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tlhe \\Zlfc's Secret,
OR A BITTER RECKONING
By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEMB
■ H-H ■!■ I M- II I I H-+ UK i,t..t. T.i t t i i t t i ■ t it t i ....... ...........
I knew how silly It it of me to f»et
•ver this separation of ■ few weeks,
Jack, but I'm suffering from that mom
feminine »t all feminine ailments —a
presentiment I have a horrible dread
that yeu will a«t come back to me just
the sane •■ you leave me."
Jack Dorntoa knew thin was all very
foolish. He loved pretty Ethel Mallett
▼cry dearly; «o, instead of putting hit
thought lnte words, he kissed the tearful
face and levingly comforted her with
▼own of eternal constancy.
"Y«u knuw I needn't stay down th<>re
until the pictures are finished," he said.
"As Boon as I have the sketches well
forward. I shall come back and complete
the larger pictures from them at home;
and, though I shall be working very
hard, that will not prevent you fronj
coming every day to watch my progress
and cheor me up for an hour or so in the
Ethel smiled—lt was rather a pitiful
attempt—and turned resolutely to the
"It was good of roc to think of com
ing to breukfupt with us, so that we
might see the last of you before start
ing," she said bravely, as she boated
herself with the coffee cups. Mr. Mal
lett came down a few moments later.
and breakfast was got through with due
decorum, in deference to "papa's dislike
Shortly after the meal Jack wan
tramping away—his portmanteau in one
hand and a portable easel In the other.
He had been engaged to Ethel Mallett
for two months, and they were to be,
married as soon as he could provide a'
suitable home for her. A fortnight after
he had obtained the reluctant conseut of
Sir. Mallett to this arrangement, a cer
tain Lord lonunwa, attracted by two
water colors of Jack's In a fashionable
gallery, had found him out and offered
him a liberal commission to execute a
•cries of six picture*, the subjects to be
■elected from the immediate neighbor
hood of bis lordship's place in Exbridjje
•hire. Jack had jumped at the offer, see
ing that it would enable him to place
little Ethel in a home of her own tw»
months sooner than he anticipated.
So here he was, after a two hours'
run, hard at work In the woods of Ma!
linrford, skillfully and rapidly filling in
the leading features of Mnllingford
House and Its surroundings. While his
fingers were thus busy, he was recalling
the conversation he had had with Lord
Summers U p OU the p i ace oi nis fim
"Would you wish me to begin with
Bummerfield?" Jack had asked, when
taking his final Instructions from bis
"No; I should like to be at Summer
lield myself when you are there. I think
you had better make Mallingford House
your first subject. It is about ten miles
from Summeriield, and you can work
your way toward there. I shall be down
by the last week of July, and hope to
Jiave the pleasure of showing you some
Jack bowed his thanks.
"You will be delighted with Mnlling
ford," his lordship went on. "It is a
noble place, and I have a rather peculiar
Interest in the property. The late owner.
Sir Paul Mailing, wan a moat eccentric
man, with a ?ery exalted notion of his
own Importance as head of the house.
He had never married, und was mortally
offended with his brother Geoffrey be
pause he took unto himself a wife at the
age of thirty-eight without first consult
ing him. Poor Paul: H* was a great
friend of mine; but I'm bound to confess
that he was of a most unforgiving dispo
sition. Would you believe it, Mr, Dorn
ton? He was so unjust as to disinherit
Geoffrey and leave the whole of his prop
erty to his only sister's only child, Pau
line Lufton. liis will confirmed his rep
utation for eccentricity, for he made even
her inheritance conditional; first, upon
her taking the name of Mailing, and,
secondly, upon her not marrying under
the age of twenty-five without her guar
dian's approval and consent. A very
awkward thing for the guardian. I am
that not-to-be-envied person. So, you
■cc, should the young lady In question
happen to fall in love with some poor
beggar ef a fellow, I could not consist
ently give my consent, and she would
have to give up either her lore or her
poaitlon as owner of Mallingford. oue
of the finest seats in the county."
"In which case?" Jack said, interroga
"In which case the disinherited broth
er would have his own. But I am glad
to say that my charming ward will be
twenty-five in September and will then
be in a position to please herself in her
choice of a husband—for which lam do-
Toutly thankful, as It relieves me of a
"I can quite understand that."
