returned > the detective. "The proprietor ought to know t whether he served a customer whom he ; J did not notice enter the front door." i < "Again that may be so; Til inquire." "Also," continued the old man, "if i you are speculating, your man might t have entered the saloon and slipped out to gain this room b\ the rear as this I young man did, and slipped back again 1 after he did the job." t "Ah," said the detective, turning a i ook of apparent renewed interest upon Dorison. He took the proprietor aside md questioned him on the points raised ay the old man. The German was quite certain Dorison had never stirred from die chair he seated himself in when he irst entered until the blood was discovered; he was in full sight and could lot have moved without his knowledge; aesides, he had talked all the time with Mr. Nettleton, a fact that attracted his attention, since, though the old gentlenan came there nightly, he rarely talked with any one. As to the possibilities suggested by the* aid man with regard to others, he could not speak so positively, though he did not think that anything like that suggested by the old man had occurred, because the saloon had not been so full that he could not take cognizance of every one in the place. When asked to look over the throng in the hall to see if all were there who were in the saloon when the blood was discovered he said after examination that while there were some in the hall who were not in the saloon, there was one who was in the saloon who had stood by him in the hall when ae was called in to see if he could recKrulw nrtinf wan not there ;6U44~ , ??-fy; then. He was a st-rang^s who had come in early and drank brandy. Heconld aot describe him, save that he was not fin old man, was not tall, and had blown iair and mustache. "That undoubtedly is the man I want," said the detective. Sending Dorison to headquarters in charge of one of the policemen in orler tnat a statement as to himself and the events of the night might be taken, md telling the officer to put a man on to shadow Dorison after he left headquarters, the officer busied himself with completing his examination of t he premises. Finally, leaving an officer in charge, he went away, accompanied by the reimainng officer in plain clothes. "This night has not brought forth much," he said, "but I suppose we can ind out from the woman who rented the rooms who the girl is. We must hunt ler up the first thing tomorrow morning. Thai; must be your job." CHAPTER HL "HOW FORTUNE PLIKS HER SPORTS." <j8J? Hello, Simon the Cellarer! Come here and *lt." John Dorison awoke the next morning >etime8, with an uneasy sense of having mssed through a nightmare. It was tome moments before he could recall the wents of the night previous. When he lid, he leaped quickly from his bed, for >y them was also recalled a resolution to leek Mr. Nettlemon as'early as possible, ;o inform him of the assumed name he lad given the police the night previous, ind to beg him to assist him in preservng his incognito. Therefore he hastily dressed, the while le cursed the impulse.tbat had: induced lim to return to the city of his birth, vhore everything served to remind him >f his undeserved disgrace. Absently trusting his hand in his pocket he came ipon the portrait and ring he had chained the night previous. It was with a shock of surprise that he Irew them out. for he had forgotten hem. Taking them to the window he gave hem a careful examination There could be no mistake. The portrait was that of his father, ind the ring was too familiar for him to nake an error concerning it But how ame they in the room where he had 'ound them? Who was the young woman n whose possession they apparently were? uz? If, as he supposed, she was no more than twenty-five. a she could have A- been only about seventeen when Chis father died. ?"y?fr.M, -/fftt . The portrait was ?* ?*. wml fi- taken when she wasaboutfive. It was unexplained <u~f> x*. e able> 0r- COQld Madame Dela"?*? <*"* mour be a dealer y*" , in old relics and Ctjffi &*<* ?*<* jewelry? It was /?/ worth examining into. But how? He could not stir without showing low he had obtained possession of the irticles. He returned them to his pocket and loing so encountered the slips of paper ie had found at the Bame time. Both were written upon and he was itartled by the similarity of the writing :o that of his father. He endeavored to >btain sense of what was written The >ieces were evidently torn from letters, rhe smaller one, that which he had aken from the girl's fingers, conveyed 10 intelligence to him. Dorison puzzled long over this, but :ould make nothing of it. He examined he other slip. It was in the same hand. s ? t44 iHmXiI ?