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14
WHO'S THE WOMAN?
CHAPTER I.
When John Brown became tutor to
jroung Harry Hastings at a salary of £80
a year (which he considered handsome),
he nover imagined that one day he would
become a wealthy man. The son of a
poor artist who had left nothing but bad
pictures and bad debts behind him, what
could he expect but a life of'penury,
Cheered by the enlivening prospect of
ending it in the Thames or the work
liouse? With such gloomy anticipations
•s these, a tutorship at £80 a year ap
peared a perfect mine of wealth to John
Brown, and to prove his gratitude for it
he devoted himself heart and soul to tho
sowing of classic and mathematical seed
in his pupil's brain. Young Harry did
not take kindly to anything his mentor
taught him. His brain was like that
wonderful hat of the conjurer's, which,
though you may fill it to tho brim with
rings and watches, refuses to produce
anything but rabbits. Tho fino classical
and mathematical crop that Brown had
so carefully sown—the good, solid wheat
and barley, as you may say—could never
be induced to grow, while tares and
thistles, as Brown considered all tastes
for such things as betting, racing and
acting, flourished and grew apace in
spite of careful and persistent weeding.
And yet there was nothing particular
ly bad about the boy. He w:is a nice
young fellow enough, and constant in
tercourse with an absolutely high mind
ed, truthful, honorable man (though a
trifle dull withal), such as his tutor, in
sorsEibly strengthened nil tho latent good
in him. Harry's parents had systematic
ally neglected their son for tho sake of
society. Ho had always been snubbed
by his father and kept out of sight by
his mother, who did not care to own to
the possession of a great hulking hoy of
17. Consequently all tho love and hero
worship that his nature wns capable of
feeling was bestowed upon kind, honest
John Brown.
If John succeeded in nothing else, he
succeeded in implanting a wondorful
amount of love and admiration for him
self in his pupil's wayward heart.
Brown's tutorship extended over two
years. Then Hastings fluug off hismental
leading strings, went off to Africa to
shoot big gamo and disappeared as
completely from tho elder man's Hfo as
though ho had borrowed money of him.
And now a curious thing occurred—
the one great stroke of John Brown's
quiet, ploddiftg life. An old maiden
aunt died. She had always been consid
ered miserably poor, but on her death it
was" found that she had managed to
scrape together no less than £2,000. This
money she left to her nephew John, and
it formed tho foundation stone on which
he reared his largo fortune. It floated
him into the Stock Exchange; it brought
him a partnership; it gave him a fair
start in life. After that his perfect in
tegrity and good business head did the
rest; his business flourished; his specu
lations succeeded, and in tho cour.so of
10 years he found himself a wealthy
man. Brown took a house in Mayfair.
It was described as a "bijou," and rates
were matters of indifference to tho suc
cessful stock broker. All he wanted
now was a wife, and it did not take him
long to find one. He fell deeply in love
with the daughter of a friend on the
Block Exchange. She accepted him, and
they were married in a few months.
Alice Benton, now Alice Brown, was a
beautiful woman. Sue was tall and fair
and calmly classical—one of those happy
beings that have their features and emo
tions well under control and never look
either too hot or too cold.
Brown adored her, and sho accepted
his adoration in the same calm matter of
course manner in which she had accepted
him. She was faultless in his eyes—a
being to look up to and reverence. They
were an extremely happy couple.
They had been married about two
years, and John Brown was as much iv
love with bis wife as ever; more than
ever perhaps on this particular day on
which our story opens, for sho had been
away from him for somo weeks, and her
absence was becoming intolerable. It
was June, and things were so busy in
the city that Brown was unablo to leave
London, but he had sent his wifo down
to the north, as it was unbearably hot in
town. She was to return tho next day,
bnt as Brown walked slowly down the
crowded street toward Pursell's ho won
dered how he should get through all
those long intervening hours.
A vigorous clap ou tho back and a
hasty "Hello, old fellow! Who would
have thought to see you here? - ' effectu
ally aroused bim.
He started and looked up into a hand
some and strangely familiar face. It
was Harry Hastings, though Ins fair skin
was burned almost black by tropical
suns, and a heavy mustache shaded his
lips. Though there wero lines on his face
and all the change there that IS years of
living entail, Brown recognized his for
mer pupil.
"Harry! My dear boy! Where have
you dropped from?"
The tvto men exchanged a hearty shake
of the hftnd. They were genuinely glad
to meet again.
"Whcro are you off to?" asked Harry,
linking his arm through Brown's. "Pnr
iell's, I suppose. I sco it's grub time.
Come to my rooms and grub with me.
