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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | Sit Jndcpcndfnt ^iniilij $twspapfr: Jfoi; flic promotion of the ?olificiil, Social, ^fjiitultural and <$omntcrtial Jnlcrcsfs of the ^onflt. | TERMS?$2.00 A YEAR IN ADVANCE. VOL. 38. YOBKVILLE, 8. C., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 3Q, 1893. NO. 13. # elected foetri). YOUR TROUBLES. Keep your troubles to yourself; Put them on an upper shelf Far as it may be, Where no eye but God's can see. Other people have their share Of affliction, pain and care; Why should you, though sorely tried, Burden them with yours beside? Daily brooding o'er your grief In no way affords relief. But intensities the smart, Turn the arrow in the heart. Think of others who have known Greater sorrows than your own Keeping all their wounds concealed, Heroes on life's battle-field! Give of treasures you pos-ess, Loving care and tenderness, Cheerful smiles and sordid pelf, But keep your troubles to yourself. ?New York Ledger. ^ 4 r%S A g JSrrul Jtorii. uis second an. j By MAURICE THOMPSON. (Copyright, ISBI. by American Press Aasoclation.l CHAPTER XIX. AT THE SPK1KO AGAIN. M A .".jV ^ 'i.?, j "Vou ore a murderer and an OMsasaln." ; It was not ontil after the agreement had been made touching the abandonment of the old mill that Rosalie began to feel something of her early love for the "pocket" retaining in the shape of a tender, sorrowful regret. She clambered along the little stony path up to the , spring where she used to sit and read the j romances and poems of knightly days, j bat she took no book with her now. It 1 was with greater difficulty than formerly that she surmounted the big fragments of mountain stone and the mossy logs that lay in the way. Her neatly fitting black dress was not fashioned for snch freedom of action, and then, per- 1 haps, these months of indoor life and physical restriction may have eliminated 1 UIUD Vi UUA UUUUAU U5UKUVW VI WVTV 1 ment. As she passed along under the green pines and red brown oaks, she heard a ' cardinal grosbeak whistling shrilly, and I some bluejays were chattering in the thickets along the hillside. The brook brawled over its stones and slipped across its sandy shallows in the old happy way. 1 The sharp fragrance of pine resin, and the fine, rare odor of liquid amber gum filled the air How long ago it seemed, that last time she was here, and what a world lay between then and now! She , sat down npon the gray lichen blotched ' stone where Ellis had found her when ; be was skulking from the detectives, it ; was with a thrill that she recollected that meeting and what followed. The tall, handsome, brigandish fellow, armed to the teeth, iinn, alert, ready for a daring deed, had left a strong romantic impression in her memory. Along with the thought came its fragrance, so to speak. . and she felt a warm blush of maidenly shame tingle in her cheeks at recalling the mysterious pleasure his loverlike actions bad given her. She rested her elbows upon her lap and bid her face in her hands. Just then a rich, manly voice called her name. "Rosalief It was so infinitely tender and mosicall She loo!., d rp quickly, with a great throbbing in her breast. "Rosalie!" it repeated. Ellis stood before her, dressed in a short gray jacket and loose trousers, a brown sportsman's shirt nr.J a dark scarlet scarf; heavy top boots and a wide 1 brimmed brown felt bat completed ms attire, and be bore in his right band a long alpenstock, while on bis left shoulder was slang a light rifle. There were tboee same fearless dark eyes, the olive cheeks, the drooping mustache, the Arm, well set chin, the tall, strong fonn. She almost leaped to her feet, then, feeling a sadden weakness, sat down again. *1 dreamed last night that you would be here in this dear place, and 1 have come all the way over the mountain to find you, Rosalie." He said this slowly, with a vibration in his voice that gave it great power "Yon ought not to have come," she responded, meeting his eyes with an appeal in her own, and throwing something almost of bitterness into her tone. '1 did not waut to see you." 'Why, Rosalie, why?" he exclaimed, sitting down near her; "what have 1 done to offend you? Tell me. tell me!" He was already growing pale. She sprang to her feet; she was weak no longer; her eyes flashed. "Vnn are 11 tunrderer. an assassin, and dare to ask tne what yon have done! You who struck Colonel Talbot in the night when he was" 'Miss Chenier!" he exclaimed, rising as he spoke, 'what do you mean?" She looked steadily, passionately at him. Presently she cried: "What do 1 mean? You know what 1 meant Oh. Mr. Ellis, 1 could not have believed you so wicked!" 'Rosalie?Mins Chenier?you are certainly laboring under some horrible mistake," be said in a hoarse voice and involuntarily taking a 6tep nearer her. I "Won't you explain" "Let your own conscience, if you have i one"? "Miss Chenier, 1 do not know what you mean," lie emphatically cried. "What I mean! what 1 mean!" she disdainfully repeated. "Can it be possible," he slowly ex- : claimed, as if something were dawning npon his mind, "can it be possible that you are accusing me of doing that injury to Colonel Talbot from which he is still so mysteriously suffering? Good heavens, Rosalie!" ho added after a few moments of silence, during which time his eyes did not turn from her face, "how terri- ! bly you have wronged me!" Her eyes searched his with an intensity that nothing hut utter innocence could have withstood, it would seem, j and yet he bore it without a waver. He seemed, indeed, to meet it and welcome it "1 would rather you would kill me outright than for you to insinuate so awful a charge." he went on, feeling the poverty of language in so great a need, j His voice began to gather up its fascinating sweetness and flexibility. Rosalie faltered and trembled as the ! magnetism of his unshrinking face overcame her. She sank down upon the j stone pale and exhausted. He was by her 6ido in a moment. "Explain this mystery, this dark, hor- j rible insult to my honor, Rosalie!" ho pleaded, speaking rapidly and passionately. "How could jou ?et such a thing | into your mind? Wbo has been poison- | I ing yon against me by hinting 6uch a ' malicious and unfounded accusation?" ! "'No one," 6he said; "no one. 1?1 thought you did it." "But how could you?" he impatiently | cried; "1 can't see how you could. S i Whatever started you to thinking it?" j I "We saw you following us." she said ; scarcely above a whisper. "Following you?ns? whom do you mean?" "Colonel Talbot and me." she an- | swered. i "Following you where?" "That night in the street?the night j be was hurt." "Following you the night he was i hurt! Why, Rosalie, I was not in Savannah that night 1 did not know he was hurt till 1 saw the papers next day i was at Jessup that night." There was 6uch a ring of surprised ( and injured innocence?such a reproach in his voice?that she felt her heart ; shrink and flutter. I "If you are innocent?if 1 have : wronged you ? forgive me!" 6he exclaimed. She rose as she spoke, and for a moment stood before him in a faltering attitude. "It may all bo cleared up some time, i cannot see you any more until it is. 1 hope you are innocent, ; but, but?I?1 believe you are guilty." He sprang up. The pallor in his face was awful. His eyes shot clear flames. TJio oKnnlro Ori/1 fnrAhpfl/1 RAPniAf] tfl shrivel. "It is a liel a damned infernal lie! i j will not bear it!" His lips were flecked with froth. "And this from you. Rosa- j lie!" he cried; "from you whom 1 love ! more than all the world! My God, can you believe this? If all the world were ! marshaled against me to believe a lie, 1 would turn to you for" "Hush!" she said, almost sternly; and yet the regretful gentleness broke through her