^ilmiiny T-As. -tf t '/kwj'c ?/ ^"??g" "^{?)l <u. < < ?? I O Lilt ? <4 wil/Ml <S <?M <&+u*yt+i)ft I it? ^44, 84^ >I>.^41 ??|^S |,'Mi/y6 .?<? i*#U'^wO A '<? ^?/ ? <a)iM4i iri^f r>. 1.1*1. /- 1 -1 ri ? > t?m Auu ?.aXb> ?? .' t, A/ HYIIU l?>*< ar~?y/*7* |f1,,,r ?** ? /?? ?vmn? ^i~*~Vi - 1 M M? M <w? u. j<C? Cfyyii- j'-.j,, . r^ily A little more intelligence perhaps was o be gained Some one named Harold lad evidently been doing wrong and lad caused some one to pay out money o repair the consequences of the wrongloing. The more he studied the two craps of paper the more he became conrinced that the writing was that of his atber. Having exhausted speculation, he saw aw it was after eight o'clock, and thinkng it would be fully nine before he :ould reach Mr. Nettleman's office, he letermined to set out at once. He did not notice that as he set foot lpon the pavement a slight, undersized nan followed him out of the hotel, nor hat he entered the same stage he did, lor that on reaching Wall street this inlividual followed close after him and lad business in precisely the same direcion. He was too much preoccupied in he events through which he had just jassed to give heed to matters about him. As it was, the slight, undersized inlividual followed him directly to the loor of the building in which were Mr. Nettleman's offices, even ascending the itairs to the second floor, where they vere situated. The old gentleman was at his desk, inently reading the morning paper. As Jorison entered he looked up, and cried rat with animation: "Ah, is that you? Do you know that i murder was committed last night in he very house where we met?" "Yes," replied Dorison, sitting down jeside the desk. "I was still there when t was discovered. Indeed, 1 may claim ;he honor, if honor it be, of discover* ng it." "Oh," said the old gentleman, highly | interested. " Were you the one who first saw the drop of blood?" "Not that, but 1 was the one who forced my way through the rear, found the body and unfastened the door for the police." "But the papers say it was a man named Dudley?James Dudley. That is as near as the papers get to it" "The papers are right on the information given them," said Dorison. "It is about that very name I have hurried so early to see yen this morning. You will recollect 1 told you that when 1 left the city eight years ago 1 did so under an assumed name. That was the name 1 used,' and under it 1 registered when I returned to town yesterday morning." The old gentleman recollected well, and Dorison liastily recounted his fears .that the police would discover the assumed name through Mr. Nettleman if not warned in time, and giving his reasons for desiring to preserve his incognito, he begged the old gentleman to assist him in preserving it. At this poin t they were interrupted by a caller. Handing the morning paper to ? ? ?a. Li 1# i Donuon tne oiq gentleman sat uiuuteu i down with the stranger in a remote cor- ! ner of the room, where he held a whispered convention. After the stranger departed Mr. Nettleman return ad to Dorison, his fine old face wreathed in smiles. "Not a moment too soon. That was an agent of the police come to inquire about yon, just as you had anticipated. Oh, 1 was discreet! Do not be alarmed. 1 vouched for you. I assured him your name was Dudley, that you had arrived in New York yesterday morning after an eight years' absence, and I told him the one be was inquiring about was you sitting there. I threw the mantle of my friendship and protection about you." Well pleased that he had moved so promptly, and congratulating himself over his narrow escape, Dorison attempted to lead their conversation back to the subject of the evening previous, but there was another interruption. A short, stout, elderly man entered, whom Dorison at once recognized as the old man who had pushed his way into the room of the murder, with both hands in bis vest pockets, the night previous, and who had done not a little toward directing suspicion toward himself. As be entered Mr. Nettleman cried out' jocularly: "Hello, Simon the Cellarer! Come here and sit" The old man crossed