I've get diggins in Holborn. Come
along."
Tho young man hailed a hansom, and
Brown got meekly in. Ho was busy, but
business must give way when old friends
turn up from tho antipodes. Hastings'
rooms wero luxuriously furnished, his
cook a first cla.-3 one, his wines extreme
ly select, his cheroots of tho finest brand.
"Come, light up, old fellow," said
Harry, cigar in mouth. "You won't get
tobacco like that every day." Ho threw
himself back in. liis luxurious armchair,
hit) hands plunged in his pockets, his feet
tilted against the mantelpiece. "There's
nothing like thes*cheroots for drowning
care —douce take the old brutel And
»ow tell me what you've been doing all
iliese years, Brown. Fallen on your feet,
ek? Made your pile?"
"Yes, I'vo made ir.y pile, but I'm only
an old fogy now, Harry, a respectablo
stockbroker, such as all novelists love to
have a fling at, and a perfectly uninter
esting person. Let's hear your experi
ences. Where havu you wandered to
eince you gave up your affectionate tutor
12 years ago?"
"Oh, all over the shop—Africa, India,
Australia, America. I've tried them all
and am tired of them all. I'm sick of
African fevers and Indian tigers and
American beauties, so I'm giving Eng
land a turn. England seems panning
out better just now, but—l wish to heav
en I had never come hereP The last
words broke from him with curious
energy.
Brown sighed. How the young man
had changedl What had become of the
frank, happy boy who had enjoyed his
life so thoroughly and made such a fear
ful hash of the Latin verbs? Dead and
gone—buried under the pitiless weight
of 12 years of life.
"There's something troubling tho lxjy,"
thought Brown, who still c onsidered
himself in the light of mentor to the
young man.
Hastings was certainly ill at ease. His
manner was restless; hie eyes shifted un
comfortably before Brown's kind look.
John laid his hand gently on his arm.
"Something's wrong, Harry, my lad.
What is it?"
Harry started and stared uneasily un
der the other's touch. His browu cheeks
turned crimson. Ho hung his head shame
facedly.
"Yes, something's wrong," he said,
looking down confusedly at the Persian
carpet. "Im in a mess, When is a fel-
"SOMETHING'S WRONG, HARRY, MY LAD"
low over out of a mess, I should like to
know? I camo a cropper over the Derby
last month—always was fond of bet
ting, you knew. Brown—and—l'm down
on mv luck—all to pieces, don't you
know."
He plunged his hands deeper into his
trousers' pockets. His half smoked che
root lay Fino'deringon tbe floor. Brown
picked it up.
"You are trying to put me off and
making a mess of it, Harry." he said
quietly. "You've got some, hind ou your
mind—something more than n cropper
over the Derby. I'm a man of 1 .1 world,
and you can't deceive me. Who's the
woman?"
Tho young man started. "What the
devil's that to you?' ho growled; then
recovering himself: "There is no wom
an. I wish you wouldn't startle a fellow
with such deuced awkward questions.
What woman should there be? I don't
know why you should catechise me like
this. Upon my word, Brown, if it were
any one but you I should call it d—d im
pertinent."
Harry paced up and down the room
like an angry young lion. Brown moved
toward the door.
"I am sorry to have offended you,
Harry. I—l wanted to be your friend,
but as you take it in this spirit"— He
paused and came back a few steps. "I
can't leave you iike this, Harry, dear
lad. You want a friend. Let me help
you. - '
Harry looked up into John Brown's
kind, gentle face, and his anger melted.
Ho took tho other's extended hand and
pressed it warmly.
"Sorry I was angry, old chap. You
are right. Your worldly wisdon#snr
prises me. There is a woman. I'm in a
devil of a moss, and heaven knows how
I shall get out of it. I—l can't tell you
about it now—no time—l promised to
meet Dicky Jones at tho club. Come in
next week, old fellow, and look me up."
CHAPTER 11..
Harry Hastings looked up from hig
letters with a bright smile of welcome.
"Hero you aro at last, Brown. Aw
fully glad to toe you." Ho put away
his unfinished letter with a curious look
of confusion on his handsome face. "I
—I was just writing to—to her, yon
know."
"And who is she? Who is the woman?"
"Ah, that's my secret —and hers," said
the young man. "I have some sense of
honor, yoti know, though I don't suppose
you will think I can have much of that
about mo when I tell you I'm iv lovo
with a married woman. You are so
much better than most fellows, you
know, that I don't expect much pity
from yon, old man."
John Brown sighed.
"I am sorry for you, my lad, and for
her. Does she love you?"
"She tells mo so."
