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THE CHARITY GIRL
By CFFIC A. ROWLANDS
The Glendurwood carriage was stand
ing where Jack had ordered it to remain
when he arrived. Jack had thrown him
self back in his corner and had folded
his arms across his breast; Audrey sat
bolt upright, her two cold little hands
clinched tight together, her teeth set so
that the sobs that rose to her throat
should not escape her lips.
Who shall attempt to describe the
state of those two hearts, both wounded
to the very quick, both heavy with that
deep sorrow that comes when one has
been deceived where one loves best?
"Why did they take me fo him? Why
was I married to him? I would sooner
have died than have listened to what
those women said to-night, and know
that he has never, never loved me," said
Audrey to herself, passionately.
"And so my happiness is over," ran
Jack's troubled thoughts. "Well, it has
not lasted long. Fool—fool that I have
been, to believe that any woman could
be the angel I have pictured her ts be,
and that she should love him—him, above
all other men! I feel as though his
very life's blood will not give me satis
They reached the gates of Craiglands
at last; a few minutes' drive through the
we*l-kept avenue, and then the door. Jack
got out, and then forcing himself by an
almost superhuman effort to appear nat
ural before the servants, turned to as
sist her. Audrey put her cold hand in
his as she stepped out of the brougham.
How little did either of them think that
they would not clasp, or even touch,
hands again for many a weary day.
The fragrance and warmth of her bed
room seemed to choke Audrey. Hastily
flinging off her domino, she passed to the
window and pushed it open, and then
stood by it, the sound of her own heart
beating in her ears like a sledge hammer.
Would Jack come? She waited several
moments. If he had come to her then
she would have done that which would
have put matters straight at once, for the
agony in her breast was urging her to
speak out to ask him why he had deceived
her, why he had married her? The hot
blood rushed to her cheeks again and
again, as she recalled cne remarks those
two women had made, and realised how
cruelly the world judged her already.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went
by, and Audrey still stood waiting for
the sound of her husband's footsteps on
the stairs and the passage outside.
Her happiness was ended; Jack no
longer loved her—indeed, had never loved
hen She was his wife, that was true, and
it must ho-her lot to boar with the diffi
culties as with tho joys that fell to her
as his wife.
"Still," the dilld thought sorrowfully
to herself, "he has acted wrongly; he has
been cruel to Sheila, to himself, to me.
I am glad he did not come in just now,
yes, glad, for it shows that he is tired of
deceit and hpyocrisy, and—and I cannot
bear to think that the nature I thought
■o honest should only prove false. What
was it that those women said? "The
worst day's work Jack Glendurwood did
when he married me.' People should be
careful how they speak out —the truth."
Her lips but her face flamed
with proud color. "The worst day's
jvork for Jack," she repeated slowly, "and
I am the one who has brought that to
him. I—l who would lay down my life
for him. Why did I ever meet him? Why
did I ever leave home? Why did not
heaven let me die before all thla sorrow
came upon him through me? Jack! My
darling 1 My darling!"
Her hot, tearless eyes stared into the
fire, as If to seek some eolution of this
painful problem there. In her loving gen
erosity Audrey made all excuses for her
husband now. She no longer blamed; he
was still to her the dearest creature on
earth; and yet so great was the agony at
thought of his deceit that, had he held out
his arms to her and called her tenderly by
name, she would have turned from him
and stood aloof.
Jeaa Thwait was lying in a delicious
doze, bait waking, halt keeping, an the
morning following the Dinglewood Masked
ball, when a aharp Up at the door, fol
lowed by Audrey'* rapid entrance, arous
ed btr completely.
"What ta It, darting? Something baa
happened?" she cried, hurriedly.
"Jean, can you park up a few thiaga
and come with me at once?" Audrey
■poke faintly, her face was deathly white,
ahe ahook la every limb; then before Jeaa
could anawer, abe went on swiftly, "My
mother is very 111. She has telegraphed
for me. Perhapa even now I may be too
lata; ahe may be dead. I hare ordered
the carriage to be her* la an hour, can
you be ready?"