the room with a contorted face, which required the aid of imagination to recognize a smile. As he sat down Mr. Nettleman in high spirits said, turning to uonson: "My yonng sir, 1 want yon to know [ this man. He is my cousin, who was brought up with ma Simon Cathcart. I call him Simon the Cellarer. Did you ever hear of Vidocq? There he is. Only a greater one. He's u ferret?a ferret, ? V nr. The old gentleman leaned back in his chair greatly amused over his own wit and the perplexed face of Dorison. All the time the sharp little eyes of the newcomer were keenly scrutinizing Dorison. "My cousin," he said slowly, "is a very funny man. He thinks it very funny that 1. who have spent my life as a detective in the west, having accumulated enough money to make me independent at least, should, having nothing in the world to do, follow from interest occasionally my old business. Well, I don't object. I get even with bim, for he has to look after my investments for the privilege of being funny at my expense. It was you," he continued, breaking off suddenly into a new subject, "who brought me here this morning." "I," cried Dorison in surprise. , "Yes. When you were giving an account of yourself last night, Cousin Nettleman was mentioned as having talked with you, and I came down to see what he knew abouj you." "You don't suppose me to be connected with the murder, do you?" asked Dorison, amused by the directness of the old man. "No. 1 know you are' not But, young man, you are not a good actor. Any one could see you were concealing something. The man who examined you saw it at once. You are an object of suspicion. You are shadowed now." "Me? Shadowed? How do you know?" "1 do know it, and that is enough," enf/1 tVio man nnaitivelv. "Ah!" cried Mr. Nettleman enthusiastically, "this is the very man to help us. Simon, do you recollect the day we went down to Coney island last summer, when 1 told you at dinner that strange thing about my old friend Dorison?' "Perfectly well." "And how he was found dead with a letter Written before him?" "Yes, charging his only son with certain crimes." "The same. And you recollect I said 1 believed the son to be innocent?" "Yes. You said that the letter was to be accounted for on one of two grounds. Either Mr. Dorison was insane, or that if he had been permitted to finish bis letter it would have been found he did not charge his son with those things." "Precisely." "And I told you that if you had stated correctly the words of that letter, the second ground fell and you'd have to stand on the first And I further said that it would be a pretty case to work up." "Precisely. Wsll, this young man is the son." There was no expression on the old man's face as he turned it upon Dorison, but his eyes showed a greater interest. "You gave the name of Dudley, last night?" he said. "Yes," replied Dorison. "That is what I was concealing. After my trouble, and when I fled the city, I ' changed my name." "1 see." "Now," said Mr. Nettleman, briskly and quite excitedly, "1 recognized him last night by a trick he lias of handling his cigar precisely as his father did, besides his strong resemblance, so I sought fcim in conversation. More than that, I have promised to aid him in trying to. get at the bottom of this mystery. Simon, will you assist?" "Yes. It's a pretty case, and it will please me to unravel it if I can." Much agitated, and not a little moved j by the enthusiasm shown, as well as the ! conviction evinced by Mr. Nettleman | that he was innocent, he failed to notice the manner in which Cathcart had taken ! the case to himself and quietly assumed I that he only could unravel it. He got i np from his chair to walk about to quiet 1 himself. As ho did so ho thrust his ! hand in his pocket and felt the portrait | and ring. j He returned quickly. "You say," he said earnestly to Mr, ! Cathcart, "that you saw I was trying to - conceal something last night?I was. I Something had occurred between the j time of my entering and my admittance I of the police which I did not speak of? 1 which I was concealing." "Ah!" said the ex-detective, interested at once. Dorison took the portrait from his j pocket and handed it to Mr. Nettleman, . saying: i "Do you know that picture?" "Do I know it? Why, of course I do. It is a picture of your father taken nearI ly thirty years ago. And a very good pic- j ' * " r% _ # 1 .4.0 \T i ? I I ture It 13. UO 1 Know n." lea, iuuccu, ; and I can tell yon who took it. Freder- ! 