"How long has this been going on?"
Harry shifted restlessly in his chair.
"Oh, for years! I'll tell you all about
it from the beginning. I met her out in
India ages ago when sho was a lovely
girl of 17, and I tumbled head over ears
in lovo with her, and she with me. She
tells me now she has always loved mo.
If I had proposed to her at once, it would
have been all right, but—but it does
Eeem a plunge for a fellow to bind him
self for life when he's only one and
twenty, and—and I funked it. I was a
whole week making up ln i' mind to pro
pose, and before I had quite decided I
got knocked out of time by a tiger and
landed for six months in a hospital.
When I got on my feet again, sho had
gone back to England, and I didn't fol
low her.
"Well, I never saw her again until a
month or two ago when, as ill luck
would have it. I went down to see somo
friends iv tho country, antl she was
staying at a neighboring house. I met
her out walking one day. Of course I
knew her at once. Sho was lovelierthan
over—ripened, matured and all that sort
of thing, you know—and I felt that I
loved her as much as ever. I told ber
so, too, never guessing but that she was
as single, as I am, and then sho blushed
and sighed and cried a little and told me
she was married. Of course I ought to
have gone away at once—never seen her
again—but alio looked at me bo sweetly,
Brown, and admitted with so many tears
tbat she didn't lovo her husband; that
she wasn't happy; that—that deuce take
me if I could tear myself away."
"Of course you couldn't," said Brown
grimly. "I suppose you expected her tc
be brave for you both and point outyoui
duty to you? Well, is she in London
now?"
LOS ANGELES HERALD: SUNDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 8, 1893.
"And yoti see her often?"
"Nearly every day."
"And her husband—what does he
think of this?"
"I have never seen him. She won't
even tell me who or what he is—and ]
don't care—it's all the better. It's a bad
business, Brown, and I wish to God 1
was ont of it."
"Then get out of it, Harry. It's in
your own hands. Leave England at
once. It is your only chance."
The young man bent his head on his
hand and groaned.
"I can't—l can't—l love her. And she
is so lonely and unhappyl It would be
brutal to leave her all alone with that
husband of hers."
"Is he unkind to her?"
"Oh, she never says that, but—but ehe
implies a good deal, don't you know. She
never loved him, you see, though she has
triod hard to do her duty. Ho is slow
and dull aud uninteresting and all that
sort of thing—a regular old buffer, I
suppose. Poor girlt She says her life
would be miserable without me. How
can I leave her?"
"Then where will this qpd? Oh, my
boy, where are you; drifting to?"
"The divorce cdurt, I suppose," said
Harry recklessly. "Some day I imagine
we shall make a bolt of it—and then"
"And then you will realize what it is
to ruin three lives. If you lovo this
woman, you will give her up."
"I do love her, but I won't give her
up!" burst out Harry.
"It's no use preaching, old man; Pm
not good enough; I can't rise to tho prac
tice."
John Brown was silent a few moments,
thinking. He pitied the young man.
What could he do to savo him? A sudden
thought struck him—Harry had never
had a happy home. During his wander
ing existence ho conld have seen but lit
tle of 'domestic life. What could he
know of the sacredness of the tie be
tween husband and wife—the tie that ho
was doing his best to break? Who could
tell but that a glimpse into a hnppy home
might arouse some of the latent good in
him.
"Look hero, Harry," said Brown ab
ruptly, "I'm not going to preach—l see
it's no use. Como homo to dinner with
me instead and see my wife. The very
sight of a good woman and a happy
wife is good for a man in your frame of
mind. Come and talk to Alice. She is
the best medicine I can recommend you."
Harry started.
"I didn't know you were married,
Brown; 'pon my word I didn't. Happy
man!"
John smiled—a smile of trust and hap
piness that lit up his rugged face into
positive beauty. v
"I am a happy man—thanks to Alice.
When I think of my own good fortune in
having such a wife, it makes me very piti
ful to you poor bachelors."
Ho took out his watch—a large gold
timepiece as absolutely reliable as him
self.
"Half past 6—we dine at 7. Come,
Hastings. It doesn't take more than 20
minutes to get to Curzon street. Aristo
cratic neighborhood, isn't it? I dare say
you have often driven past our house—
Bijou house, and a gem of a place it is!
If there oro two things I am proud of,
ALICE LOOKED UP AT HTM QUICKLY.
they are my wife and my house. You
are not going to do any more writing,
Harry? Wo shall only just be in time
for dinner."
Harry Hastings was standing at his
desk busily arranging papers, and it was
quite a perceptible time before he an
swered without turning his head.