"Yes," replied Jean, briefly. It needed
ao worda to tell her that more waa the
matter than thia telegram from Ger
many. Audrey had never apokea like thla
to her before, had, Beyer looked aa ahe
Audrey made ao Inquiries about Jack,
although ahe knew ahe muat acquaint him
with her Journey before ahe started. Jean
found plenty to do in the time allotted to
her, but abe waa wonderfully quick, and
waa in ber bat and coat when ahe went
to the door to open It in anawer to a
aharp anmmons. It waa Jack, also fully
attired la outdoor costume, with a rail
way rug over his arm.
"Good morn lag. Ml as Thwalt," he laid,
hurriedly. "Pleaas forgive me for thla
uncoremonioua Intrualon, bnt I wanted
to apeak ta you befor* I leave."
"Are you aot going with ua?" abe aak
ed la aurprlae.
It was Jack's tun to show aatoalah
"Where are you going?" he aaked huak
Jean ta three worda, explained what
had happened, and then she knew some
thing waa Tery wrong, indeed, by the ex
pression on Jack'a face.
"Poor Constance I" ahe heard him mut
ter undar hla breath; then he gars a
quick aifk. "I hope thins* may aot be
so had, Miss Thwait. It is quite impos
sible for me to gel to Cronstadt yet."
"Does Audrey know you are not going
"I have not seen her this morning," was
the answer, given with much evident
Jean clasped her hands suddenly. Then
her worst fears were realized, and some
thing more had, indeed, happened; some
thing. too, very terrible, to work such a
change as this.
"Lord John," she said, involuntarily,
"you must please forgive me, but is your
business so important that you are com- :
pelled to attend to it rathef than acoom- ,
pany your wife on such a journey as j
"Miss Thwait," he said as well as he
could speak, "the business I am going on
touches that which is dearer to me than
life—my honor! I am sure that you at
least would not wish me to neglect any
thing with which that is concerned."
"I will answer for Audrey as for my
self," Jean said, hurriedly, "if your honor
is concerned, Lord John, no other reason
is needed; but is there nothing I can do 7"
"Give this letter to Audrey, Miss
Thwait," his voice quivered as he spoke
his wife's name. "It is a sacred trust,
one that I would not give to every one;
but I know you are her friend, you will
comprehend and sympathize with what I
am going to do."
"Stay, Lord John; you must hear me!"
Jean's gray eyes were full of tears. "I
love Audrey better than anything on
earth. Ido not ask to know the reason,
but I see, alas! only too well, that some
thing has arisen between her and you. I
ask you now, and it is my love for her
that urges the question, will you not see
her yourself before you start on this
journey?—will you not smooth awsy the
qudrrel? She is in trouble—will you not
take her to your arms?"
"It is impossible," he said quickly, but
with such determination in his voice as
made Jean shudder, and sent a thrill of
exquisite torture through Audrey's aching
heart, as she, at that moment, opened the
door in time to catch Jean's last words
and her husband's reply.
By and by, when they were speeding to
Dover, Jean and Willie Fullerton—who.
when he found Jack did not join them,
insisted on going—in a corner talking
earnestly, Audrey drew out her husband's
"Audrey—ln future, after the events
of last night, it will be impossible for us
to live together. This, I take it, will be
as much yonr wish as mine. To continue
to live as wo have been doing would be
a mockery of marriage, a disgrace to our
race, a dishonor to our name. This, then,
is what I propose to do. There shall be
no divorce; the pride and honor of the
Harborough family protest against ouch
a course. After all, you are very young,
a mere child; you may have erred through
ignorance, but be that so or not, from
henceforth you oan never bo my wife In
aught but name. My wife must be above
suspicion—pure, sweet, true—not a girl
who, before scarcely six months of her
marrisge have gone, encourages a man
for whom she openly expresses horror and
"As for Beverley Rochfort, before pany
hours are over—unless he be a cur, which
I take him to be—ho will have answered
to me for his own part in this affair.
