Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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t THE LEDGER: GAFFNEY, S. C., SEPTEMBER 1, 1898. 5 THE FAITHFUL LOVER. (T»w , r up, now, my daughter. I have news for •4 your pleasure. A young man, u rich man, comes Cecking my treasure. Now nay, shall I tell him that he may come wooing? You are young, littlo daughter, and the past past undoing, Tho dead sleeping quiet. Oh, mother, little mother, do you think I’m forgetting The 1< ng woe and fever, the fear and the fret , ting That the love of my heart still is tossing un buried, At the will of the waves, by the winter winds hurried Here and there through the riot? I am not forgetting, little daughter, your | lover— The brown head, the dear head, the bitter waves cover— But bis soul is in glory, nor Jealous nor griev ing. Turn round, little daughter, and think on the living. You shall ride in your carriage. I would rather bo his widow than a great chieftain's lady, And ’tis, oh, that in shadow our one grave stood ready I With my head on his breast and my mouth for his kisses, I should envy no fond, faithful lover his blisses. No sweet bride her marriage. He has acres and crops and a mansion and cat tle .And a proud name well houored on old fields of battle. With his gold locks, his blue eyes, his smile true and tender, 'Tls to him many a young maid her love would surrender For sunshine or shadow. Now sleep, my sweet sorrow, as a babe with its mother On the breast that shall know not the child of another. Go bid my young sister, with eyes gay and fearless. To comfort this young man for a cold heart and cheerless. The sad heart of a widow. —Katharine Tynan in Outlook. A PLAIN GIRL. I am a very ordinary girl, with a plain face and no particular compensat ing advantages. Rupert Denison is often at our house. That ho loves Phyllis is quite certain, and that Phyllis loves him is equally beyond doubt. My money? Oh, yes! I have money. Plenty. More than I know what to do with. But no one is aware of this—ex cept my solicitors, a Loudon firm, and my brokers, a London bank. So that there is no danger of the truth leaking out as there would be if my agents were local people. Why I am at such pains to conceal this fact I will explain. The plan originated with my dear fa ther, who has now been dead for up ward of a year. My mother, I may mcntiou in passing, died when Phyllis was born. People who knew my father prior to his bereavement have often told me how devoted he was to my mother and how tremendous an effect her death had upon him. They have more than hinted that his brain was permanently affected by that sorrow, and that the huge financial losses which afterward overtook him were iu no small measure due to his thereby impaired intelli gence. Those losses, however, were compara tively recent. They occurred when I was 17. Till then wo had lived in a largo house, with many servants, horses and carriages. But within a few weeks all was changed. A bank with which my father was deeply involved failed. Wo had to leave the big house and all the luxuries we had hitherto enjoyed and to take a very tiny house indeed, this same house, in fact, where Phyllis and I still live. I remember often hear ing my father say at tho time that he was thankful enough to have been able to pay his liabilities and to have saved even £5,000 or £6,000 out of the wreck, and I remember, too, its striking me that bo boro his ruin not merely with fortitude, but actually with cheerful ness, and that he seemed quite as happy in our humble home, waited on by one maid, as I had ever know him in our big house with a score of servants at his call and every luxury that money could buy. It may be hardly necessary that our come down in the world had the usual effect of separating our friends from us in the most completeand accurate man ner. A few stuck to us from the first. A few dropped us from the first. These were the foolish among them, in op posite extremes. For as it is foolishly quixotic to stick to a ruined friend so it is foolishly indecent to drop him out of hand. Wise folk do what tho major ity of our friends did. They just slack ed off a little, and then a little more, and so on, by decent gradations. I had then many bosom friends among young girls in the neighborhod. One of them, named Laura Cleal, wrote to rao just after our chango of fortune to say how sorry she was. Then she was my ever loving friend. In her next letter she was my very affectionately, then my affectionately, after that my sincerely. Today she is my very truly and has been so any iime these seven years. Were it not for the ordinary require ments of civility she would doubtless by this time be my obediently. Laura Cleal of course is only a sample. I do not blame any such Laura Cleals, or the mammas or governesses who