1 icks did. I was with your father when i J it was taken. Ho had two, one of which. j i ho gave to me. Where did you get this ! one?" Without replying, Dorison took from. ; his pocket the seal ring. "Do you recognize this?" I Much astonished, Nettleman took the j ring in his hand and examined it closely, r "I gave that ring to your father," he j said, "the.day before he was married, i He gave ? a hajf dozen of his young | friends a dinner that day, and we each made him a little present. This was mine." Be handed it back. The ex^etective was an interested observer. Dorison now asked Mr. Nettleman 1 whether he had any letters or documents in his father's handwriting. "I ought to have plenty of his letters. Let me see. 1 did all bis insurance for years. 1 gave up that business in eighteen hundred and sixty-one. Let me look at my eighteen hundred and sixty box. < You are younger than 1 am, take that 1 stepladder and hand me from that upper shelf the box with '1800' on it" * Dorison did as be was requested and 1 brought the box to the old man, who, opening it, ran over its contents and J finally picked out a letter or two. 1 Dorison handed him the two fragments of paper, saying: 1 "Please compare the handwriting on ( those two fragments of paper with my father's letters and tell me what you 1 think." 1 The old gentleman, much excited,, did so and exclaimed: ' "It is the same! There can be no ' doubt about it There is no doubt about it" ( Doriaom. reaching; out. his hand, recos.-* ered the two fragments of paper, and 1 turning to Mr. Cathcart said: "Last uight, as you know, I reached ; the room where the murder was com- ' mitted first and alone. On a small 1 round table near the sliding doors I found this portrait and the ring. In the 1 nf fl,a mnrderod nrirl WAfl t.hia | UdUU VI UUV U4 ?*w. v?> O ~~ ~ " < smaller slip of paper, which I took from i ,t On the floor this larger slip. You 1 ?n imagine my amazement on finding my father's portrait and the ring I had i 10 often as a boy seen on my father's j finger. Hardly knowing what I was do- j ing, I placed all in my pocket when 1 ] knew, the police were about to enter. ( This is what 1 was really concealing." Mr. Nettleman looked with astonish- ( aient on the young man. almost helpless < in surprise. j "A rather serious thing to do," said j ;he ex-detective, "but I think I would have done the same thing had I been in , your place." "I have no regrets now," replied Dori- ( son. "But I am puzzled to know how they got there, and what connection there could have been between that girl and my father." The ex-detective got up, and placing his hand in his vest pockets, walked up and down the room in a deep study, the others watching him as he walked. After a time he said to Dorison: "You want to find out the mystery of that unfinished letter, and to prove that the charges under which you have rested for eight years are unfounded?" "I do. most earnestly." "1 earnestly want to find out who committed that murder. I am impressed with the idea that iu the discovery of the one will be found the revelation of the other. Well, then, let us join our forces and work?give ourselves up to it and do nothing else." "There is an obstacle so far as 1 am concerned," said Dorison. "What?" "1 ain without funds. 1 work for my living, and must return to Dnbnqne to my position." "There is none," eried Nettleman. "1 have plenty, and"? The young man interrupted the impetuous proffer with an indignant gesture, saying: "I am not an object of charity." "Will you take employment from me?" asked Cathcart calmly. Perceiving the young man to hesitate, he added: "The pay will be one hundred and seventy-five dollars a month and expenses?employment to continue until the murder of last night is ferreted out." The young man's blood flushed into his face and he inclined a glance full of wonder upon the one making to him so singular a proposition. "1 mean it," added Cathcart. "I had determined to enter upon the case of the murder before 1 came here, and I foresee I shall need just such a man as you are. It will be hard work, and you will find me a hard taskmaster. I offer you small wages because there is the additional incentive in the possibility of the discovery of the secret that worries you. Come, is it a bargain?" "Where is youf profit?" asked Dorison. "That is my affair," sharply