Audrey, I am trying to write kindly; I
am trying to remember yonr youth and
the many disadvantages that havs been
yours since the first, and you—lf you
have justice and honesty In your heart—
you will recognise that I am not trenting
you harshly. Tour future Is my care.
This morning I have made my will. 1
leave you all the money I poosess, to
gether with Minster, la Blankshlre, the
property my father has just settled upon
me. Whether I live or die, I wish you
to make your home at Mineter. I should
like to think Miss Thwait was with you.
Yonr money will ho transmitted through
my lawyers. I Intend to start at once
on a tour of the world, giving the condi
tion of my health as a reason for thus
relinquishing my parliamentary oareer. I
shall he absent, perhaps, two yearn, and
I leave It In your hands to judfo whether
at the end of that time yonr conduct has
been such as to permit mo to occupy the |
same house as yourself, and appear he
fore the world in my proper position as
When Dover was reached a telegram
was brought to Jean.
"For Lady John Glendurwood," the
waiter said, inquiringly. "Is that right,
"Quite right." •
Jean hesitated only a moment, and tore
it open. She gave a little sound of sor
row aa she read. It was from Marshall
—poor, faithful Marshall—and ran thus:
"Mrs. Fraser died this morning. Her
last wish waa that you should not travel
here, hut that she should be carried home
and buried In England. I, therefore, beg
your ladyship to obey this wish. I hare
telegraphed for my poor mistress' lawyers.
Poor little Audrey ! Robbed already of
the mother she had longed for so much,
loved so dearly, and possessed so short a
There was nothing to do. Audrey fell
into a sickness that threatened serious
consequences. Jean sent at once for Lord
Glendurwoed and Fullerton, and he came
in hot haste from a Tain search for Bev
erley Rochfort. There was nothing to be
dons but wait. Audrey had fallen into
a stupor. Her dear mother was buried
without the presence of her beloved child.
For three daya and nights Jean sat
beside Audrey's bed, watching and dread
ing for the moment when that fair, frail
face ahould grow even whiter, the faint,
low breathing even fainter. Three long,
weary days the«e were; but if she found
them terrible, how much more so did the
one who had nothing to do put to pace to
and fro ia the wet, leafless garden, his
hungry eyes fixed alwuys on the tow,
square window which hid his darling from
Mi H»wt 11m dactew ferbada Jack Qlm*
4anrMd from entering his wifafc sick
Ptoin. He had crept ia for a few ma-
Bents the night he arrived—no argument
or threat could keep him oat; and ss he
hsd bait over the girl's silent form, call
ing to her in his agony to speak to him,
she had opened her eyes, and at sight of
him she had given one little scream, and
then had relapsed into unconsciousness,
in which condition she had remained for
three days and nights. When reason re
turned Audrey was better, and Jean
sought out Jack and told the good news.
"And may I see her—when?" he asked,
eagerly. "When may I see her? My darl
inar! My darling!"
"The doctor will tell you. Perhaps to
As Jean sat by. Audrey's bedside that
evening, resting back wearily in the ch;dr,
now that all extreme anxiety was gr<ie,
a small, sweet voice came from the pil
low. and she was alert at once.
"Jean," she said, after a little pause,
"is —Ja—is my husband here?"
"Yes, darling; he has been here neaWy
all the time. Do you want to see hi:u?"
"No, no, no! I will not see him. Jean.
If you love me, send him away! I *hall
go mad if he is here! Promise! Prom
ise ! You must: you shall!"
"It shsll be as you wish, my deurest."
Jean said, softly. "You can trust me?"
"Yes—trust —you —always." she mur
mured, and in a few seconds she was
Constance Fraser had been brought
over to England and laid beside her moth
er in an old-fashioned country church
yard. It had been a simple. funeral
enough, though flowers hsd come from
far and near. High and low, rich and
poor, one and all, had a sorrowful thought
for the sweet, gentle woman, who had
merited a better sojourn on earlh.
Sheila was left to herself and her not
very agreeable reflections. The masked
bail bad cost her an enormous sum. Lady
Daleswater had never offered to take her
away with her: she had absolutely no no
tion of what had happened to Jack and
Audrey. Beverley Rochfort never made
the least sign, and to crown all, Murray,
the whilom maid at Craiglands. and her
inuch too clever accomplice, took matters
into her own bands and bolted one night
with all the available jewelry and lace she
could lay her hands upon.