edited their letters and their affections. On the contrary, I am truly thankful to have been let down so gradually. For without any rude shock I have found my proper level, which, after all, is an excellent thing for every one. From the time of my father’s ruin nntil I was 31 the tenor of my life was humdrum and uneventful. But on my twenty-first birthday I had an extraor dinary surprise. At breakfast on that day among the letters and packets lying round my plate there was a fat, bulky envelope addressed to me in my father’s handwriting. I opened it first, I re member, expecting to find some simple ^birthday gift, such as he had been ac- istomed to give me in previous years, ou may judge of my inexpressible nazemcnt when I pulled out of the Envelope a pile of bank notes and saw that tho top ouewasfor £1,000. Speech less with astonishment I looked up at my father. He sat regarding me across the table—we were tete-a-tete, for Phyl lis was staying way—with a curious, quiet smile. “You seem taken aback,” said my father. “Perhaps you did not expect such a handsome present, Nell. And I don’t think you understand yet what a i handsome present it is. Count them, child. ” With trembling fingers and with a strange, maaed sensation, as though I wen in a dream, I turned over tho notes one by one. No, no! It could not be true—could not be true. Each note was for the same amount, £1,000, and I had counted 100 of them. One hundred thousand pounds lying there before mo on ray plate! It was absurd, ridiculous, impossible! “They are—are—not real, ” I gasped. “This is a hoax—a jest, father.” “They are real enough, Nell,” he answered, “as if you took them to the Bank of England you would soon find, and this is no hoax or jest, my dear. That is good money, Nell, and I have given it to you for your very own.” “But where has it come from, fa ther?” I cried, “and why have you given it all to me?” “It is my money, Nell,” he said. ”1 have realized all, or nearly all, my in vestments in order to make you this present today.” I was still incredulous, unable to be lieve the evidence of my eyes or ears. “But—but—I thought we were poor, father. I thought”— "Exactly, my dear. Everybody thought so. Everybody thinks so. Lis ten, Nell. I have something to tell you. My losses four years ago were never anything like so extensive as people im agined. It was believed that the bulk of my property was invested in that bank. As a matter of fact I had been quietly unloading my shares for some time previously, and the amount I dropped by the smash was inside £80,- 000, but it occurred to me—it was an odd notion to occur too—that it might be a good jest to hoax all my friends into the belief that I was ruined and lee what the effect would be upon them. As a man of the world I didn’t expect very much of human nature, but I am bound to say I was hardly pre pared for the pitiably mean manner in which at least 90 per cent of my inti mates behaved to me after my supposed smash, and I was looking forward with some malicious enjoyment to resuming my former status of a wealthy man and seeing how they would manage to crawl or wriggle back into their old intimacy with me when one day I happened to overhear a conversation between two ladies of our acquaintance (once our bosom friends), who shall be nameless, Nell—a conversation which set mo thinking of other matters, and after due reflection induced me to change my plans. “You were tho subject of that con versation, Nell, and what do yon think these matrons were saying of you, my child? One of them remarked that she had always thought what a good ‘spec’ you would be for her eldest boy, and that it was the crnelest of shocks to her to find that you were merely the daugh ter of a pauper. And the other told her she ought to be thankful that things had gone no further, for if the smash had been delayed a little longer then you, Nell, might have been engaged to her sou, and there would have been a dreadful complication. Thereupon the lady for whose son yon bad been mark ed out. my dear, was good enough to pity you. ‘Poor child, ’ she said, ‘with her plain face, she will never marry now. ’ ” I flushed when my father told me that and the tears started to ray eyes. I know that my looks are homely as well as any one and it was foolish of me to bo hurt. But I could not helfrit My dear father saw, and he came round to me and took my unattractive face be tween his hands. “Well,” he said, smiling into my tearful eyes very fondly, “I did not think to wound you, little woman. The criticisms of snch contemptible creatures are never worth minding. And if your face is not beautiful, dear (with such words was my fondly prejudiced old father pleased to comfort me), it is hot ter than beautiful. It is honest and ten der and true, and ? would not have it different for all the