"Very sorry, but I really can't come
tonight. I—l'vo an engagement. Some
other time I shall be delighted to make
—your wife's—acquaintance."
Brown was quite distraught that even
ing. His thoughts wandered to his old
pupil with tiresomo persistency. He
hardly noticed tbat Alice wore a new
and bewitching tea gown. He did not
sco that though her eyes wero fixed on
her book she never turned a page.
Alice, too, was distraught, but pres
ently sho yawned and looked up at her
husband with a slightly unamiable ex
pression on her calm, fair face.
"What An earth are you thinking of,
John? Do you know that you are a very
dull companion this evening?"
John started out of his reverie.
"Am I, dearest? I know I'm a dull old
fellow. I was thinking of my old pupil,
Harry Hastings. I've often talked to
yon about him, yoti know, and if you re
ineaiber I met him last woek in the
city"-
"Yes, I remember," said Alico indiffer
ently, picking up the book which had
slipped from her hand. "Well, why
'poof Harry Hastings? I thought be was
a very rich young man."
"Ho is a very unhappy man just now.
He's got into an unfortunate entangle
ment with a married woman"
"Really, did ho tell you so?"
"Yes, he told me. It appears he met
her years ugo in India."
"And who is tho woman?"
"Ho refusod'to tell me, and ho was
right. Whoever she may be, I pity hei
—and him."
Ho took his wife's pretty hand in his
and looked at her fondly.
"Ah, Alice, if there were more women
like you tho world would be a very dif
ferent place."
She drew her hand quickly away—a
sudden flush of color on her pale cheeks.
"Don't bo foolish. John. You run my
rings into me. Wo are not on our honey
moon."
Brown felt a trifle chilled.
Some weeks passed, and Brown saw
nothing more of young Hastings. He
called at his rooms several times, but
never found him in. Ho wrote and re
seated his iavitatiou to uiuuoi, but Har
ry was deep in engagements and conk;
not spare his friend an evening forweekt
to come.
"Poor Harry!" said John to his wife.
"I am anxious for him. Ho's going to
the devil rapidly. Ho knows it, and ne'e
ashamed to sco mo. Poor unhappy boy!"
"I don't know that he needs you? pity,
John," said Alice, without raising her
eyes from the toy terrier on her lap. "1
dare say he is happier going to tho devil
in his own way than he would be if he
led on absolutely virtuous and unevent
ful life."
"For awhile perhaps. But for how
long."
Alice shrugged her shoulders.
"What does Tennyson say? 'Better
50 years of EJhropa than a cycle of Ca
thay!' Anythingis better than dullness."
John looked ut his wifo a little anx
iously. There was an unusual ring in
hor voice—a touch of bitterness that
jarred upon him.
"My dear, oro you a trifle dull?" ho
asked anxiously. "Perhaps it is a little
slow for you to be all day alone hero
while Icm away in tho city. I wonder
what I can do to make your life a little
plcasantor. Let me see—bnsiuessisslack
just now. What do you say to a week
in Paris?"
Alico looked up at him quickly. It
was a hot day, and tho heat had mado
her unusually pale.
"Yon aro very good, John, but—l don't
caro for Paris. I am quite happy as I
am. lam not in the least dull."
She smiled at him, and that emilo com
pletely dispelled any vague anxiety ho
had begun to entertain on his wife's ac
count. But hi 3 anxiety for Harry was
not so easily dissipated. Tho young man
possessed an extraordinary power of win
ning affection, and he had won his old
tutor's heart completely. He took a«
much interest in hiiaoa though he were
a younger 'brother, and Brown deter
mined ho would make one more effort to
save him. That ovoning he had promised
to dine at his club with an old friend
who had returned unexpectedly from
India. Under ordinary circumstances
Brown would have gone on after dinner
to tho theater and not have returned till
late, but tonight he hurried away from
theclubsoonafterß and reached Harry's
lodgings before 0. Colonel Holt had
grumbled a little, but an irresistible im
pulse drove John toward his friend.
"Mr. Hastings is out, sir," said the
servant.
"Then I'll go up and wait till he comes
in."
CHAPTER HI.
Brown had seen a light in Harry's
window, and convinced that the man
was lying according to orders pushed
his way past him and went quickly up
6tairs. He openod the door gently. The
room was in confusion. The tablo was
strewn with papers. On the floor lay a
portmanteau, strapped and labeled.
Harry was sitting at his desk busily
writing. He started up with an excla
mation as John entered, his cheeks turn
ing from red to white and from white
to red again.
"Brown, you here! I thought"— He
broke off with a gasp, staring at John
with as horror stricken a face as though
he had been a ghost.