Enraged beyond all expression «t the
loss of her property, Sheila nt once put
the matter into the hands of the-police,
and, in fact, was far more interested in
this affair than she was at the death of
But a more disagreeable condition of
things than this awaited Sheila when
the report of Audrey's disappearance
spread to Mountberry. She was fairly
frightened; ignorant of what might really
happen, she conjured up all sorts of evil
that would be visited upon her when the
whole truth was given to the world, a»
it most probably would be. She eagerly
searched for Rochfort, to force him to
exonerate her from blame in the mischief
they bad brought about, but like a coward
he was hiding from its consequences.
Then one day she had a frantic visit
from Alice Fairfax, vho was in great and
terrible fear lest something would hap
pen to her. She had seen Willie Fuller
ton, who had boldly stated that It was
Lord John'a intention to aift out the
whole gossip that had been spread about
his wife, and clear away much that ha
could not understand.
"And If so, we shall be ruined. Sheila,"
sobbed Alio* Fairfax; "but, anyhow, I
shall tall the truth, and say you asked
me to do—"
"You dare to turn on me!" Sheila
flashed, furiously, white with anger, and
then she would have proceeded to fur
ther ebullitions ot wrath had not the
door of bar room baan opened at this
moment and Ur. Fullerton announced by
the waiter. A glance at the two flushed
faces would have aatlafled Willie as to
their guilt. If he had not, at that mo
ment, reposing In his pocket, a complete
confession aigned by Murray, whom Daw
son, the detective, had easily found—this
had been done at Jean'a auggeatlon—and
who, discovering that her chance of a
brilliant career on Sheila's jewels was
briefly cut ahort, eased her conscience and
her spite by diacloslng the wbola plot.
Willie's interview with Sheila waa
short and to the point; and whan he left
the room he carried with him her slgna
lure and a few worde at the bottom of
Murray's confession taatifying that ail
the maid bad written was true.
(Ta he continued.)
"So you're after the job, eh?" sal*
the milkman who hat advertised for a
"Yes, sir," replied the young nan.
"Well, what experience have you
"Why, I've pumped the organ down
to our church fur years."—Philadelphia
Stranger (with suitcase) —Can you
adrlse me, sir, as to the nearest route
to the leading hotel?
The Native—Straight ahead three
blocks. Two dollars, pleaae.
Native—Beg pardon. Force of habit
My card. I'm Dr. Pellet—Cleveland
tt» Graft !■ It.
"See here," said the lieutenant of po
lice, "that countryman claims he told
you of his experience with a bunko
man, but you paid no attention to blm."
"Dot's all right," replied the cop. "He
didn't Interest me none. He admitted
de bunko man had took de last cent ha
Vaullr tke Cut.
"Say, pa," said Tommy, looking up
from his paper, "what does 'obvious
"Usually, my son," replied pa, "tt
means reasons that the writer Is too
lazy or too Ignorant to explain."—Phil
"So you have three pairs of glasses,
"Yes—one pair to read with, anotaer
for nearsightedness, and a third pair
to look for the other two with 1"-—I'lle
THE TBJLMF FLO WEB.
Betty grew within a garden,
Tended by old-fashioned fingers.
Trained just se!
Fairest of the flowers they thought her,
Lovers for their ladies sought her,
And for love money bought her,
Fair and fine was pretty Betty,
In her perfumed gown of lacework,
Made for show.
Freshest dews from heaven kissed her,
Ne'er a balmy zephyr missed her,
Sunbeams hastened to assist her,
But their fickle fancies wavered,
And a rival flower won them,
Ah, the woe!
Fashion's cruel whim dethroned her,
Robbed her of the prestige loaned her;
Old-time friends in vain bemoaned her,
Thrust from out her native garden,
Betty crept upon the highway,
There to grow.
Now she nods from every corner,
Wildness has of beauty shorn her,
Till the passiug children scorn her,
She that was so fine and dainty.