world.” I dried my tears and smiled and kiss ed him. I knew the encomium was un deserved. But I knew that my father meant what ho said, and it is a comfort to be loved hy some one so much that ho sees one different from what one is. Nowadays there is no one sees me thus. After that he said: “Nell, my dear, when I overheard these remarks which I have told you it at once set me thinking about your fu ture, and I came to tho conclusion that you should not become ‘a good spec’ for money hunters. Girls are easily de ceived, my dear, especially when they are just on the threshold of life, and these scheming fellows are mighty clever at feigning love and devotion. No, no! You are not to be married for your money. You are to be married for yourself, and yourself alone. 1 deter mined that I would ace to that as far as I could. With that end in view I kept up our semblance of poverty, Nell—I have kept it up until this minute, and I wish to keep it up still until the right man comes, Nell, tho man who is good enough to appreciate and love you, the man who shall make yon truly happy. You deserve him, Nell, you deserve the best husband that tho world has to offer.” (Dear, blind, foolish old father thus to speak of poor commonplace me 1) “And some oay—some day—he will come.” “I—I don’t want to marry, father,” I said, smiling, yet greatly tonched by his deep concern for ray welfare. “I have you. You are better than any hus band, dear.” “Even if I were,“he answered, “I shall not live forever. Nay, Nell, 1 ■hall not live much longer. My health is breaking bow, as I can feel, and that Is why I have made this money over to you now, my child. You are to come with mo to Loudon today. You are to have it all invested in your name. It is to be yours from today absolutely, and when I die tho estate that I shall leave will be just a few thousands—nothing more, and no one will ever guess that you have £100,000 of your own, my dear. But promise me, Nell, promise me—for I know that you will do what you promise—that until the right man comes and loves you and makes you his wife you will keep the existence of this money just as dead a secret as it has been hitherto!’’ I tried to dissuade my father from his scheme. I tried to say that I would not take the money. But be was so set upon it, so eager, so insistent, that, to please him, I at last gave way. And so it is that without any one knowing it I am now absolute mistress of a largo fortune—a fortune which with its accumulation of unspent in come is growing every year. And I still live with Phyllis in the same small house and the same small way. And the right man has not come and mar ried me. And I know that now he never will. Yes, I know it—too well. There is only one who could ever bo the right man for me. And he— Bat no, I will not say it I will try not even to think it It is mean, pitiable, wicked to bo jealous of my little sister, and in this case absurd also, for even if there were no Phyllis how should handsome Rupert ever give a thought to ugly me? I will choke down this foolish envious weakness, and when he speaks and makes Phyllis happy I will be glad and rejoice with—with—all my heart At last I think I have found out why Rupert has not spoken to Phyllis. It is curious that I have not thought of it be fore. Rupert has no money, nothing.be yond his pay as managing clerk in a country solicitor's office. It is only £250 a year, and he does not like—does not think it fair—to ask her to marry him when be can offer her nothing better than that. Why cannot some one readjust the balances? Some one? Wilo? Why not I? How can I hesitate? I will go np and see my solicitor today. I have been. I have seen him. I am sure he thought me quite idiotic. At first he tried to poohpooh my scheme, but when he found me insistent he agreed to do what I wished. The only difficulty was to give Rupert the finan cial lift ho needed without letting him know the source from which it came, bat after some reflection my solicitor thought it could bo managed. He is per sonally intimate, it seems, with the head of Rupert’s firm, and he consider ed that if sufficient capital were forth coming arrangements might be made with him for taking Rupert into part nership. This seemed as practicable a scheme as any. And I have left it with him to make the uecessajy arrange ments, stipulating that sufficient cap ital must bo laid out for Rupert’s bene fit to insure a return of at least £1,000 per annum. Three weeks have passed since then. I hear from my solicitor that matters have been satisfactorily arranged. I should have guessed it even if I had not heard from him, for Rupert, who has been here every day for the last four or five r' iys, has been, as I could see, bubbling over with joyful yet half sup pressed excitement. He has not spoken to Phyllis yet, but he is coming