voice. "Hush! If you are innocent j time will prove it. Go back to Savannah i and solve this mystery. Go back and find the true murderer or would be murderer of Colonel Warren Talbot, and then I will hear of your friendship, and not till then!" Her words seemed to have the power to spin hirn away to an infinite distance from her. He recoiled as if 6he had stabbed him. For a moment he hesitated. then in a dry. strange voice he said: "If the villain who struck Colonel j Talbot is above ground I will find him." He turned about as he fiuished speaking, and strode away through the woods. "Mr Ellis!" Rosalie called out after him. He stopped and looked back. She hesitated. She liardly knew what she wanted to say to him. "Do not bo angry, please," she quavered. "Never think of?of revenge again, will you?" Her voice was thin I and mournful, like the cry of the drab i vireo beyond her in the dusky wood. A sort of 6mile shot across his bloodless face. He Btood a mere point of ; time, then resumed his way and disap- 1 Twirod amid the trees. A strance. drear silence followed. Rosalie returned to the mill with a great weight upon her heart. She could not feel that she had done wroug, and yet she wished that the meeting could have been avoided. The pallid face of Ellis haunted her. CHAPTER XX. AT LOVE'8 GATE. They talked over all their past lives. Mrs. Roosevelt felt the need of hastes ing the departure from the "pocket, but notwithstanding her efforts it Wi toward the middle of February whe everything was ready. There had be. many things to do. Colonel Chenie) . library, so rich in mediaeval poetry ar. 1 romance, was 6ent away in large boxes to Savannah. Rosalie assisted in the packing and peeped into the old French tomes and manuscript rolls with something like her former relish. It seemed j to her that every one of these contained some half suppressed allusion to the land 1 of her dreams. No doubt it was quite natural for her thus to cheat herself, ior j all the old romauces were full of chateaux and olive groves and vineyards, where knights rode in pleasant lanes be- j side their lady loves, or played the lute 1 under the walls by moonlight, or gal- | loped away to the wars with a warm kiss tingling on their bearded lips. And had not her father been reading these to her from her childhood, and telling her about Chateau Chenier and her knightly ancestors who dwelt in the land of the mistral and the troubadour? What vivid pictures, too, the strong descriptive talks of Edgar Julian had given I her of those crumbling walls, those fer vid skies und those orchard crowned, breezy hills! Her visions were none the less fair and enticing seen through the haze of her sorrow. She did not go to the spring any more, for though she felt suro that Ellis had gone away, she shrank from seeing even the spot where she had witnessed his awful passion. When the time at last came for going back to Savannah, it was not with any well defined regret that she bade farewell to the mill and the little crisp valley. Adelaide seemed much affected, . and quietly wept all the way over the mountain. Colonel Chenier suffered too, but he sternly controlled himself, even calmly talking with Aunt Marguerite as the carriage boro them through the devious way umong the hills and gray-green groves of oaks and pines. The ltoosevelt mansion had grown to bo Rosalie's home, and she was like a child just returned from a long journey when she again found herself in her stately and spacious room. Adelaide was quiet and sad, but Colonel Chenier, 1 taken unawares by Mr. Roosevelt's cordial friendliness and hospitality, wjis tempted out of his gloom. He was uat- j urally a companionable man, generous and courteous, and it required very little to draw out all his latent good qualities. He and Mr. Roosevelt met as though nothing disagreeable had ever existed between them; they talked over all their past lives, saving that they quietly ignored that unfortunate quarrel One thing curiously affected Rosalie. It was the absence of Edgar Julian. She had expected to find him at Roosevelt Place, and she had counted much on the pleasure his descriptions of Provence and Chateau Chenier would give her father. To find that he was gone was a real blow ' to her "Ho would not stay any longer," said Mr. Roosevelt as they all sat at dinner; "I tried to prevail on him to make his home in Savannah, offered him a big salary, witli leave to do general practice besides, but he seemod to have grown homesick or tired of the south. lie got into a difficulty with young Ellis, too. and that made him miserable." Rosalie asked no questions?she did not care to hear further, but Mildred Fain told her all the particulars when | they met. Poor Mildredl she looked j like a shadow. The physicians were ! still hanging over Colonel Talbot, and j still declaring his recovery quite possible, though as yet lie had not regained consciousness. Rosalie felt herself in some sort to blame for all the suffering of Colonel Talbot and Miss Fain, and keeping the secret of that moonlight walk inclosed in her breast had generated a sense of guilt which gnawed at her conscience. "If Colonel Talbot dies." she sometimes thought, "l shall be accessory to his murder?if not in purpose, still in ! fact." It rendered her extremely wretched to hear Miss Fain talk, for although she rarely mentioned her lover directly, all her thoughts tended toward him, and she evidently bore all his ^fferings with The newspapers announflwkothat Ellis had returned to Savannah, o? Rosalie ! saw nothing of him. Some^Unes she found herself wondering if itfeould be j that he was innocent of the fcrime of which she had accused him. tbuch a thing was not impossible, and ^et 6he felt sure that she could not have been mistaken in recognizing him as he followed? her and Talbot, like a ^nister sbnJIow, on that lovely and nevelfcto-beforgotten night. One d&y, about a week, after her return to Roosevelt Place, Rosalie was sittinfr -it- window rending? in one of her ""6 **v Mv* ""?v.. - ???o father's favorite romances, or rather she had been reading and was now idly gazing into the street below, when a carriage rolled slowly by. A servant in livery was driving. Inside were a noble looking middle aged man, a fair, plump, lovely girl, and Prank Ellis. She had 6een this man once before, and knew he was Sir Edmond Kane; the young lady, as she rightly supposed, was Miss Ellen, Sir Edmond's daughter. Ellis seemed quite happy, as did also the others, their faces smiling, their conversation nppar- 1 ently animated and free. The English girl was charmingly dressed, and her face, though not beautiful, was high bred and fascinating, and her form was 6uperb A strange feeling crept over Rosalie .as she looked down upon this passing group It was like a breath of exquisite sorrow or regret; her heart ' 6eemed to fall low in her breast and flutter painfully. Some sweet thing her fancy had been nursing slipped away from her. Ellis turned his eyes toward the house. She retreated from the window for fear he might see her; then she 6ank into a chair and cried, she knew not why. Life seemed to her to be ; growing hollow and meaningless; its | zest had slipped uway. like a perfume from a withering flower. She began to be restless and impatient for the time to come rouud when she and her father, with Aunt Marguerite and Adelaide, would go across the sea, but the thought of the journey pleased her more on account of the distance it would give than for any joy which it promised at its end. So the days slipped past, until at last a letter came to her from Edgar Julian. "1 did not get to say goodby to you," \ he wrote, "therefore I take the liberty to write this instead. 