"I was In hopes at first that I should
not be called upon to exercise my guar
dianship at ail. Wh*n Sir Paul died
Paulina was away with her father in
Italy. He was a sad reprobate, and
•pent his time chiefly in gambling houses,
leaving his motherless girl among all
kinds of people. Well, as fate willed
this Lufton died Just a month before
Blr Paul, and, though we made every
effort te find hi» daughter, we could ob
tain a* tidings of her. We traced the
father and daughter to Naples, where the
former died; but after that we could
bear nothing of her. We sent out agents.
we advertised, we did everything we
could. At last, after fire months of
fruitless inquiry. an« Just as we were
Joking heart, aad wondering whether we
•aould not begin to hunt up poor Geof
frey, the appeared suddenly at my so
licitors' office.. She looked wretchedly
lU, said she had been working her heart
out a* a teacher of English at a Spanish
,school,.sad; had only recently Men one
*»•(:•« tfr«rtla«mtat*. Kb. waa nlne-
Uja^dva-^ad ttat la nearly alz years
*•*? "Vll ■" JMk &•"■•» •*•«» 1» the
r^ »»* the noonday ran mak
*« UttU »*uh» a ,ktu her. aad £«c
wherever It could pierce the thick foli
age above, and with a buzzing of Insects
In bis ears, he was weaving all sort* of
romantic fancies concerning the owner
of all the beauty surrounding him.
From behind the bole of a large tree
Jack Dornton was being narrowly scan
ned by a young lady, who seemed well
pleased with the inspection. She watch
ed him at work for some minutes with a
decided look of admiration in her eyes.
She turned from her survey presently,
and stooping down, crept away slowly
amung the brushwood, making a detour
with the evident intention of reaching
the spot again.
In the meantime Jack, stretching him
self after his spell of work, noticed a
RiualJ minimi mound covered with soft
velvety grass. The more he looked the
stronger became the temptation to take
ten minutes' rest. He yielded at last,
ami found the mound an excellent pillow.
Before he had enjoyed two of the al
lotted ten minutes' rest, his open locket,
containing a portrait of Ethel, dropped
from his hand, and a myriad of gnats
buzzed and whizzed in happy freedom
round his head. Jack Dwrnton was fast
At that moment a woman came glid
ing by in full view of the ensel. She
was a woman of surpassing loveliness,
tall, stately, with mass of golden plaits
coiled round and round her head, full
melting brown eyes and ripe red lips, a
skin rivaling the peach in its delicate
coloring, and a carriage queenly in its
every movement. Her dainty cambric
ffOWD, cunningly made to "more express
than hide her form," trained carelessly
among the ivy roots and brambles be
hind her. Her simple straw hat she car
ried in her hand, and her whole air sug
gested the pretty "maiden meditation
She gave a well-feigned start when she
had come well in view of Jack's easel.
It was not pleasant to watch the swift
change that came over the beautiful face
as she marked the vacant seat and
thought herself alone. It revealed un
mistakably the defects of her character
as indicated in the cruel little curves at
the corners of the mouth, which were
generally concealed beneath the pretty
confiding smile that from long practice
had become habitual with her.
Advancing cautiously, she glanced
around, and soon discovered Jack's
whereabouts. She went quickly to the
easel, and critically examined the morn
ing's work. Turning aside, she remarked
to herself, "With such decided talent
and such an appearance, he would be
sure to succeed if he were properly taken
up." She then walked on tip toe to
Jack, and scrutinized him quite as crit
ically as she had scrutinized his work,
and evidently with as much approval.
Then her quick eye detected the open
looket by his side.
She looked carefully at the sleeper and
having assured herself of the soundness
of his slumbers, went down upon her
knees by his side, the better to examine
She started visibly when her eyes fell
upon the sweet face smiling at her from
the tiny trinket. She rose quickly and
■valkcd away a few yards.
"So she is this landscape painter's
'village maiden!' " she muttered vindic
tively. "Surely there is some fatality in
his coming here! I can't be mistaken,
it is the same insipid babyishly pretty
face that Lord Summers pointed out to
le in the park the other day. And she
loves this Apollo, does Bhe7 And per
haps he thinks he loves her. Well, we
shall see what we shall see!"
There was a significant glitter In her
fine eyes, and au Instautineous tighten
ing of the reJ lips seemed to tell of a
hard, cruel heart beneath the fair ex
terior. But the expression ef her face
changed as if by mugic when Jack roll
ed over on to his side and showed signs
of waking. She had posed gracefully
before the easel, and awaited him.
"I believe I've been asleep," he mur
mured drowsily, raisiug himself on oue
elbow, when his eyes fell upon the daz
zling loveliness of the girl so earnestly
regarding his pleture; and in the first
glimpse of Pauline Mailing, Jack's senses
and artistic perceptions were alike rous
ed, and, springing to his feet he want
:oward the easel.
"I beg your pardon for the liberty
I have taken in examining your picture,"
murmured the woodland nymph melodi
ously. "I hope I did not disturb you.
May I be allowed to continue my inspec
Jack, hardly awake even yet, mut
tered something about "too much hon
"Yon are Mr. Dornton, are you not?"
she continued, still looking at the pic
ture, aud giving Jack time to pull him
self together. "Lord Summers told me
he was going to ask you to make it pic
ture of my house."
It was Miss Mailing then, and no
woodland nymph, after all. Jack felt dis-
appointed, though he could not tell why.