Brown glanced quickly from the young
man's pale, changing face to the port
manteau and from the 'portmanteau to
tho scattered papers on table and floor.
"So you've made the last plunge, Har
ry. You are going tonight with her."
Harry had recovered himself a trifle.
Ho plunged his hands into his pockets,
looking doggedly down at his pointed
boots:
"Yes, I'm going tonight with her."
"And where to?'
"Paris."
Brown spurned the portmanteau with
his foot.
"To Paris—and where else? To the
devil, Harry! To ruin, to disgrace, to
shame, and you are dragging her with
you!"
"I know it, but it's too late now to
think of that."
"It is not too late. Save yourself; save
her."
"She doesn't want to be saved. She
loves me, I tell you."
"Now, perhaps. But how long will
that love last when she realizes what
she is and what you are? How can she
lovo you when she remembers that you
have betrayed another man; that you
have ruined his life, made his home des
olate? And you? Can you lovo a wom
an capable of such baseness? Love
founded on ingratitude and crime can
not last. And when love has gone, what
have you left? You cannot honor or re
spect one another. Each must feel how
vile the other is. What will become of
you? Oh, Harry, my dear boy, for God's
sake think before you face such a fu
ture!"
Hairy turned fiercely away.
"I have thought of it all. I've thought
till I'm nearly mad. I know my future.
It's a damned future, and I deserve it.
Why did you come bore, Brown! I never
meant to sco you again. I don't deserve
your pity or interest! I don't deservo it,
I tell you! For heaven's sake go! You
don't know! You don't know! You aro
driving me mad! You aro torturing mo!"
Great drops stood out upon tho young
man's forehead. His face was livid.
"If I had only met you three months
ago, before I saw her, I should have boon
saved. If I had only mot your wife.
"fob heaven's sake go!"
Look here, Brown, don't forget this: 1
never knew you wero married, you know,
until—until it was too lato. You—you
won't forget that, will yon?"
Harry spoke wildly, almost incoher
ently, and Brown looked at him, puz
zled. Ho was on unimaginative man.
"I don't know what you moan, Harry.
What has my marriage to do with—wjt_b
this?" and he kicked tbe portmanteau
again.
Hastings flung himself into a chair and
buried his face in his hands.
"Why don't you go? Why don't you
go?" he cried, his voice coming out in
muffled gasps. ' 1 1 tell you Jm a brute—
a> beast. You'll be sorry Some day you
ever spoke to mo. And yet I have strog •
gled—l have, indeod—btit the tempta
tion's too strong for ma. Go away,
Brown, go!"
He looked up and met tho eldor man's
kindly, pitying gaso and started up with
a cry.
"Don't look at me liko that! You tor
ture mol I tell you I'm in hell!"
Brown put a strong baud on each of
the young man's shoulders and pushed
him back into his chair.
"I am not going yet."
"It's no use talking"
"But I moan to talk. Look here,
Harry, have you ever thought of this
unhappy woman's husband?"
"I told yoti I had never met him."
"Think of tho wrong you are about to
do him. Ho has never injured you, and
you aro going to blast his whole life.
Harry, I am a married man. I know
what it is to have a happy home and a
dear wife. Alice o:id I love each other;
we live for each other: wo honor ono aiv
other; we aro happy. It—it seems al
most a Eacrilege to imagine such a thing
possiblo of—of Alice, but just let us try
and imagine for a moment that—that
she, my wife, learned to love another
man— somo handsome young fellow like
yourself—aud—and that one night I re
turned to find hor—gone."
"Well," P'- U Hastings hoarsely, "what
would yon •'
"I should shoot myself," said Brown
simply.
Harry's eyes met his. For a moment
they lootzea at one another in sileticb.
"If this other man loves his wifo as I
love mine, he will do as I should do.
Harry, dear lad, would you have his
blood upon your head? Oh, my boy,
save yourself this crime!"
There was a long silence. Harry
shrunk back into his chair trembling.
Brown watched him anxiously. The
ticking of the clock was loudly percepti
ble in the quiet room.
At last Harry rose unsteadily to his
feet. His fate looked drawn and sunken.
There were his eyes.
"You have won the day, old man," he
said in a curiously tuneless voice. "I'll
go back to Africa."
"Thank God!" said Jolin Brown.
Harry went to his desk, scribbled a
few ha3ty lines, directed an envelope;
then rang for the servant and gave the
note to him.
"Deliver this at once," he said. "Take
a cab and drive fast." The man Went
off with a bewildered look.
"There's a train for Southampton at 6
o'clock in tho morning, Brown. I shall
take that. My things are all packed.