1 lingered along the road homeward among the battlefields of Georgia and Tonuessee, but 1 found no pleasure in what 1 saw. 1 seemed to miss something which would have made even the brown hills churming. When 1 crossed the Ohio river 1 i met a great snowstorm, sent down from UlllCUgO lo welcome me, aiiu quite bwu the ground was covered a foot deep with the white fleece of winter. Here the streets are all ice und snowbanks, and as I write the wind is blue with cold and is howling like a pack of hungry wolves. 1 am dissatisfied and wish 1 were back j in Savannah, on your uncle's wide veranda, with the salt air blowing over mo and the palm trees rustling their spread- ' ing fans hard by. 1 don't believe I am a northern man any longer; the worry and hurry of Chicago does not satisfy my especial hunger. May 1 come back? I think 1 could bo less trouble to all you hospitable and patient southerners now; | this great distauoe has brought out in i strong relief all my faults and all your goodness. How infinitely warm and comforting, how perfumed and luxuriant, how breezy, how 6hady, how inviting is the whole south, now that 1 have left itl "1 have the hot air register wide open in my room and a big coal fire on the hearth, and yet I am freezing! Won't you and Mrs. Roosevelt please invite me to come back? I could run on errands for you, and make myself reasonably useful, and I would try and not be much in the way. "1 heard Gerster sing last night, and Litta the night before, but 1 would rather be in that dim old parlor in . Roosevelt Place and hear 'La Mandore;' I my spirit is there now?do you not often hear it rustling around in its favorite ! places? 1 stopped at Calhoun and Resaca as 1 came home, and while there I in- ; quired for the Chenier mill, and found it ! was only thirty miles distant. The temptation to visit it was very great, but I resisted. 1 always do resist at the wrong time. "Frankly, 1 want to say that I am unfit for business since returning, and 1 think of nothing but how I shall get back to Savannah without offending my own 6ense of the fitness of things. 1 have been worse since seeing in a Savannah paper yesterday a notice in the personal column of your return to Roosevelt Place. True, the paper was two weeks old when 1 got it, but it had its effect all the same. "You will not bo offended if 1 6ay that i find life a burden where you are not to be seen and heard. 1 want to talk with you and hear you 6ing. I have thought, since 1 came here, of a hundred things I forgot to tell you about Provence and Chateau Chenier, and I have wondered how 1 passed so much time with you and said so little. What did wo ever talk {about? 1 remember nothing, save our last conversation, and even that had no end?it was left in a mist. 1 told you 1 loved vou. but 1 did not und could not tell you how deep and strong that love was, how it had become the very life of my life. My lips refused then, as my pen does now, to express how dear you are to me. Forgive me if this letter seems foolish to you. 1 cannot see my way to any better mode of action than this simple statement of the truth. 1 trust you to respect my sincerity, even if you must cast aside my love as something not worth your keeping." Rosalie read this in her own room, read it ami reread it., with a quickened pulse and a sweet sense of its half hopeful, half despairing spirit. It brought , Edgar Julian before her, just as she had seen him last; his strong, handsome, truthful face full of passionate tenderness for her. She could not think clearly; her heart throbbed almost painfully. Adelaide came in presently and Rosalie gave her the letter to read. "Do you love him, Rosalie?" the sister asked after she had finished. "I?1?don't know." was the stammered reply. "I think you ought to know," said Adelaide; "love is no light thing Is lie handsome?' "No, not very?not handsome as they describe handsome men; hut he is tall and strong and noble looking, and he is noble, great hearted, true." "I believe you love him," said Adelaide, gazing soarehingly into Rosalie's eyes, "and 1 am sorry of it." Rosalie did not answer. Her beautiful bright head drooped and her eyes filled with tears. "1 do not see how you can love a northerner," Adelaide continued; "especially one who was in Sherman's army. Whenever 1 think of those Indians who burned our home and reduced us to poverty, the gash in my arm seems to open afresh and I hate every soul in the north! Then poor papa with his wounds and his disfigurements" "Oh," moaned Rosalie, "1 know, 1 , know! Oh, I wish 1 had never, never left the pocket,' Adelaide, I am so very very wretched 1" Adelaide took Rosalie's head between her hands and drew it gently down upon her bosom. She knew what love was. A soldier's grave held one to whom her life had been pledged. "Don't cry," she gently said; "if you love him it's all right, dear. It was wrong for me to say these things. It's all right; you mustn't mind my ill matured words. You oughtnot to suffer on my account. No doubt Mr. Julian is a good and true man." "Yes, he is," said Itosaliequickly, lifting her head and wiping away her tears; "he is just as honorable and good as he can be." Adelaide still kept her hands clasping Rosalie's face between them with a gentle, loving pressure. "But you do love him. sister?" she murmured softly. Rosalie suddenly blushed. "I do not know if 1 love him," 6he naively said, "but I should dearly love to see him again. 1?1 think a great deal of him." Adelaide felt the influence of her sister's freshness as she faltered trembling and bewildered in the midst of this great new experience. CHAPTER XXL ADELAIDE ItECOIXECTS. Th ^at daring, devilish uoldtcr lad who Ktabhcd her with a bayonet. Rosalie found it difficult to know what she ought to write to Edgar Julian, if she ought to write at all. He had been so kind to her. and she respected his honorable frankness so much, that, even if she could not say she loved him, she felt generously anxious not to wound him. But she really longed to see him. He had filled a large space in her life, o?w1 liml vpvf!?](>(! to lior a most interest in# contrast uh his ultra northern traits of character struck sharply ngainst southern obstacles; not that she had traced and defined this contrast or drawn any conclusion from it, but she had felt his superior knowledge of affairs, his sturdy truthfulness, his faith in tho future of America, his belief iu tho value and nobleness of labor, his genuine respect for the common people, and, on the other hand, his rich imagination and his tender eloquence. She could not realize the bitter memories nursed by her father and sister touching tho dark btruggle for the Lost Cause. She had no past to mourn over. The future and the present were hers. She naturally enough had fallen in love with northern ways. It seemed to her that the world was made for earnest, persistent people to take and enjoy; she believed in freedom as the war had fixed it?iu free education, free thought, free men and women. She was not aware that Edgar Julian had influenced her to believe in these things; the doctrine seemed quite as much her own as the old Provencal cross; Julian had been simply a restorer of things lost?a reviver of things in abeyance. Rosalie keenly realized what her answer to Julian's letter must docide. She puzzled her miud to discover some happy way out of the dilemma. She asked herself over and over again, "Do 1 love him?" and just as often she shrank away from the responsibility of saying yes or no. Her heart trembled, she hesitated, faltered, dreamed. So the days went by while Edgar Julian Bhivered through the Chicago snowstorms waiting for a letter. He, too, was wrestling with a problem. He did not shrink from acknowledging his love?ho gloried in it?but he did not feel safe in rushing back to Savannah, nor did he feel content to stay away. A man in love must be allowed some latitude of foolishness, and we ought to consider that each in stance ot love trouoie nas lissentuneuuu peculiarities Julian had uttered the simple trutli when he wrote that ho wus "unfit for business since returning." No man could have been more preoccupied all the time, more restless, more inclined to wave affairs aside and to give himself over to his fancies. The letter he was waiting for was a long while coming, and when it did come it only gave emphasis to his difficulty "Your letter." Rosalie wrote, 'has been hero for a good while. You will forgive mo for not answering it sooner when 1 say frankly to yon that 1 have been dreadfully at a loss as to my duty in the matter. 