replied Cathcart, and seeing Donson's face darken, he added, "There is plenty of profit for me, but I am not going to tell how or how much." "I will accept the employment," said Dorison. "I do not see why I am pushed^ aside," said Nettleman reproachfully. "Do you think I have no interest in this matter? T . nnmmi.nHirolv vnnnC Til ftTl. return it; a pudding dish, a little flavoring extract, some baking powder, , or some oil. If they were asked if , they returned all this, they would answer : "Certainly not; why we would ] be just as glad to lend them." And ( the result is that your servants, imita- , ting youi*example, become systematic plunderers of your neighbors. My , friend, do not get into the habit of borrowing. It is one of the most vicious you can possibly acquire. It makes you lose all respect for the rights of other people, and it can certainly give you none for yourself. The persistent borrower is a more or less well spoken of thief. The borrower does not hide her light under a bushel, for in time her friends and acquaintances grow to know of her weakness and avoid her. So stop at the book, and do not permit yourself to drift into, what it is charity to call, a very bad habit. Womkn Who I'lkask Men.?Man, in many respects, is a peculiar animal, says a writer in The Ladies' Home Journal. He is easily persuaded by a woman, but cannot be driven. A o.w.l.c o imiiii'w ml miration. : WUUiiill ? uw nvcao ** ~ # and says by her demeanor or by suggestion, "Admire my beauty or my j brightness," is the woman from whom ! a man will turn quicker than from i anything else. A woman always | makes a mistake when she attempts to force her beauty or her talents upon a j man?or another woman for that mat- I ter. A woman who seeks admiration i always reminds me of a hollyhock, con- : spicuous and flaunting, and anxious to { be seen. Now, men never care for j hollyhocks. It is not a man's favorite ! flower. The violet, or a half-blown \ rose is more to his taste. Go where ; there is a company of well dressed i men in evening costume, with boutonieres, and if in season, the violet and 1 the rose will be seen upon the lapel of 1 nearly every coat. And what is true 1 with men of flowers, is true of what i he always associates with them?women. A man likes to discover a violet or a rose; he wants to find out its charm himself; he doesn't wish a directory to aid him in this, and he is very 1 am wuiyaiavi?u?; ??VM| J 0 , and what I ain I owe to the aid your father gave me over many years. That mystery which has clouded his name has been a sorrow to me these many years, and I've wanted to clear it up without seeing my way clear to beginning until now. 1 can do bat little more than contribute to the expenses of this search." "We will arrange that matter between ns," said Cathcart before Dorison could interpose a word. Then turning to the young man he said: "Do you now go straight to your hotel and stay there until I call upon you. Before you begin work I must find some means to get that shadow off your track." With this he hurried off, leaving Dorison and Nettleman together, astonished at his abrupt departure. [TO HE CONTINUED NEXT WEEk.] An Editor's Duties?The New York Journalist says: A good many people do not know that an editor's selections from his contemporaries are quite often the best test of his editorial ability, and that the function of the scissors is not merely to fill up the vacant spaces, but to reproduce the brightest and best thoughts and the most attractive news from all the sources at the editor's command. There are times when the editor opens his exchanges and finds a feast for his eyes, heart and soul. The thoughts of his contemporaies glow with life. He wishes his readers to enjoy the feast, and he lovingly takes up his scissors and clips and clips, and sighs to think that his space is inadequate to contain all the treasures so prodigally set before him. Your true editor is generous, and will sacrifice his own ambition as a writer during such festal oc- ' casions, and it is far more profit to his readers to set before them the original dish of dainties with the label of the real author affixed, than to appropriate its best thoughts to himself and reproduce them as his own. After all, the true test of a newspaper's real value is not the amount of original matter it contains, but the average quality of the matter appearing in its