I'm gui to ready. Aro you going home
now?"
"Yes."
"Don't go yet. Wait here while I
write a few letters. I—l like to have
you here."
John took a chair in silence, and for
more than an hour no sound was hoard
in tho room but tho aggressive tickingof
the clock and the scratching of Hastings'
pen.
Tho clock Btruck 11, and Harry laid
down his pen.
"You can go now. Goodby. I shall
never see you again. Goodby!"
John grasped the young man's hand in
both hia own.
"Goodby, dear lad, and God blase
you."
Harry dropped hia head down upoi
the table with something like a sob, an •
John went slowly to tbe door. A pieci
of crumbled paper laying at his feet at
tracted his attention. He picked it xi\
mechanically. It was a letter in a wom
an's hand. He was about to throw it
away, but a second glance at tho hand
writing caused him to put it quickly in
his pocket. He closed the door behind
him and went out into the street, walked
rapidly along for tome moments; then
stopped under a gas lamp and read the
letter through. It was very short:
Deabest—l shall bo ready thia evening at 10
o'clock. Come for me. My husband will be our
till late, so it is quite safe. Oh, how slowly the
hours go until 1 see you agalnl How can I have
lived all these years without you?
That was all—the letter was unfinished
and unsigned.
*#»•••
It was nearly 2 o'clock in the morning
when John Brown reached his homo.
There were lights in tho drawing room.
He went in. Alice was sitting up for
him. She was sitting in a luxuriously
cushioned armchair, her fair hair falling
loose upon her shoulders, her head bent
over a book. She wore a loose gown of
some soft white material. Hor cheeksand
Una were white too. She had a very
ghostlike lock, seen in the dim light of
tho shaded lamp.
Sho glanced up quickly as her hus
band entered. Her face looked drawn
end hard. The blue had gone out of her
eyes, leaving them palo and dull.
"How late you are, John."
"Yes, I have spent a very painful even
ts."
"Really? How?"
"I went to Harry's room. I found that
entanglement I told you of had come to
a crisis, and"
"Well?" a3 ha paused.
"Well, to make a long story short, I
prevailed on him to give up this unhap
py woman and go to Africa instead."
"Sho will thank you, I am sure," said
Alice, in a low, hard voice.
"I think ahe will—some day."
Brown loaned against tho inantelpieco
opposite his 'wife. It had been a hard
evening for him. Ec looked suddenly old.
His kind fuco was very sad, his white lips
dry and tremulous. Alice moved rest
lessly in her comfortable chair, then
leaned forward and looked hard at him.
Her eyes had a curious expression, half
reckless, half despairing. Hor hands
clptched the arms of tho chair with a
grasp that hurt her delicate fingers.
"Well, John, have you nothing more
to tell me?" she asked in a voice whose
studied lightness overlaid a terrible sus
pense. "Nothing really interesting? Did
you actually let Harry Hastings go off
without tolling you who sho is? Come,
now, who is the woman?"
John Brown made no answer, but ho
looked at his wife, and she read in his
eyes that he knew.—London Soojpty.
Imiles Fear Far Their Ualr.
A dinner party in the suburbs one
cVfuiug last "meek TVao voa sum-
Mary ending by too eutranceiof a large
sized bat into the room, which swooped
down over the table, causing such a scat
tering of the fair sot, including the host
ess, aa an earthquake could scarcely
have accomplished. Tho innocent cause
of all this disturbance sought refuge iv
the upper folds of tho window draper
ies, whence it was impossible to dislodge
it, aud as the lutliea pcrsistenly refused
to return to the dining room whilo the
intruder held possession tbere the re
maining courses were served informally
in tho library to tho scornful amusement
of tho men. Ono of tho latter is report
ed as saying, "And yet women consider
themselves our equals and waut to vote!"
—Boston Saturday Gazotte.
Tho Vlro President's Candlesticks.
Tho desk in t!i'-> vico president's room
at the capitol lookl very dcsolato during
a recess of tho senate, and the space that
used to bo taken up by tho large silver
tray, candlesticks and writing outfit
which had been on the desk for four
years seoniod lurger while it was vacant.
It wits a very handsome outfit, aud ac
cording to tima honored custom was
presented to Mr. Morton by a special or
der from the senate. During tho recess
the sergeunt-at-arms wont shopping and
purchased new desk furniture, which
four years henco will bocomo the prop
erty of Mr. Stevenson.—Kate Field's
Washington.
Electrically Woldod Steel Barrels.