1 very much desire to bo kind and good to you, but my selfishness has interposed itself all the time. On one hand I must not, 1 cannot, tell you to come back; on the other hand 1 should be delighted to see you and talk with you. 1 did not know until 1 returned that you had gone away, and J missed you so much that 1 became restless. You had better not come back, 1 think, for it would be unpleasant to you. unless you could repress and forget everything beyond our charming friendship. I prize you above all my friends, and frankly, 1 hardly know why, unless it is because yon have humored my selfishness and fed my Provencal fancies as no ono el so save papa ever has. 1 shall bo very unhappy if 1 lose you. and yet it would not be right for me to make you hope for what might never come. "I r&SJJ&Cl you IUU hlUUUICiJ nut lu UD precisely frank if I knew how; but I have vainly tried to make up some phrase or other expressive of my feelings. The best 1 can do is to say that 1 hope you will not come back till you have determined to bo my good, strong, generous friend, and nothing beyond. 1 could not bear to have you come in any other way, and yet 1 hope you will come. Our little garden is full of flowers and the air is very sweet with their perfumes. "Papa and my sister Adelaido are iiere with us. We are going to Europe in July ?to Provence, of course. Aunt Marguerite is going along as guardian and chaperon for Adelaide and me. Won't you write me and tell mo those things about Chateau Chenier that you say you forgot to tell me while you were here? 1 am sorry to have to refuse you anything, but 1 cannot see how any good could ever come of permitting you to return, so long as you feel as you say you do. You wouldn't enjoy being here, and that would make me very unhappy. My century plant is in bloom. (Jive my love to Mrs. Largely Your friend, "ItOSAl.lH ClIKXtKlt." Julian read this letter with a queer mist in his eyes, lie could not find much comfort in its half girlish, half stilted sentences, and yet he would not have had a word changed for anything. Ho imagined ho could trace Rosalie's innocent frankness and freshness between the lines. Ho sat and gazed into a big blazing lire for hours after ho had learned the letter by heart. Her elastic, graceful figure and warm bright face came up before him; ho saw her gray brown eyes and straw gold hair; ho heard her low, sweet voice. Did shelovo him? Ho read the letter again, pulled his mustache, frowned, smiled, read again, gazed into the lire almost fiercely, looked at his watch, went and packed his traveling bag and took the next train for the south. When he got to Savannah ho went to the Pulaski House, lie did not care to rush in unaware upon tlio household at I Roosevelt Place, especially since the I j Cheniers hail come there. He sent his j I card to the house. An hour or two later I Mrs. Roosevelt called for him in a car- i riage. She was glad to see him. Rosalie J had gone to Jacksonville with Mr. i j Roosevelt, but would be back tomorrow. He was introduced to Colonel Chenier ' 1 and Adelaide, and despite his predeter- j i initiation to the contrary, was again in- | ] stalled as one of the household. You ! cannot live in a hotel in thesouthif your southern friend h.is a house. Colonel Chenier and Edgar Julian i were on good terms at once. A mutual I ' friendliness, a soldierly comradeship, a j shaking of hands on common ground. | took piuce between inem. Adelaide, while not avoiding him, was J dignified and shy, seeming to view him : ! askance, as if doubting whethershe ought I j to trust him, or as if trying to overcome , | an impulse toward hating him. Julian, j on the coutrary, felt a warm interest in i | this dark, sad faced girl at once, and he ' ; was not slow to show it Against his i kindly assaults reserve was a poor shield. I Without seeming to be adroit or artful he reached her womanly nature at every unguarded point. He assumed the place of a big, amiable, interesting brother, ; who meant to draw his out of her | ] gloom. Mr. Roosevelt and his niece wore dei iayed a week in Jacksonville?a very long week of dreamy, drowsy weather, ! I the flowers bursting out and the mocking j i birds singing in every orange grove and j dusky fig orchard. Julian prevailed on Adelaide to walk ' with him iu Forsyth park, and to drive I with him to the several charming sub- j urban resorts. He found her wiser in i the ways of the world than Rosalie? ! quicker to catch hidden meanings in I things?a strong, self poised woman, in ! fact. If she u'as not Btrictly beautiful Bhe was attractive, and gave him to see that she possessed a reserve of culture a little faltering on account of long disuse. One morning they sat together on one j of the pine benches near the fountain in Forsyth park, and by some chance J ulian got upon the subject of his war experiences, and after the fashion of ex-sol- j diers told over many of his adventures. He had n fascinating way of presenting i | these personal reminiscences in the form i | of sparkling sketches. Adelaide recoiled i a little now and then, but his coloring I was so liberal to the south that she could j not be affronted. She began to grow strangely used to hiui, if one may so ex- I press it; his face, his movements, bis ; personal effect, seemed to antedate, in . ! 6ome way. her acquaintance with him. j | As he went over again In a boyish freaks in the army she saw him more us a boy j soldier than as a man. and he had a curiously familiar look. A few northern tourists were abroad ' iu the park, sauntering up and down the i | shaded walks and dallying around the j flower decked fountain. Some mocking I j birds were Kinging ecstatically in me ; treetops overhead. Suddenly, without any definite fore- ! j warning, by one of those inexplicable cerebral tricks, Adelaide recognized Jul j ian us that daring, devilish soldier lad > i who stubbed her with a bayonet and j ; burned her father's mansion. The knowledge came upon her as the I apparition of death or some numbing j calamity. The blood went out of her face, and she grew weak, trembled, "drew her breath heavily, and clutched the back of the bench for support. Julian instantly became aware of this change. He was startled. "You are ill," ho exclaimed; "what is it? 1 will call a carriage." "No, no," she said faintly; "in a moment it will be over. It is a mere faint- j ness. Do not be alarmed." She struggled bravely and conquered i more than he dreamed of. Presently she | smiled, and added: "It has passed already; it was quite j sudden. Let us return, if you please." "But you are not strong enough to I walk," he insisted. "Oli, yes," she 6aid, rising and stand- { j ing firmly before him; "1 can walk as ; : well us ever. I am quite over it. 1 assure i you." They returned to Roosevelt Place, j Julian lightly talking, and she answer- j I ing in monosyllables. CHAPTER XXII. A FKltVID LOVKIL " row vivst not!" she said. Nearly all the remarkable traits of I southern character, good and bad, had ; I rounded to full ripeness in Francis Whitcombo Ellis. lie had the gift of oratory | the luxuriant, untrained imagination, ' tho fierce love of fight, the ambition