columns, whether originul or selected. The Longest Telegraph Lines.? The longest telegraph line in the world extends from 18 Old Broad street, London, to 29 Cable street, Calcutta, a distance of over 7,000 miles. A irentleman went into the London olfiee a short time ago, and was shown the Morse printer in connection with the main line from London to Teheran. Whilst he was there the instrument was switched on to Calcutta without a break. The signals were excellent, and the speed not less than four words per minute. The wire runs through Etnden, Warsaw,Odessa, Kerth, Triflis, I Teheran, Bushire, Jack, and Knrra- j chce to Calcutta. Another long line ; of telegraph is that over which a ea- ; blegram can be sent between British Columbia and New Zealand. The i wire crosses North America, New Foundland, the Atlantic, England, ' Germany, both in Europe ami Asia, ! China, Japan, Java, and Australia, j making nearly the circuit of the globe. | gftisdlancous Reading. ! ct ================== | ti WHAT A WOMAN CAN DO. * She can talk faster than a man can ti sear. tl She can say "No" and stick to it for I ill time. p She can also say "No" in such alow, n soft voice that it means "Yes." o She can eat her breakfast in bed and i< jnjoy it. This is something that no h nan can do. She can sharpen a lead-pencil if you jive her plenty of time and plenty of P pencils. c She can see in a great big selfish e bulk, qualities which he does not and a sever did possess. P She can dance all night in a pair of h ihoes two sizes too small for her and 0 rnjoy every minute of the time. 1 flho r>aaa a riianlav window of a dry k |/MWW M >. ? v ;oods store without stoping?if she is P running to catch a train. ^ She can appreciate a kiss from her a ausband seventy-five years after the 4 ceremony has taken place. a She can walk half the night with a P collicky baby in her arms without ance expressing the desire to murder t the infant. ' She can suffer abuse and neglect far years, which one touch of kindness or ^ consideration will drive from her recol- * lection. " She can go to church and afterwards c tell you what every woman in the <?cn- ? jregation had on, and in some rare in- * stances can give a faint; idea what the I text was. c She can look her husband square in * the eyes when he tells her some cock- fl and-bull story about being "detained * at the office," without betraying in the c least that she knows <him to be a colos- 1 sal liar. 1 She can rumple up $17,000 worth of * dress goods and buy a spool of thread, r with an order to have it delivered four 1 miles away', in a style that will trans- J fix the proprietor with admiration. * She can go into convulsions at the 3ight of a mouse, and five minutes la- ? ter she can listen to her husband's ( 3tory of his financial ruin with a lov- I ing smile on her face and with a cour- 1 age in her heart that comes not within the knowledge of men. She can?but what's the> use ? A woman can do anything and everyJ ^QKo nar Ha tU!Ug, UUU UU 11/ 1TWI. uuu Uv more in a minute than a man can do in an hour, and do it better. She can make the alleged lords of creation bow to her own sweet will, and they Will never know it. Yes, a woman can do everything, with but one exception : she cannot climb a tree. ORIGIN OF PORTER*HOUSE STEAK. A porter house steak, as everybody knows, is part sirloin a?d part tenderloin. Its origin is given in De Voe's "Market Book," as follows: "Martin Morrison kept a favorite porter house at No. 327 Pearl street, New York, near the old Walton House. It was a popular resort with many of the New York pilots, because here they were always sure of a pot of ale or porter and a 'hot bite,' including one or two substantial dishes. On one occasion in 1814, Morrison had had an unusual number of calls for steaks, and when an old pilot who dropped iA at a late hour called for something substantial to eat, he was forced to cut from a sirloin roasting piece ^that he had got for the next day's family dinner. The old pilot relished his steak amazingly and called for another. This disposed of, he squared himself iu front of his host and vociferated: "Look ye here, messmate; arter this I want my steaks off the roasting piece ! Do you hear that ?' The old pilot's companions soon learned to appreciate these cuts, and it was not long before they were all insisting on having them. Accordingly Morrison's butcher, Thos. Gibbons, of the