again this afternoon, and I am snro he means to speak then, for there was something in his manner of annonneing his intend ed visit for today that said so plainly. Ah, there he is now—coming up the road. I must run and find Phyllis. Phyllis must ho alone to receive him when he comes in. How tiresome I How annoying! I cannot find Phyllis any where. What can have become of her? There is Rupert ringing tho bell now. Phyllis! Phyllis! She is nowhere in the house, it seems. She must have gone out, and yet she knew Rupert was coming, and she must have guessed from his manner why. Perhaps she did not expect him quite so early. I must go down and talk to Rupert till she comes in. • ••••• • How bine the s!ty is this afternoon. How bright the sun shines. How sweet ly the birds are singing. Truly life is delicious ou a day liko this, and there is an intoxicating joy in every breath one draws. I love every one today— every one—every one. Do you know why? It is all because some one loves me. Yes, would you believe it? Rupert loved mo from the first. And Phyllis knew, and she never told me. Sly little Phyllis. But I’m glad I did not know before. Else I could never have bought that partnership for Rupert. And should I ever have heard the truth then? Do you hear that robin chirruping in the apple tree? I never noticed little Bobby’s note before. It is strange how unobservant one is. Bnt now you come to listen, you cannot fail to remark it, can you? Hark! There he goes, as plain as plain can be. “Hap-py—hap-py— hap-py. ”—London Truth. Tha Old Sues Canal. Few people are aware that there bad been a canal across the isthmus of Suez before De Lesseps ever conceived the idea of his monumental enterprise. A canal across the isthmus was ac tually constructed 600 years before the Christian era and served as a waterway for small vessels until about 1,000 years ago, when it wa» allowed to fall into disuse. Napoleon revived the idea and instructed one of the great engineers of bis day to investigate the matter, but though a favorable report was present ed to him, in which M. Lepere recom mended the restoration of the canal, the work itself was never touched. When M. de Lesseps undertook the task of cutting the canal, he thought at first to follow the idea of Napoleon and restore the ancient waterway, but thia plan waa abandoned and the praaent plan determined upon. BALLADE OF VANITY FAIR. Silkon Biifl xatin md velvet (I'm, What tins the hunger of lonsiiiR eyes, softer than woodland mon. Colors* as l>ri«ht as the summer skies— These nre the wares that the merchant cries, As music streams on the lamtuld air Burdened with many a maiden’s sighs In the golden mart of Vanity Fair. There is a diamond fit to emboss The shield of a Paris. There, too, lies A song whose surges « f unssion toss With such art as fops and gallants prir.e. The slave of fashion struts here and buya. Jostling or hustled by men of prayer, With often a fool in critic's guise In tho golden mart of Vanity Fair. An outcast one where yon two roads cross Ever a trade in spectacles plies That whoso wearath sees pomp and drosa From the gilded stalls in Vapor rise. Fabrics, whoso hue with the iris vies, Chango to the sables of grim despair. And the ruby's flame ebbs low and dies In tho golden mart cf Vanity Fair. I.’ENVOI. Prince, enough is a word to tho wise. Let others flatter in frenzy there. Folly may loiter, but honor flies, In the golden mart of Vanity Fair. -Pall Mall Gazette. TWO OF HEARTS. Some of the critics said that “The Two of Hearts” was false in sentiment and others that it waa unreal in its sit uations; a few disappointed dramatists called it unnatural in both. Harold Austin considered it lifelike in either respect, but he was the author and pe culiar iu his ways. It was one of his whims to see the first performance from the stalls instead of from the author’s box. “A mere im pulse of the moment,” the manager said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Did I tell you how he decided upon it? No! Ob, he happened to follow me into th« booking office one day, when the man was selling some stall tickets to two ladies. When they had gone, be said, ‘By Jove, now I come to think of it, I’d rather see it from the stalls my self. Give me the next seat, Jones.’ And Jones laughed and said I’ll put yon next to tho young lady. She’s going to sit in'B7, she says, because 7’s a lucky number.’ ‘All right,’ Austin said, ‘she has a nice voice!’ Of course tv a hadn’t reeu them, as there was only a small ticket window. The next min ute he seemed to have forgotten all * bout it, and we thought he wanted the ticket for a friend, bnt when the night mine there ho was iu B6. Queer fel low, very—but most cf these young tuthors are. Clever? Why, yes, or ho rould not have written the thing. You mow what a run it had!” It is probable, however, that the manager would not have attributed Harold’s behavior purely to caprice if he had watched him ou the first night. Possibly ho mjght even have suspected that the real drama was being played in front the curtains. As a matter of fact, ho was fully occupied in addressing carpenters and scene shifters and call- boys in language which, the singing chambermaid said, would make a stage complexion blush. So ho retained bis theory. • ~ " Tho unrehearsed play began during tho overture, when tho occupants of B7 and B8 walked slowly in—a comely middle aged lady and a short, dark girl of about 20, a pretty, piquant girl, whoso appearance might have been de scribed as saucily defiant but for the wistfulness of her big eyes and tho plaintive drooping at the corners of her rosy mouth. Harold stood up to let them go by, his manners changing from formal politeness to an empressement which begged for recognition, as the daughter succeeded the mother, with a Hush and a slight inclination of the head. “Would you not rather sit this side, mother?” she whispered audibly. “No, no, dear. Keep your lucky seat. ” “I have changed my mind,” said she “I’m sure it’s an unlucky one. ” “It would be unlucky for other peo ple if you sat ou my deaf side,” declar ed the elder lady, sinking into BS with a good humored laugh. The play proceeded by his picking up the programme which she had dropped —a dainty pink and white affair, deco rated with a torn two of hearts. “This is yours, I think?” Ho looked meaningly at tho severed card. “Thank you, I believe so.” She toss- 1 ed the programme carelessly into her lap and turned her back upon him. “It will ho u foolish, sentimental play, I suppose,” sho remarked. “I don’t know what possessed us to come to the first night before the papers have pronounced ujhju it.” ‘‘Your father said ho heard it would be very good, ” demurred her mother. “I wonder who this *H. A.’is?” She rat sideways again, and his look con firmed her expectations as to tho author ship. “I don’t see what it matters,” sbo replied indifferently. “After all, he is nothing to us. ” Ho crunched his pro gramme viciously. “Hush!” said her mother. The cur tain drew up and disclosed a country lauo such as ho had described to the sceno painter. “Why, it might almost be Fern lane, near your Aunt Bessie’s, don’t you think, Molly?” “How absurd!" said Molly, biting her lips angrily. Surely ho had never dared— A pair of lovers entered from opposite sides and met iu tho middle of the stage, whore play lovers always meet. The gentleman was shorter than he, and the lady was tall and fair, nothing like her. She sighed a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment. They started in the usual stage man ner, with a few remarks chosen so us to indicate tho position of affairs. Then they sat down, side by side, on a rustio bench—she know tho bench—and a pas sionate love scene began. Hero and there Molly started at phrases and prom ises which sounded familiar, and she flushed furiously at the last avowal and embrace. Once or twice she darted a look of scorn in his direction, but ho was staring straight at the stage. He was looking very sad and careworn, she thought, and her face softened a little. Tho curtain went down with the play lass’ head upon the play lover’s shoul der, and the audience were generous with their applause. “A very pretty scone,” pronounced her mother approvingly. “So true to nature, don’t you think?” "How should I know, mother?” sho answered, with a disdainful curl of the lips. “I shouldn't care for so bold a style of courting myself, but hu-tes dif fer.” Tho next scene was a light one be tween tho usual Irish footman and pert housemaid. The spectators, who were evidently in a good humor so far, roar ed with laughter, but ho and she studied their programmes with an air of bore dom. The scene had no Rearing appar ently ou the drama in the stalls. Her eyes flashed again when the cur tain drew’ up upon a merry card party just coming to a close. The guests took their leave, the host and hostess accom panying them out of the room, and the play lover and his lady were left alone. There had evidently been a quarrel, for they stood at opposite sides of the table and looked anywhere but at one anoth er. He frowned moodily and stole a glance at her whenever her head was averted. She toyed restlessly with a pack of cards and scattered them here and there, keeping her eyes fixed upon the table. For several minutes the play proceeded iu looks and shrugs of the shoulders, but at last he took a card from a pack on his side of the table and held it out to her so that all the audi ence could see it was the ace of hearts. "Were you looking for this?” he asked. “Oh, no,” she replied. “It is yours, pot mine. ” “It is yours if you wish to have it. ” “But I have one