for wealth, tho medkeval notion of honor, no regard whatever for truth in the abstract. a perfect faith in tho purity of i j women, an absolute punctuality in keep- j j ing his word simply on tho scoro of con- j ventional honor, and a reverence for j ! everything pertaining to southern aristocracy, only equaled by his hatred of , everything northern and his high disdain i J of manual labor and all forms of mero breadgetting effort. To balanco these I characteristics, ho was generous, bravo. I i courteous to those whom he liked, tender j hearted, full of warm sympathies and laudable impulses, charmingly compan- { ionable, and possessed of tho gift called | "magnetism." by which ho had made his way to his present wealth and power in ! an incredibly .short space of time. Ilo j had been aided at every step by good i j Inek, as such men seem always to be, as well as by tho fine intuition of a born genius, if tho mero power to control and \ combine may be called genius. He loved Rosalie Chenier with a pas- i sion like intensified fire whenever he j , thought of her but once his thoughts [ i turned from her, he did not lovo her at j all. lie was not fickle. Ho simply i lacked tho power to think of two things j I - ' < > i.:~ ...i. 1 ; ...1 I fit once. lit? iuc;iiacu ma wuuiu uuiiu ; j and soul upon whatever for tlio time oc- j j cupicd his attention. ; Rosalie's direct accusation against i iiiui had stung his southern sense of j honor almost to the point of driving him j j mad for the time. He had straightway j , rushed back to Savannah, bent upon j j making plain his innocence. That alio j should think him guilty of a vulgar as- I sassination was more than ho could bear. , Eor awhile his mental torture was ex- J quisito. lie went to work with enor- ; mous energy trying to ferret out the j real assassin. If only Colonel Taloot j could speak ho might easily settle the j I whole matter with a word, but Colonel : Talbot could not speak; ho lay there ' dumb and unconscious, a puzzle to the ; I learned physicians. When Rosalie returned to Savannah j J from the "pocket" Ellis knew it, but ho | did not attempt to see her; ho meant never to speak to her again until his in- I j nocence hud been proven beyond u doubt, i ! Ho admitted to himself that, in a way, | j he deserved this punishment, remember- j I ing distinctly as ho did his foolish threat- J oiling words. Hut ho had a largo faith in the star of his destiny?that is, in his luck, and lie spared no effort to get into the mystery of that unhappy night. After a time Sir Edmond Kane came back to Savannah for a few days, and Ellis was flattered by the marked attention paid him by the English aristocrat and his fair daughter. His thoughts were turned from Rosalie and his investigation of the crime, and he gave Miss Ellen Kane his undivided attention. The English girl found him a charming companion?so attentive, so knightly, so full of ready expedients for rational amusement, and withal, so delightful as a story teller. Those days made a memorable 8pot in Miss Kane's life. She went back to England dimly conscious that she hac almost loved an American. As for Ellis, lie never thought of her again once she had passed out of his reach. At length the day came when Colonel Talbot regained consciousness. It was while Rosalie was gone to Jacksonville that one morning the newspapers made the following announcement: -a t * i /II 3 n~ "A luysiery v^ieareu up?vaiiuuci Warren Talliot Recovers Consciousness and Explains the Manner of His Assassination?Ho Was Struck by Wainsley, the Forger, Who Thereby Got Possession of tho Forged Instrument Which Colonel Talbot Hail on His Person That Night. Wamsley Has Escaped," Those were the headlines. Ellis read the account and then hastened to Tal- | bot's bedside to get confirmation of its details. Armed with such assurances as made his innocence absolutely unquestionable, he went forth exulting. He could not wait for Rosalie to return, but departed at once for Jacksonville. It was dark when he arrived at the hotel in which Mr. Roosevelt and his niece had rooms, but the first person he Baw was Rosalie's colored maid standing on a veranda. He went to her at once. "Fanny," he said, "where is your young mistress, Miss Chenier?" "She's in her room, sah." "Clan I see her?" "1 go see, sah." "Here, Fanny, take this." Ho wrote on a card. "Give Miss Chenier that and tell her 1 am waiting for an answer; and, Fanny, fetch her answer here at once?do you understand?" "Yes, sah," said the girl, taking the card and hurrying away. The veranda was on the second floor, and overlooked a garden on one hand and the street on the other; the green boughs of a water oak brushed the gayly painted railings. Ellis walked back and forth restlessly, every moment seeming to drag itself by with the delay of something maliciously perverse. He was in one of his intense, fervid moods. His lace was lighted a9 with a pale flame, and his eyes, so dark and fine, were glowing with the heat of passion. When he thought he heard the servant girl returning he looked around and saw Rosalie instead. She came rapidly to him and held out her hand. He took it with feverish eagerness and in a half stifled voice said: "Rosalie, 1 have come to show you the proofs of my innocence. You said I might" "Come into our parlor," she said, interrupting him; "you look tired. Have you just arrived?" She had already turned about and was leading the way to the parlor. He followed her, gazing eagerly down at the sweet, warm cheek half turned to him as she swiftly swept through a long hall. She was dressed in black, which made her crinkled yellow hair look all the brighter by contrast He thought Bho had grown taller within these last few weeks; she certainly was more beautiful than ever before. The room into which they passed was a small, bright parlor opening upon a broad balcony. She offered him an armchair, and flung wide the door to let in the perfumed evening air. He did not eit down, but stood in the middle of the floor with his burning eyes fixed upon her face. She could not look at him, and her heart was in her throat. His first words had revealed to her all he was going fa say. She had turned pale, and despite her effort to keep control of herself she was trembling a little. "It was very, very wicked of me to say that dreadful thing about you," she said in a subdued but perfectly clear and steady voice. "1 was laboring under" "No, no," he cried; "you need not be gin in that way. It was all my fault. You had a right" "I had no right," she firmly said; "it was mean of me; but you will forgive we?you have come to do that?" "1 have come to tell you how i love you," he exclaimed impetuously, "and to ask you to be my wife. Oh. Rosalie, Rosalie, how I love you!" She retreated before him as she would have done before a flame. She put out her beautiful hands and motioned him back. He stopped short, a strange change coming across his dark face. He was as handsome as man could bo as he folded his arms on his breast and looked half despairingly, half triumphantly down at her. When he spoke he had all the magic of his voice under perfect control. "Rosalie," ho said, "you told me 1 might come back to you when I could prove niy honor unstained. I bring it to you as spotless as" '1 know, 1 know," she hurried to say; "1 did you irreparable wrong. 