Fly . Market, asked him why he had ceased ( to order the large sirloin steaks. Mor- ( rison explained that he had found that j the cuts from the small end of the sir- ( loin of beef suited his customers best, } both in size and quality, and directed ( that thereafter, instead of sending him ( the sirloin roasts uncut, he would have ] tV.nm nnf intn s>Vmna nr sfpilks as he IKC1U VUV tUVV %>a ???.. ^ should direct. Gibbons daily order, j 'Cut steaks for the porter house,' soon ] gave these the names of porter house , steaks, by which they became known ^ all through the Fly Market, especially , as this excellent cut rapidly became j popular in all the public houses of the the city." The name is now familiar | wherever the English language is j spoken. , THE HABIT'OP BORROWING. 1 It is the easiest thing in the world to ! begin by borrowing a newspaper, then ' a pattern; then a recipe, then a book ; ! some day a gown is borrowed to look ! at; another day one is borrowed to try on to see if it would be becoming, then ' a little note goes asking that a fan be lent; and the fan once borrowed it becomes the easiest thing in ti e world to get either a bodice, a bonnet, or a pair 1 of gloves. Now, when you began, if anybody had told you that you were a ' moral thief, you would have been most indignant; and yet that is just what you are. It would be much more hon- ' est to borrow your neighbor's money and never return it, than to keep up a j constant borrowing of your neighbor's , belongings, getting out of them the j wear that is not yours and the pleasure , that is by rights your neighbor's. : What the mistress does, the maid does. ] In the kitchen they do not hesitate to ] n Tintont rott'ee not. and never i ontemptuous of the woman who here, bere and everywhere asks his admiraion. The women who are popular nth men are the women who impress bem with their womanliness, and by bis is meant that something that says do not thrust myself forward, but, erhaps, if you find me ydu may like le." Men have always liked voyages f discovery, and they like to seek the leal woman and not have her thrust er greatness upon them. The Mormons.?The activity of the roselyting Mormon apostles is indiated by the expenditure for their travls back and forth across the country nd the transportation of their discilea. It is estimated that two roads ave earned $250,000 from this class . f traffic alone within the past year. ,'hese roads are the Union Pacific and be Kansas City, Fort Scott and Memhis. The Memphis route brings the oreigners from the southern Atlantic eaports, ana ine uluuu xruviuu hem from Kansas City to the Mormon ettlements in the great West. Enough roselytes pass through Kansas City 11 a year, says The Times of that city, o keep the Mormon colonies in the Vest'ever thriving. Regularly every two weeks the conrerts from foreign lands pass through Cansas City in bands of from seventyLve to 100. They are in charge always f an elder who is sent by the MorQons of Utah to work in Europe. Lbout once every six months these iroselyting elders return to the old ountry after now flocks. They leave Lmerica in bands. About eight weeks go one of these parties passed through Cansas City going eastward. It was :ompo8ed of about seventy-five old, nen and women, who shunned all Genile contact. As fruit of the labor on he other side over 5,000 converts have eached Kansas City in about fifteen nonths. A large number of them lave been women. They come mostly rom the. European peasant classes, rhe men look lazy, and the women ire almost beasts of burden. The ellers in charge of the flocks will not >ermit Gentiles to talk to their charges nore than is absolutely necessary. Cigarettes.?Cigarettes are not ade out of the best tobacco in the vorld in the first place, and to make lp the deficiency in flavor it is placed ibove burning opium so that the 'umes thoroughly permeate it. Every >rand of cigarettes on the market conains more or less opium. This is the aste that boys learn to love, and it is 10 way akin to that of pure tobacco. Burning paper generates oil of creoote, a deadly poison. The cigarette s lighted and the smoke inhaled. The obacco leaves on the lungs a sediment >f nicotine, which will kill a dog. The japer deposits oil of creosote. The umes of opium, ardused by the fire, :rystalize into opium again. The ungs are the great verandas of the mman temple, where the heart takes