here—see.” “Are you sure it is quite your own?” Her eyes dropped, and he just touched her hand with his. “Won’t you change, Phyllis?” he asked tenderly. She made no answer, but her face told her thoughts, for the play lady was a skillful actress. ‘‘Won’t you?” he pleaded again, edging round the table to her side. “Two aces of hearts would bo useless in one pack,” she said, trying to ignore bis later question How th§ actress made "them see the lovelight in her eyes! But he put his arm round her and drew her close to him. “Not if they be long together liko these—and ours,” he cried triumphantly, holding up the two of heaxta in full view. Then there were explanations and lovemaking and promises, and he put the card in his pocket as a reminder of their renewed vows. So the first act ended. “Now you see why it’s called ’The Two of Hearts,’” said her mother. “Wasn’tit worked in cleverly?” Molly whispered something. “Eh, dear? You must speak louder, or I can’t hear. ” “I think the situation is ridiculous,” said she, tossing her head. “Why could not they make it up in a straightfor ward way without all that nonsense about the cards. What sensible people would jog tbrougli such a rigmarole?’ 1 She dropped her fan, and lie and she stooped together to pick it np. “We weren’t sensible,” he whis pered. “Thank you, ” said she sweetly aloud. “It was careless of me to drop it, but this stupid play is making me fidgety. ” He bowed witnout speaking, and she turned sharply to her mother. The curtain went up again on a draw ing room scene from which the lovers were absent, and the plot proceeded al most imperceptibly throngh a lot of light business to amuse the gallery. The funny man made love to the stout maid en lady and draped statues with his handkerchief and sat upon his hut, as funny men do. The pert housemaid was demure to their faces and made game behind their backs. Tho Irish footman told secrets to the wrong persons and fell over the footstool. Mrs. Tattleton talked scandal to his mother, and the villain blackened his character to her aunt. Then kind hearted old General Bluuderboy, with his red face and iras cible temper, came iu and flew iu a rage about nothing and mixed up his dates and facts so as to fill in the blanks in the conversation with wrong meanings. Thus the train was laid. “ Whatever is it leading to, Molly?” asked her mother. “I do hope it won’t make trouble between them, poor dears!” “Why should it?” Molly answered absently. Yet it seemed partly to account for a trouble that happened to real people a year ago, about the time when the plaintive droop appeared at the corners of her pretty month. Her eyes caught his, which said as plainly as could be, “It did. ” She hit her lip and waited silently. Tho next scene was at a garden party, and he and she were there. The conver sation returned to the topics of the last scene. The play lady started, and the play lover glared as they listened. They entered into careless badinage, bnt you could see the anger and misery in their faces. The lover crushed a flower to pieces as be ^railed and put his foot upon it. The lover in the stalls tore his programme nearly to pieces. The lady langhed and jested, hut there were tears in her eyes. Iu ituth, they were in Molly’s eyes too. At last they said good day, with apparent friendliness, but as they pretended to shako hands they seemed to spurn one another away. “It might be real,” said her mother enthusiastically. “Don’t you think the author must have copied it from an ac tual soeue?” “He would scarcely be so mean and unmanly,” said Molly, her voice sound ing clearly in the lull. “Besides, it doesn’t strike me as real at all. ” Har old’s eyes looked pleadingly at her, but she ignored him resolutely. “I will not let him see that I care, ” she thought. “He shouldn’t have put it in a play. Oh, he shouldn’t I” In the neat scene the play lover called to ask for an explanation instead of offering one, as the play lass expected. They were all nt cross purposes, and tho misunderstanding grew worse and worse. The ladies in tho audience clasp ed and unclasped their hands, and tho gentlemen sat still and silent. At last there was a passionate quarrel and parting. He took the card from his pocket and tore it iu two, rending both the hearts. “I will keep this half as a warning never to trust a woman again, ” he said. “Go,” she cried, stamping her small foot, “false and cowardly lover, go!" So he went, but at the door he turned with a last appeal. “If yo i care for me, Phyllis—if you ever cared for me”— “I do not care for you. I never cared for you,” she replied, and ho went out. Theu she picked up the piece of the card which he had thrown down, and pressing it to her lips cast herself upon the sofa in a storm of weeping. “It has touched his dear hand, ” she sobbed, thrusting it into