1 shall never forgive myself?never." "Don't talk that way," ho exclaimed, '1 can't bear it. You have done no wrong. You are all right. Let the past keep its trou hies and misunderstandings; 1 want to be happy now. Rosalie, are you afraid of me? Am i so dreadful to you that you shrink from me in this way?" His grave, gentle voice was full of persuasive music. He stooped toward her, his eyes growing cloudy and soft. Suddenly ho Hung out his arms and clasped her close to him, kissing her hair and her forehead and murmuring Hi,ihiiura Slim UMMlflir htOP UIIHJ Kftx; luiii^u. .. - ?YO ? self away from him, her physical elnsiveness seeming quite as pronounced as that evasiveness which had always characterized her conversations with him. "You must not!" sho said, in a sort of breathless whisper. "I cannot permit it." Sho actually pushed him with her hand. In an instant a Hash of resentment flickered across his face and lie made an impatient gesture. "Rosalie, J did not expect this from you," said he, slowly recovering his full height. "Oh!" she cried, her voice thin and dry, "I did not in#ean to offend you, 1 don't want you to-be angry with me? you" "I love, love you!" lie exclaimed, letting the words fall heavily from his ashy lips, as if he wore beginning to-anticipate a dreary faihire. She looked beseechingly at him, her hands hanging loosely intertwined beforo her. "1 love, love you!'*ho repeated. "I wish you did not," she replied, something of the old freshness and naivcto ringing through her troubled voice. "I am so sorry to see yoti suffering." He stood awhilo in a hesitating attitude, then with a great effort he said: ".So it has conn) to this! Rosalie, Rosalie, must 1 go away wounded to the heart ami dio ;dl alone somewhere? 1 cannot believe you mean it; you will not kill me, Rosalie, will you?" The frenzy of despair rang through ids shaking, appealing voice. "No, no. you wrong inel" she cried; "you will not understand 1110. You refuse to see that I would have you be my friend?that 1 honor you?that i despise myself for having suspected you wrongfully?that t never can inalco amends for the injury I did you." "1 don't want to hear that," ho said imperiously, "it ilispleasea 1110. You cannot appease me in that way any more than you can satisfy your own I irue neari. rwosant?, yuu cauuui opuiu i such love us mine You will keep it?it | ! is priceless.' He spread out his Arras again. She lied j , through the doorway and stopped on ; ! the balcony in the bright, slanting moon- i i light. He, too. became motionless. As they stood thus confronting each other : Ellis felt that all his bright hopes were | wavering in the balance, and the ecstasy | of his suspense brought out cold drops | upon his forehead. He gathered all the | passion of his nature, and his words ( came from his lips with thrilling power: | "Rosalie, is this the end of it all? Don't j you love me? Is my life at last to be a j failure? Do you drive me away? Must , I go? My God, and 1 love you sol" "Must 1 go/' he repeated; "Rosalie, ! must I?" "Yes?I?think yon had better go." j she said, her voice even and spiritless. j ! He staggered as if she had shot him, j I drew his hand across his forehead, turn- . ed and walked from her to the door. I From there he looked back, wavered, i i then turned again and disappeared. | Words cannot suggest the force of such passion as his?a tropical storm in vio- J I lence, a mountain torrent in strength. : Ho was wild, crazed, blind with despair, j He tramped slowly along the hall, biting bis lips, bis eyes flashing. At the stair- j way he met Mr. Roosevelt, who, though | evidently surprised to see him, held out i | his hand and greeted him cordially. "Go to hell!" he muttered in response. ; Mr.' Roosevelt did not catch the j | words; he looked after Ellis in blank i amazement as the latter mechanically ! descended the stair without having touched his hand. Rosalie was crying when Mr. Roose- I velt entered the parlor, and the old man guessed what was the matter. When he put his hand on her head she sobbed: ' "Oh, uncle, take me home, please; 1 am j very, very wretched." "Don't cry. my dear," he gently said, | still keeping his hand upon her head; : i "1 have come to say get ready. Our j train is due in a half hour." He could not think of any soothing J ! phrase. He regarded her as a mere ; i child, knowing at the same time that ; j she was a woman and suffering now a j i trouble which besets the path of all beau- ! tiful women. He procured her an apartment in a palaco car, but she could not sleep. She j reached Roosevelt Place pale, hollow j eyed and nervous. [TO JJK rONTINITKD NKXT WKKK.] JtUoccHiuicous ^ratling. ! A I'ICTLKK OF THE RUSSIAN FAMINE. ! The extract we give below from an | article entitled "The Horrors of Hun- j gcr," in the nineteenth century, is | i written by Nicholas Shishkolf of the j I f i. !ii. _ 4 1. n 1>?.1 | Keiiei vonimiiu-i; ui im- nun viuw, j If et ween October 7th and 25th (says J the writer), traveling in an open cart. | drawn by "a couple of half-starved po- j nies, I made a journey of over 400 J English miles, and visited twenty large villages in the district of Nikolaievsk. i I spoke with several hundreds of peasants, and most of the local county and i village authorities, clergymen, doctors and resident proprietors of the district, taking notes as I went, and doing my best to keep my nerves steady and my j feelings under command. I never saw a battle-field. Friends of mine, that have, tell me, that no words, no descriptions, can give an adequate idea of the sickening horror of such a scene. I have wondered lately whether it could really be as* bad as the sight of hundreds of men, women and children slowly perishing from hunger and cold. I saw numbers of men in their prime with drawn, stony faces and hollow eyes ; miserable women clothed in rags (having sold their best dresses,) and children sliiv, ering in the keen October winds as they stood silently around me, while some old man would be telling the same weary wretched tale : "We have sold our last horses, cows and sheep; we pawned our winter clothing; we have seen no bread for a fortnight. There is nothing left to sell. We eat once a ' a day, stewed cabbages, stewed pumpkin ; many have not even that. Some of us still have a little bread made of chair, pounded grass seeds (of the Agrostcmmu Gitlmgo,) and a little bari ley flour (this bread looks like cinder, I lias a bitter taste and causes violent headache and nausea from the poisonous seed.) Many of us have not tasted , food for three days. Have mercy on ! us, we are dying." And while he speaks in a low, quiet voice, I see the | tears welling from the eyes of stal wart men, and falling one by one on the rough beards or the frozen ground. No complaints, no erics, a ocau siience, broken only by the sobs of some wornout mother. 1 did my best to comfort thorn, promised them speedy relief, assured them all was being done to succor them ; but readers, often and often I could scarcely say the words ! I had a small sum of money with me, but I brought nearly all of it hack again. It seemed a mockery to oiler a penny where hundreds of pounds were needed ; 1 had not even that penny for i every one. One morning, about half an hour before sunrise, I was taking a cup of tea before starting from one of these famine-stricken villages, when I happened to look out on the frozen street, t'nder my window 1 saw two children of about six years old begging. A raging wind was scourging them with sleet and snow, and their wretched little shoulders showing through the rents in their rags. 1 opened the sash and gave them bread. Five minutes bad not passed before another couple of children were shivering before me. I gave (belli a bit of money. In ten minutes time a crowd of about thirty women and children had gathered be; fore the house ; and as I drove away in the grey dawn of an icy October day, my heavy wraps hardly sufficing to shield me from the piercing gale, 1 saw the station master expostulating with a crowd of nearly seventy poor wretches, begging to be admitted to the ''gentleman who gives." .Most of the men were in their summer coats, and many women had babies in their arms. When I next visited lids village, live days later, bringing aid. in corn and