in airing once every second. The iigarette smoker stuffs his heart with licotine, opium and oil of creosote ivery time it gasps for purification; 5iant Caesar's ghost?it will be your fhost if you keep on. It is doubtftil f the desire ever leaves one who has >een an habitual user of 4he travesty >n the habit the Indian taught us. To luit is to enter a torment like that of he desert straggler. To continue is ,o shove yourself into the grave, and naybe further. There's something else, i flower grows in Japan, one breath of phose fragrance will kill a man; there ire beings here at home, one whiff of tvhose breath will make another man wish he was dead, which is wicked. Therefore the cigarette smoker is a leadlier evil than the flower of Japan, lince he prompts injury to the souls of >tber folks. He Was Every Inch a Soldier. ?A good story is told on one of the jfficers connected with a local militia ;ompany. For a number of days be 'ore the inspection of tne citizen soiliery the officer in question would each ifternoon retire to the privacy of his >wn bedchamber in the second story of )f his residence, and after dressing limself in full regimentals, would put in imaginary company of soldiers through a lively course of drilling. He would clasp his sword at the hilt Evith one hand and at the point with ;he other, and then walked backward is if viewing the alignment of his troops. It so happened that while going through this manoeuvre one afternoon be walked abackward into an open stairway, and tumbled into a heap on the floor of the room below, and presented anything but a soldierly and lignified appearance as he lay there rubbing his bruises. His good wife was u the room attending to some housek~lrl o.i/i oho rnahprl t/? the side UU1U U U j (*14 VI 044V . uw?wv. WW of the fallen hero, and in anxious and tender voice asked him if he were hurt. With a quick bound her husbuand regained his feet, and coming to an "at;ention," in a voice of thunder roared out: "Hurt? No, woman ; what do you know about war ?" and then ran sack up stairs and dismissed his soliiers. Yellow Pine.?The assertion is made by the workers in ornamental wood that yellow pine, hard fininished n oils, is the r^val in beauty of appearauce of any wood that grows, not excepting the costliest of the well known hard species, it being susceptible of receiving, and maintaining as high a degree of polish as any known wood, while, when impregnated with oil, it is well nigh indestructible. In such a condition it is found, in fact, to possess the valuable property of being impervious even to hot grease and other substances that leave an ineffaceable stain upon such a great varifty ef woods, including white pine, maple, etc. The yellow pine characterized by the valuable quality referred to, is the long-leaf pine, or pinus australis, in technical classification, and which grows so abundantly in parts of the South; and, as trees are found in this species having a curled grain somewhat similar to that of "curly maple," no other wood, it is asserted, is capable of being fashioned into more beau tiful work for cabinet purposes. very large tree, one of the largest in California, the country of big trees, was discovered near Arlington, Snohomish county, a few days ago. ft is a cedar, and measures sixty-eight feet in circumference. Around the knotty roots the tree measures ninetynine feet. About seventy-five feet from the ground it forks into four immense branches, and just above the forks is a big knot hole. Five met climbed into the hole and explored the interior of the tree. It was found to be a mere shell, and about forty-five feet down it would ufiord standing room for forty men. The tree is still green, and a remarkable feature is said to be that it is barked on the inside and outside alike. ?e?F' Genuine sorrow is sometimes expressed so strangely that the listener finds it hard not to smile. A cose in point is mentioned by a clergyman. While passing a summer vacation in a thinly setled portion of Maine, he was called upon to officiate at the funeral of a farmer who had died, leaving a widow with whom he had lived in wedlock for nearly half a century. After the service the widow came to the side of the coffin for a last look at the face of the departed, and as she stood there she heaved a deep sigh, and turned to the clergyman to say, with perfect simplicity, "Wall, I ruther liked him." *lit