It ia reported that a large industry ia
beiug built up at Barrow. England, in
the production of oteol barrels for tho
conveyance of petroleum. The barrels
are made ia halves by means of compres
sion in a mold when hot. Afterward
they are welded together by means of
electricity. Tho barrels are intended for
use by the large oil carrying companies
engaged in tho oil trade in the east,
where the temperature has a great effect
on wooden casks and results in so much
leakage.—New York Telegram.
Searchlight For Wounded.
Hie Miiitar Wochonblatt montions an
invention for finding the wounded on
tho battlefield. It consists of a telescopic
tubular polo, about 25 yards long «vhen
fully extended, with a gas or kerosene or
electric light at tho top. It is made of
aluminium and kept steady by three or
four thin wire cords, a large white re
flector being placed above the light. It
is said to light up a largo extent of
ground most effectually and in a man
ner much mors serviceable than that of
an ordinary searchlight.
Cleanliness tho First Lav of Health.
Tho following words of the late Dr.
Richardson should be ever kept in mind:
"Cleanliness covers the whole field of
sanitary labor. Cleanliness, that is
purity of air; cleanliness, that is purity
of water; cleasliaeai in and around the
house, cleanliness of persons, cleonlinoss
of dress, cleanliness of food and feeding,
cleanliness in work, cleanliness in habits
of the individual man and woman, clean
liness of life and conversation purity of
life, temperance—all these are ia man's
power."
Kerosene OH In China.
Kerosei;'.' oil ia rapidly growing in fa
vor as a cheap illuminant iv China. Tho
ronsump'ii ■]], which was 0,256,000 gal
lons in 1688, had risen to 40,£H8,000 gal
lons in 1891. Uf this amount 80 per cent
was imported from America and 20 per
cent from Russia. Tho illuminant be
fore kerosene was wt£"duced was bean
or tea oil. The Chinese have discovered,
however, that k> r.<*-ne is. cheaper and
gives a much bettor It is calUjd
fire o% %seav, ir , ewj(Jo 1
Mr. Onion Changes His Name.
Mr. Waller Ori >n (neo Onion) writes
from Farmington tljat he ia pleasbd to
say that the superior court at Colfax has
granted his petition for a change of
name. "1 would bd infinitely obliged to
you," he adds, "if you would kindly an
nounce the saino in your paper, as many
are ignorant as to tho result. I have
many frienis in and around Spokane
who would be pleased to know."—Spo
kane (Wr'i ) Review.
The Warm Salt Bath.
Warm salt batlis taken at a tempera
ture of GO to 95 degrees are eminently
suited for those with whom the open sea
bath does not agree. Many people be
lieve—and it is an idea that is hard to
kill —that a warm bath at this tempera
ture is "relaxing," but as a restorative
after bodily fatigue, especially in hot
weather, or as a means to relieve muscu
lar pain ami tension, it is difficult to find
a better substitute. We go further and
hold that such a bath is better than open
air bathing for the nervous and debili
tated, and especially in cases of irritabil
ity arising from mental worry, sleepless
ness, intemperance and late hours. And
tho efficacy of such a bath in lumbago,
gout, rheumatism, paralysis, sciatica and
neuralgia is time honored and is capable
of everyday demonstration. '• ■.»«»..
Income From German Railway Stations.
It is the custom in Germany not to al
low persons on the platforms of railroad
stations save the actual travelors except
on payment of a small fee, which fee in
largo cities constitutes quito an income.
Thus during the eight months from Jan
uary to August, 1892, the Friedrick
Strasso station in Berlin took 24,576
marks, the Alexander Platz station 13,
--779 marks, the Bilesian station 12,204
marks and the Potsdam station 6V«I
marks.—American Register.
Dueling In Itussia.
A St. Petersburg correspondent says:
Dueling in Russia has become so com
mon that tho government has been com
pelled to decree a severe code of punish
ment. Killing au antagonist will cost
6ix years in prison; severe wounding,
three years; duel without injury, six
months; provoking a duel, six weeks to
three months.
A metallic pavement is to be tried in
Paris. The prefect of the Seine, with the
approval of the municipal authorities,
has sanctioned tho laying down of an ex
perimental length.
The new carpet for tho honse of repre
sentatives will be of a dark green design,
with a crimson figure, conventional in
its character, relieved by a cream col
ored star.
The new programme of public instruc
tion adopted in Franco dovotes more
time to the study cf aad less to
the study of German.
FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
A Christmas Surprise. j
Phillips Brooks, the great preach*
who died a tow months ago, was ver,,
fond of children, as one may know froi
a letter to ono of his nieces. The Oer]
ttfry Magazine publishes the text:
[Very Private! 11
GrtANit HoTT.r., Vienna, Nov. », 1888.