Tended by old-fashioned fingers,
Trained just so!
Grazing kine have tramped and maimed
Long neglect has paled and shamed her,
And the vulgar youth have named her
"You nnd I have always been such
good comrades, I'eggy, I am going io
tell you something," Adams began,
leaning forward to obtain a better view
of Miss Brace's pleasant features.
"Only a little while ago, as I was
coming along the beach, the wind
caught a scrap of paper and swirled it
around su near that I grabbed It, and
had read it, before I realized what I
was doing. It was part of a letter in
which some girl described ber ideal
man for her best friend's information,
and —I know you will laugh—l couldn't
help recognizing myself."
"What a conceited thing to do," Peg
gy retored, smiling. "Girls write lota
"This wasn't nonsense, If you please;
it rang true. I mean to find out who
that girl Is," he declared,
"I believe you are half la love with
her already," aha Insisted mis
"Perhaps I am," Adoma admitted,
"Oh, Mr. Adams," they beard In af
fected tones, aa Violet Slncell hurried
to where they were seated on a ledge of
rocks near the sea. "I hope I haven't
kept you waiting long."
"That's all right," said Adam, ris
ing. "We're going sailing, Peggy.
Won't you come along?"
"No, thank you, I hope you will have
■ pleasant time." She waved her hand
In farewell, and returned to the Bruoe
cottage, at which she and her father
were entertalniug a small party com
posed of Emory Adams, a young lawyer
whom she had known front babyhood,
and his mother, resides her two
friends, Violet Slncell nnd Bernlce
Sea and sky were a soft, cool gray,
the light changing from moment to mo
ment. By the time Violet and Adams
returned from their afternoon's outing
an Impalpable curtain shut off the
ocean from view, rain began to fall, nnd
the waves dashed thunderously against
the rocks. A constraint seemed to have
arisen between Violet and Adams, and,
after dinner, Miss Slncell, pleading fa
tigue, wont to her room. The remainder
of the party were engaged In a game
of bridge, with the exception of I'eggy
Mlsg Bract, who Adams thought
looked very well in a soft,,white gown,
seated herself at the piano and began
the Brnliuis Wlegenlled, while ue leaned
against the instrument, listening to her
playing. Suddenly she raised her
brown eyes from the keyboard to his
face, its strong features framed In
smooth lustrous hair.
"You look worried; Emory?" she ob
served. "Did you and VI have a quar
rel tills afternoon?"
"Oh, bless you, no," he hastened to
say. "She was frightened at the fog,
and once she clutched me around the
neck and nearly upset the boot. She Is
a nice girl, and an awfully pretty girl;
yet I think I should reel relieved If I
knew that she didn't write that let
"Now that Is too bad," Peggy told
him. "VI has taken n great fancy to
you. She speaks of you and Boston In
the same tone she uses when referring
to heaven and the angels."
The consternation expressed on Ad
ams' face at the Information sent Peg
gy into a gale of laughter. "Don't look
like that," she gasped; "I don't believe
ber Infatuation Is serious—you needn't
feel obliged to propose."
Adams came nearer to Peggy's side.
"Miss Shaw Is hardly the kind of a girl
who would disclose her feelings easily,
it seems to me," he confided, in a low
ered tone. "I like her; she has a
strong, fine personality. But "
"Arc you determined to ran that poor
girl, wlio wrote a silly letter, to earth?"
Peggy Interrupted. "Take my advice,
and forget that you ever saw what waa
not meant for your eyes."
* "Probably that would be the more
sensible course," he agreed, giving Peg
gy's band an affectionate squeeze, as
he recollected how often she bad coun
seled and sympathized with hLiu.
When he was in his own room he
opened his memorandum book and
took out the folded scrap of paper to
reread the simple confession. He
started to tear it into pieces, but some
thing deterred him; he replaced it, half
ashamed of Ids sentimentality.
"What are you young people going
to do to<lay?" queried Mr. Bruce, after
breakfast the following morning. He
was a rotund gentleman, a favorite
with Peggy's friends. "Come out to
the quarry this afternoon, if you've
nothing else on hand."