her bosom. “How could he know?” Molly almost cried aloud. Twice the curtain rang up iu answer to the torrent of applause, while the ladies dried their eyes. “It is so comforting to have a good cry,” remarked her mother cheerfully, fanning herself. “I wish pater were here to get us some ices. ” “Will you allow me to perform the small service, Miss Vane?” he asked promptly, and without waiting for her answer I rose and departed swiftly in search of them. “Do you know him, Molly? Who is he?” demanded her mother, in a tone of surprise. She bit her lip and flushed. “Oh, some one I met at Aunt Bessie’s,” she answered coldly. “Austin his name is. A journalist or something of the sort, I believe. I didn’t like him much” (oh, Molly!) “But I couldn’t well refuse to let him get the ices, could I?” “He didn’t give von much chance,” •aid her mother, laughing. “I like a quick, resolute way like his. He has a very nice face, dear. Clever—and good. ” Molly made no answer. But when he returned, her mother and he were soon in friendly conversation, in spite of her cool monosyllables. The next scene found the lover confid ing his sorrows to the villain, who, of course, took the opportunity to poison his mind further against her and make the breach wider. Later on Phyllis endeavored to conceal her grief from her annt by affecting to dislike him, and the aunt increased her sorrow and anger by repeating the calumnies which she had heard from the villain. Then a year was supposed to elapse. After this tho lover appeared talking to good old General Bluuderboy iu the corner of a gorgeous clnb smoking room. The general, who was no fool, in spite of his irascibility, had more than half guessed the state of affairs and was putting his young friend upon the track of the truth. To Ills protests that much remained unexplained, he had only one answer, “She’s a good girl, and I won’t believe that she played you false,” and finally he stamped off in a rage. “What are you to do?” ho thundered. “What’s the good of asking me? Go au$ tell her you belies in her, a:;a take her in your ftrffis, you young fool!” -311 But the play lover sat with his head in his hands until the Irish footman turned n j as a waiter, and, in tlj^fashion of stage servants, began to enter into confidences. “Share, an it’s meself that was sorry to see that Mr. Siggers makin mischief between ye and Miss Phyllis, the pur- tiest and the best little lady that ever was, ” he said feelingly. “An there’s somethin that I’ve been tbinkin ye oug^t to know.” Then with a few wordy be let daylight into tho business, and tho play lover rushed off for his hut, leaving him standing with his eyes open. “Shure, he’ll go straight off and make it up with her if he’s any sense, ” he soliloquized, “the next pnrtiest lass to Mary that ever was. ” Then he fin ished the hero’s untasted whisky in the manner of stage waiters—and real ones. In the last scene he found her—as ho always finds her on the stage. She greeted him with assumed indifference, but her reserve melted suddenly when he told her the troth. She sank in a chair with her face to the audience, as stage lasses do, and be put bis arm round her in the most approved fashion of play lovers. ''‘Phyllis, dear,” he cried, holding np his half of tho card for every one to see, “I have kept it, bnt I found that it would recall no ill thought of you." Then she hlushingly produced her half, and they joined them together. The gods in the gallery shouted and stamped, the boxes, stalls and balconies clapped and waved handkerchiefs, and all cried, “Ar nor, author!” His hand found hers without any one noticing it iu tho excitement, and if any one had noticed they would scarcely have de tected that he gave her a toru piece of a playing card. Then he stood up smil ing and bowed all round amid thunders of applause, while pretty Molly forgot her dignity and laughed and nodded at him and clapped till her dainty kid gloves were spoiled. “To think of his being the author,” | said her mother as they drove home, “and your knowing him. I wonder if it was founded on fact?” “Yes, I think so,” answered Molly, hiding her face in the shadow. “Do you know the lady, dear?” “I know the lady of all but the last sceue, ” she said faintly. “I—oh, moth er!” "You—oh, Molly! And—the last sceue—my dear?” Her mother touched her gently on the arm. “He is calling tomorrow,” she an swered softly. Her hand closed in her pocket on the two halves of a tom card. —J. A. Flynn iu Madame. Seamed Like Sbeol to Her. At a recent fire in this city ridicu lousness and wickedness were somewhat mixed, to the amusement of the speota* tors, when a woman connected with the burning structure, who was rushing around hunting up her effects, which had been removed, excitedly shouted, “Where in h—1 is ay Bible?”—Gardi- p$r (Mo.) Reporter-Journal.