Dear Ucktic—This letter is an awful seonj
between you and me. If you tell any body abot'
it, I will not s;>;<Ak to you all this winter. An
tills Is what it Is about. You know Christine
Is coming, and I am afraid t lint I shall not gc
home by that lime; antl so I want you to go an
get tbe Christmas presents for tho childrer
Tho grown people will not get any from ni
tills year. But Ido not want tbe children to g
without, so you must And out, in the mo
scorot way. Just what Agnns and Tendio wool
most like to have and get it and pat In the!
stockings on Christmas ere. . {
Then you must ask yourself what you wart
and got it, too, bnt without letting yourscl
know about it, and put it in your own stock.
lux and be very much surprised when you fin?
it there. And t hen yon must sit down and tbin
about Josophlno de Wolf and the other babj
At Springfield, whoso namo I do not know, an< j
oonsider what they would like, and have 1
Kent to them in time to reach tbem upon Christ
mas ove. j
Will you do ."II tli!;t former You can spent
$fi for each chil l, rtitl If you show your fathe
tilts letter ho v i i ivo yon the money out o,
sumo of mine tvhieli ho bus got. That rat be]
breaks tho seer \ bul you will want to consul
your father ai'i mother m I out what to get, erf
peclally for l'„ itorincflold children, so yot
nay tell thorn r.boul it, but do not dare to le
any of tbo chl! ten know of it until Chriatnuu
time. Thi t-il mo In your Ohrlstna J
setter just how .■■>•■ liavo managed about H all
C. )' ( aop Gardea*
"I'm going to bury this ohop bona
right here."
"Guess I'll see if a little attention wij
help my scheme any."
"Well, well, how is this for enter
prise?"— Harper's Young People.
A New Game.
In this gamo tho first player is placed;
in tho center of the room and blindfold
ed. But before he is blindfolded be ia
told to look all about him and notice all'
the things la the room.
After the handkerchief is tied over hisl
eyos ho is told to turn around once and,
then to say aloud what he expects tol
touch by walking straight forward with'
his hands outstretched. Of course it is 9
great fun to see him go and touch the']
table after he had said he expected to
touch the rocking chair.
Ho may "look" and then bo blind
folded again. Ho may try three times
to touch objects, turning around of
course each time.
Each little player in turn has three
"tries."
After all have tried, if it is a party,
there is generally a little tray of cakes
brought in, and those players who have
touched the objects aro expected to have ,
all frosted cakes full of plums. The
others havo little plain cakes.
Most grown people would get little
plain cakes. —Annie L Willis in New
York Press.
A Barefooted Snake Charmer.
Oue of Cincinnati's thriving suburbs
in the direction of Ivanhoe has a boss
snake charmer in the shape of a bare
footed, ono suspendered country boy.
The youngster makes excursions into !
the country for the purpose of acquiring
snakes; which he does with success. The
other night he entered the village with a
garter snake in the bosom of his cotton
shirt and created a sensation in a drug
store by hauling it out and trying t9
sell it. He did sell two small ones,
which he says he captured before they
could run into the old one's mouth. The
boy holds the snake is poisonous, but!
that he pulls the "stinger" out and so
makes it harmless. Explaining how he
caught them, he said: "When I see 'em
running along, I sneak up on 'em and:
grab 'em about the middle. Then I!
slide my hand down till I've got 'em byi
the neck." He said lie had been a snak»
charmer for three years.—Cincinnati E»
quirer. , * ';
Mamie's Fire Spark.
Oh, mamma dear, (row down your work, '
And hurry awful quick
And bring a pall of water, too.
Else fetch a great long stick.
'Cause, way up In my cherry tree
Among the pretty flowers,
A spark of fire flied just now.
It shined bright red like ours,
I see it sparkln in the grass
And hurried quick to frow
Some water fore It burned us up, '•
As fast as I could go. \
But 'fore the sprinkles touched lt quita ' f )
Away it filed so fast
From bush to bosh and landed la
My cherry tree at last.
And I'm 'most sure 'twill be burned up .
Like gran'pa's house, 'tthout
You fetch a pall of water hare
And help me put it out.
—Marah Rooke in Housekeeper.
™ - ~ r g
To Care the Law's Dwbty. tee-
The chief justice of Georgia is in,faro* ;
of the admission of women to tbe banch. -
If this were done, it isquite probable tkati
there would be less of tbe law's delay.
The faculty woman enjoys for gatttnf at
tho truth of things quickly should make
her a very desirable judge,—Memphis l
Appeal-Avalanche.