"Perhaps we will," Peggy answered;
"we want to go to Gloucester to shop
this morning, if you will let us have
"1 can do without It, I guess," lie
said, pinching her ear gently. "You'll
look niter them, won't you. Adams?"
"What 11 in I, a mere man, when girls
are on sli piling bent," he rejoined gay
ly. "I'll do my best, Mr. Bruce."
Their departure was made In high
spirits. The short distance was trav
eled in good time, and Adams left
the girls at a milliner's, with the un
derstanding that he would 'meet them
in two hours at a drug 6 tore.
lie visited one or two shops to make
a few purchases on his own account.
Then, as considerable time remained,
he went to the library, where. In the
reading room, his eyes fell at once
upon Berulce Sliaw.
"I thought you were buying frills
and furbelows with Peggy," he re
marked In surprise, sitting down In
a chair beside her. "I dropped In to
read an article a friend of mine has
in this magazine. 1 want to tell him
I've read It, when lie asks nie."
Miss Shaw appeared disturbed by
his presence, turning the leaves of her
magazine without reading them. Ad
ams glanced over the articles In ques
tion, and retired In a discomfited frame
of mind, as he had hoped for a quiet
little talk with Bernlce:
As he lounged on the beach behind
a summer hotel he pondered deeply
over the mystery of the authorship of
that confession. I'erhaps Miss Shaw's
embarrassment was caused by her con-
"MD YOU AMD VI HAVE A qUABBELf"
sciousnesa tlmt the letter was In his
possession. Certainly he was m a pre
dicament, for he was obliged to own
that he did not feel either one of the
two girls would satisfy him In a wifely
When he went for them Peggy tald
Rernlce was not coining then, hut
would come later by trolley.
lfy the tline the hour arrived when
tliey were to visit the quarry, Violet
excused herself ou the pjcn < f fatigue,
and Bernlce had not returned.
"There will be-only you and I," said
Peggy dubiously; "perhaps wo would
better wait until another time."
"There Is no reason why we should
not go," Adams replied. "It won't be
the first walk we bare taken together,
by any means."
They sauntered along In a merry
mood, Adams thinking that, after all,
there was no girl quite like Peggy.
When she married, things would hardly
be the same, he reflected. The Idea
did not suit him; he became more seri
"I think Bernlce expected to meet
Mr. Totherob," Peggy condded; "It
Isn't announced yet, but I don't ulnd
telling you they are engaged.
"lleally!" Adams replied, absently.
"He Is a good fellow; I know him
"Don't be so glum," Peggy answered
after a little, when significant silences
were punctured by remarks on the
weather and the scenery. "If you are
still worrying about VI, I will tell you
that I saw that new boarder we met
at the Ocean View going out with his
camera shortly before she decided not
to Join us."
"Then her young affection* are not
blighted," he responded, with an at
tempt at jocularity.
When they reached the quarry Peggy
clambered around here and there in a
fearless manner. Her father, who had
expected to meet tbem, had been called
away, but all tha workmen knew Miss
Bruce. Adams watched ber small,"trim
figure as she sprang from rock to rock
with the increasing conviction that no
woman could ever be to him what Peg
gy was—tlie truest, dearest little com
rade In the world. Suddenly Ills heart
leaped Into bis throat
"Peggy!" His voice rang out, stern.
Imperious, as he rushed forward and,
seizing her arm, Jerked her violently
out of the dangerous position she was
[ In. There was ■Ml roar, and a gran
ite ledge was riven apart A block
fell precisely where she Had stood.
The color died out of Peggy's face,
Adams drew her hand wtthiu his arm.
"Steady, dear Peg," he said tenderly.
"Foreglve my roughness. I hope I
didn't hurt you."
"It didn't matter. T—l don't know
how to thank you," she stammered.
In the twilight they walked home to
gether, both sobered by the danger
Peggy had escaped; Adams quite as
much by the new knowledge of bis own
"Little girl," he said, abruptly "I
dkln't know how much you meant to mo
until I thought I was going to lose you.