money, IVom (be lied ('ross society of Samara. I heard from the mayor that only a few hours before my arrival the local doctor bad rescued a boy of sev....i..,.ii .in,I liis sister, a trill of tell. IVom ilralli. Tltcy liad been out begging (a third part ol the entire populatioii of t his set t lenient, say I .alM) souls, live ou tlw charily of their lianlly less miserahle neighbors), and for the last five days had not received a penny or a single slice of hread. Their strength hail failed, and when some of the neighbors, alarmed at the silence in their hut, entered the room they ' found tin*girl huddled up under a heap of rags in the corner, and her brother, J unable to speak, stretched on the 1 planks. When the doctor arrived the lad's jaws were so lirmly locked that a knife was used to force them open. Hot lea and brandy, then small bits of sugar, were given to him. but it was fully an hour before he was able to eat. The girl was less exhausted, probably because her brother had given her all till' best bits of food. The doctor told me of numerous eases where whole families had been rescued by him under similar circumstances, lie named many that had been living for weeks I exclusively on watermelon rinds stewed to a greenish jelly ; scarcely more nourishing t hau cork shaving would be. As far as I know, there are thousands of families in I he?list ricl of Nikolaicvsk : alone who are, or soon will be, in the i same terrible condition ; speedy relief must be obtained, and sufficient to meet the dem&nd. In round numbers there are 2,500,000 men, women and children in the province of Samara. At least one-half of them will have to be supported by government and private aid. The approximate number of people who will have to rely exclusively on private charity, may be fixed at from 175,000 to 200,000. That at a low reckoning (one and a half baked loaf per head for eight months, at current prices), means an expenditure of about 2,625,000 or 3,000,000 roubles. About onetwelfth of this sum has already been contributed in corn and money to the relief committee of the Red Cross society of Samara. About 1,580,000 roubles (?258,000) more are needed. It is a vast sum. When we come to fliot nvnhnhl v ton tn fiftppn times WW...* W.W* 1" -'"- ' J more money ia required to meet the necessities of the other twenty provinces, our hearts fail us. Three million pounds demanded from private charity. And this, not to help our poor peasants, not to ameliorate their condition, but only to save life?only to let them see another summer, to gather nnother harvest?trusting that God will have mercy at last. We who live in the midst of this terrible distress, who have to witness daily the heartbreaking scenes of utter misery and bitter pain, who are not only spending our last savings, but also straining heart and brain in cfForts to save the lives of our countrymen, we dare not contemplate the consequences should help fail us. This is a time when one looks for help, not only to one's countrymen?to one's nearest neighbors or everyday friends? but far beyond the precincts of country, nation, name. To the vast brotherhood of men, to all who have hearts to pity and hands to help, we appeal for assistance against the horrors of j hunger. WEBSTER'S MESSENGER-BOY. While Daniel Webster was secretary i of state under President Fillmore, a ! young boy named Stephen Wise was | employed by him as messenger. Mr. j Webster grew very fond of the thin, ! delicate, dark-eyed lad, and finding him honest and reliable, intrusted him i with papers and personal effects in a most careless and wholesale manner. But Stephen's sharp eyes saw everything, and his attentive ears heard all | that was passing, and he gathered up j information about everything that | came into his hands, and could have ' supplied any facts Mr. Webster had ! forgotten. Mr. Webster said one day: "You read too much. My law books are too dry ami old for chaps of 14. While you wait for me run up and down under the trees." 1. l?!n l?An/l TTo colli I r*icpjii'ii miuuiv ma muu, j>v | eagerly: "No, Mr. Webster, I can't I lose such opportunities as I have with j you, sir." "Ambitious, Stephen ?" dryly asked | j Mr. Webster. "(Joing to be a lawyer ! or a president?" "A lawyer, sir. I will study twenty ; years to be " Stephen's head drooped under the j deep set eyes looking him through. "A great lawyer, of course, Stephen?" Mr. Webster said with a smile. "Yes, sir! not great like Mr. Daniel I Webster?hut as great as I can become." In all Mr. Webster's public life he rarely asked favors for himself or his friends, but that night he spoke about his messenger boy to his friend, Judge j i Marshall, of Virginia. "If I die first | i I want you to look after Stephen, j When a boy of his age starts up the I j ladder with the persistence and pluck j j of a middle-aged man of ability, he ] | must he helped along. Stephen's in a ' ! fair way to get to the top." j For four j ears Stephen had the ad- , j vantage of working for Mr. Webster? : ! an advantage he knew how to use. He ! i copied speeches, read criticisms, exam i ined and arranged papers?each and all food for his own thought?and into . the small hours he studied Mr. Web- : ; ster's law books. When Stephen Wise was 25 he was practicing law in Virginia, his native ' State. Then did the residents of I Washington remember his magnetic I j arguments in the law courts of those j | early days; remember well, the dark, wiry, thin Virginian, who, with his . court papers under his arm, was always | dro]?ping into the senate chamber at ; the hour of a great debate, or into the j libraries for fresh knowledge to bear 011 . his own arguments and opinions. ' He argued with the first jurists of; the time, and was retained in the same causes with the most eminent men of j his profession. Fathers were wont to point out Stephen Wise, the celebrated lawyer, and tell their sons the story of j the little fellow, hungry for knowledge, j 1 who was picked up by Daniel Webster and got the larger part of his learning , I while acting as the great man's officeboy. LEAP YEAR LEGENDS. j The advent of "leap year" and the break in the regular order of days 1 make anything in regard to the "besj sextile" or "leap year" of more than ordinary interest. Leap year has always been regarded with awe and su- ! pcrslitiun, by the people of all countries. The peasantry of Kngland affirm that the peas and beans grow the wrong way in their pods?that is the seeds are set contrary to the way they are in ordinary years. In Kclgium the rural folks maintain that leap year is not only iinpropitious lor all fanning operations, but that throughout the year the young of the domestic animals will not thrive as tit other times. A similar fatality, they argue, extends to j every kind of grass and plant, which becomes stunted or is blighted before j attaining its normal size. The same I peculiar ideas prevail in Russia, Tur- j key, Tartary, India ami Arabia. The | Russian proverb says : "If St. Cassian (February 1".() looks on a cow she will wither." In Arabia they say: "As weak as a bissextile camel," and in Turkey and Tartary they call all hunchbacks, dwarfs and other deformed men, women and children "leapyear freaks," but there are exceptions to this as well as to all other rules, for we find that in Italy. (Srccceand Sicily the rural proverb says, referring to leap year : Plant much corn and vine, it's (the year) good for bread and wine." The ancient Romans considered February -1) a most critical season, always reckoning it among their unlucky days. That this belief has not by any means lost ground is evidenced by a deep-rooted dislike parents have to a child being horn on leap-day, it hem" a popular notion that to eotne into the world at such an odd time is ominous as signifying the babe's speedy exit. - ? An Ki.kctkic Kyi ink.?