I've fallen In and—our of—love any
number of times, as you know; but I
am done with trifling. I belong to you;
please, Peprgy, will you marry me?"
A crimson wave replaced reggy's pal
lor. After a brief silence, she mur
"I never thought yon cared for me—
ill that way. What nbout the girl
whose letter you found?"
"Really, I don't care who she was,"
he returned Impatiently, "pon't you
love me, dear?"
Peggy's dark head dropped until h»
could not see her eyes.
"I may as well tell you," she avowed,
"that I wrote that letter."—New
He Wmi Slttthfg Down.
The late James A. Bailey, famous a»-
the successor of P. T. Barnum. once ac
cepted an Invitation to a dinner ten
dered to a bride and groom among the
"freaks" of his circus. He was late In
arriving and found the company po
lltely awaiting him. There were living
skeletons, dwarfs, Clrcasslons, snake
charmers, the "girl that spoke seven
languages and had two heads which
made fourteen languages In all," the
"dog-faced boy" and others. Beaming
upon them with paternal air, the happy
manager acknowledged the genial "Hel
lo, pop," that went_ around the festal
"I am sorry I kept'you waiting," he
said, taking his place at the table. "I
believe there are several new additions
to the company. Is this the groom?"
"No," replied a deep voice from the
full beard addressed, "I am the bride."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Bai
ley, "I did not recognize the bearded
lady. But, tell me, which Is the
"I am," proclaimed a very thin voice.
In astonishment Mr. Bailey glanced
up at the figure towering near his el
"I congratulate you, my man," said
the manager. "Kit down, let us on with
the feast—sit down."
The guest addressed at once began to
nsceiid seemingly until his head was la
the neighborhood of the canvas roof,
from which height he looked down and
"1 was slttln' down, pop—l was lit
tin" down!"— Success Magazine.
The Ptrat Boy Journal!**.
When tlia library of ex-Governor
Penny packer of Pennsylvania was sold
recently, there turned up among other
odd volume* a complete file of the first
magazine edited by a boy. It iva»
bought by Mr. Beck, formerly assistant
attorney general of the United States.
This unique volume was entitled.
"The Juvenile Fort-Folio and Literary
Mlcellany." It wns named for one of
the earliest American magazines. Its
editor wns Thomas O. Condle. Young -
Condle's father was the publisher fort
one year of a monthly magazine for
adults, and wns engaged for many
years In the general publishing business
in Philadelphia. His son, who was
born in 1797, had a natural fondness
for the business, and iu 1812, when ha
was 15 years old, founded his own
The "Juvenile Port-Folio" consisted
each issue of fonr pages, a little larger
than eight by five Inches, and with two
columns to the page. The editor made
a house-to-house canvass for subscrl
l>ers, and a list of more than six hun
dred of thein is printed In the bound
The magazine had a life of a little
uiore than four yean until young Con
dle graduated from the University of
Pennsylvania and began the study or
Although Condle has often been re
ferred to as the founder of Juvenile
Journalism, this is the first tluie evi
dence has been found to support that
title, as the other files of his paper
Tka Hreu l> IhakupMre'i Tim*.
John Trevlsa wrote that "the hyoena
Is a cruel beast like to the world in de
vouring and gluttony. It is his kind to
.change sexes, for he is now male and
now female and is therefore an un
clean beast And Cometh to bouses by
uiglit and felgneth man's voice as be
may, for men should trow that tt is •
man, and herds tell that among /(ta
ble* he felgneth speech of mankind
and calleth some man by his own
name and rendeth him when he hath
him without And he felgneth oft the
name of some man for to make hounds
run out that be may take and eat
them."—Shakespeare's Natural Hl*
A Paaai>o Thought.
A polite little girl waa dining one
day with her grandmother. Everything
at the table was usually dainty and
unexceptionable, but on this particular
occasion tbe little girl found a hair la
"Grandmamma," she said, sweetly,
"what kind of flab Is this?"
"Halibut, my dear."
"Oh," replied tbe child, "I thought
perhaps It was mermaid."