(icorge K. Hcnlon, who resides on Indiana avenue, lias discoverd an electric horse. Benton stepped from a street ear at Wabash and Kightecnlh street while the horses were being trotted, lie placed his hand on the flank of one of tin- animals, a bay mare, and received . a tremendous shock. The ear was attached to a cable train and sped onward. After it had gone a block Benton returned and experienced a succession of slight shocks, which gradually died away as the mare became cooler from standing. Benton then had the mare trotted up and down the street for ten minutes. Shceaine back in a foam and was taken at once to the damp ground. A dozen men then I formed hands, first wetting the soles of their shoes thoroughly in the horse trough. As Benton put his hands on ' i the mare every man distinctly felt the * shock. "iNow one man iei go at a time," shouted Benton, and they did so, the shock intensifying as each man fell out, so that at last, when the number was reduced to three, the next man cried out, "Some of you fellers, catch hold again ; I can't stand this." Mr. Benton sent the mare trotting again, and meantime climbed a lamp post. Another man climbed after him and caught hold of his hand. He clasped the post firmly with his legs and gave his disengaged hand to a third man, who in turn placed his hand on the mare's flank. Benton turned on the gas jet and put his index finger on the nozzle of the jet. Instantly a series of sparks flashed through the living chain from the excited horse and the gas blazed up. Benton was so exhausted by this last experiment that he had to be taken down from the lamp post. The manager of a dime museum has offered a large sum to the company for the privilege of exhibiting the horse.?Chicago Cor. Kansas City Times. HOW AN OCEAN CABLE IS MADE. Let us first see what a submarine cable is, and how it is made. To do this a visit must be made to the enormous factory on the banks of the Thames, a few miles below London. Here the birth of the cable may be traced through shop after shop, machine after machine. The foundation of all is the conductor, a strand of seven fine copper wires. This slender copper cord is first hauled through a mass of sticky, black compound, which causes the thin coating of gutta-percha applied by the next machine to adhere to it perfectly, and prevents the retention of any bubbles of air in the interstices between the strands, or between the conductor and the gutta-percha envelope. One envelope is not sufficient, however, but the full thickness of insulating material has to be attained by four more alternate coatings of sticky compound and plastic gutta percha. The conductor is now insulated, and has developed into "core." Before going any further the core is coiled into tanks filled with water, aud tested in order to ascertain whether it is electrically perfect, i. e., that there is no undue leakage of electricity through the gutta percha insulating envelope. These tests are made from the testing room, replete with beautiful and elaborate apparatus, by which measurements finer and more accurate than those even of the most delicate chemical balance may be made. Every foot of core is tested with these instruments, both before and after being made into cable, and careful records are preserved of the results. After the core has beeu tested and passed, the manufacture of the cable goes on. The core travels through another set of machines, which first wrap it with a thick serving of tarred jute, and then wi'h a compact armoring of iron or steel wires, of varying thickness according to the depth of water in which the cable is intended to be laid. Above the armoring in order to preserve the iron from rust as long as possible, is applied a covering of stout canvass tape thoroughly impregnated with a pitch like compound, and sometimes the irou wires composing the armor are separately covered with Russian hemp as an additional preservative against corrosiou.?H. L. Webb in Scribner. Preferred the Old Way.?1"While I was in Havana," said Judge Noonan yesterday, during recess, to several lawyers who stood around him, "there was a tall American also there who strongly objected to the prevailing mode among the negroes of carrying everything upon the head when they were sent to market for supplies. It was too slow to suit him, so he had a great wheelbarrow brought at considerable expense from the States for the darkey who made the daily journey from his hacienda to the base of supplies?a distance of several miles. When it arrived he told him that he wanted everything he brought carried in that from thence forward, and gave him an order for an extra load in view of the improved facilities for transportation. Next morning the darkey started off, and when he returned in the broiling sun he bore a miscellaneous load of groceries large enough to take the strength of a horse, piled up in the wheelbarrow and the wheelbarrow itself balanced on his head. He had labored all the way up the mountains in that fashion and that was all the , good that modern improvements did him.?San Antonio Express. Blind from Grippe.?A special from Yicksburg, Miss., says that two cases of blindness resulting from grippe, have occurred there, the parties being well-known people and the facts nolo rious. One, a lady, lias consulted tiie most eminent occulists, who united in declaring her ease hopeless, at the same time admitting their ignorance of the causes that extinguished her sight. In another instance, the son of a wellknown merchant was attacked and lost his sight in a few hours. An operation, the cutting of some nerves and muscles, has so far relieved him that lie can distinguish night from day, and his physicians have hopes of his recovery. IIis case was complicated with muscular rheumatism. The lady was attacked in the beginning with edema of the limbs, which swelled to an enormous degree. The eyes arc not outwardly affected hut their light is utterly ({Uenelied. Several similar cases are reported among tlie negroes, hut, while believed to have occurred, evidence concerning their nature and extent of injury is wanting. Lovk Laichs at Hunokr.?One of the singular results of the Russian famine, and one which is puzzling the economist for an explanation, is the enormous increase in the number of marriages in the alllicted districts. The theory most commonly advanced to account lor this matrimonial "boom" is that the lees charged by the priests for performing marriages have been greatly lessened. The priests find it more difficult to get a living than in bountiful seasons, and have accordingly reduced their rates, so as to bring marriage, so to speak, within the means of the humblest citizen. Formerly the was live roubles, about three dollars. 11 is now fifty copecks, about thirty cents; and the various attendant expenses have been curtailed. Persons who have been contemplating marriage at sometime in the near future are therefore induced to scrune a few copecks together and have the ceremony performed now, taking aidvantage of famine prices. IiKiaiNXiNc Ktiairr.?A provident man is literally ai man who looks aihead ; ?such ai man, for instance, as figures I in this little anecdote extracted from the New York Tribune: A Yorkshire vicar received the following note from one of his parishioners : ' This is to give you notis that I and Miss Jemima Arabella J'rearly is coming to your church on Saturday afternoon next, to undergo the operation of matrimony at your hands. Pleas be promp, as the cab is hired by the hour." Forewarned is forearmed. The vicar was "promp," and the "operation" was quickly performed while the cab waited. There is nothing in this world so powerful as kindness. Nothing \ wins so many hearts as love and kindness, and nothing hurts like unkind ' words.