"I suppose you will remain here for
some days. May I offer you a little hos-
pitality during your stay? The villng*
inns are, I believe, wretchedly uucomfort
able, and I should not like a friend of
my guardian's to be driven to their shel
ter while I am at home. We are two
lonely women just now, and but dull com-
pany, I fear; but we will do our bent to
make you comfortable for this we*k at
least. Next week I am off again until
the end of the season, and shall hare
to leave you to the mercies of th« aer
rants. Say you will come."
"Thank you very much," Jack began
hesitatingly; "but I did not anticipate—
In fact. I made no preparation "
"la that the only difficulty 7* she In
terrupted gently. "Pray don't let that
■tand In the way. Mrs. Sefon and I
will shut our eyes to the enormity of a
morning coat at dinner, and will promise
to think no less of yon en that account
We din* at half past Mren, so that we
may have an hour or two of these lorely
snmmei evenings In the gardens."
I lack «tisei Ms soft felt hat, and
watched h«r graceful figure a* she glided
awajr down the dim leaf/ rlrta of the
wood. He wished that aha had stayed
longer, that he might attll be looking into
her glorious eyes, watching the ever
changing lights that came and west as
I rapidly aa scudding clouds across a sum
mer aky. When at laat a curve in the
path old her from riew he turned again
to his work with a heavy High, wishing
it waa already half past seven.
"Now you are to consider yourself
quite at home, Mr. Dornton," Miss Mai
ling Mill, as she rose from the table.
"Stay and meditate here in solitude, or
come out on the terrace, as suits your in
The moon came out by and by, throw
ing from behind a curtain of tender gray
clouds a soft, silvery, shimmering light
over the landscape.
After Mrs. Sefton had gone indoors,
Pauline led the conversation in a manner
that quite entranced h»r companion. The
witchery of the evening, the beauty of
the woman, and the spell of her fasci
nations wrought upon Jack's impression
able nature, and his dreams that night
were of lovely women with golden hair
and liquid brown eyes.
A week later, Jack Dornton stood at
the breakfast room window, apparently
absorbed in the calm, radiant beauty of
the scene before him; yet his breast was
torn with conflicting passions.
Pauline Mailing was returning to town
by the midday train, and the pain that
her proposed departure had caused him
had also opened his eyes to the hateful
truth that he had been unfaithful to his
little Ethel's memory.
"What a blind fool I haVe been," h«'
told himself, wrathful]/, "to stay her*
day after day, and not see my own dan
ger! Miss Mailing has been very kind I
and gentle; but I dare say she looks
upon me ns belonging to a very inferior
class to her own; and I, to show mj
gratitude, must return her womanly
kindness by presuming to fall in love
with her! Apart from my supreme con
ceit with regard to Miss Mailing, I hay«
behaved shamefully to Ethel," he went
on; and a flush of self-condemnatioq
crept over his handsome face. " Iv«
been away from her a whole week, and '
only one short note have i' went her."
He seated himself at the writing table
In the window and seized a pen. He
nibbled the penholder, as if In expecta
tion of receiving inspiration from the
act. Before he had quite made up his
mind as to the wording of his overdue
love letter he heard a rustle at the door, !
and Miss Mailing entered in her elegant '
traveling costume. I
"How I shall miss your pleasant lit •
tie morning chats, Mr. Dornton"with 1 I
gentle sigh—"our happy sketching expe- I
ditions, and our delightful evenings!" |
"You canot miss them as I shall,"
Jack returned. .
"You think not?" raising her eyes ,
'lowly to his and dropping her veice
mournfully. "That shows how little you ,
know and appreciate your gain in pos-,
messing the hearty love and esteem of a'
Few true friends, instead of the *ionotot\ !
bus adulation of a horde of mere fashion- I
able acquaintances. You cannot under-1
stand, because you have never experi- |
enced it, how the emptiness of our lives
sometimes palls upon us butterflies, and '
what we would give at such times to
have a real object in life; how we long
for the affection of one disinterested
Here Jack would have precipitated I
himself bodily into the yawning chasm |
she had so conveniently opened for him, <
but for the entrance of Mrs. Sefton, who
proceeded to dispense the comforts of the '
breakfast table In her own inimitable
manner. The carriage was at the door '
before the meal was properly over. |
"Good-by, Mr. Dornton," said Pauline, i
as she stood with one dainty feot upon !
the step. "I shall hope to find you here
when I return; and I fear," she eontin- '
ued, again lowering her voice dangerous-!
ly, "I shall not be able to endure much I
of London's vapid society after the in- i
tellectual intercourse we have enjoyed i
lately. I shall be back in a fortnight. |
You will not forget me in that time?"
(To be continued.)
Fickleness of Woman. j
Gray—Hello. Smith, old boy! And bo '
you are married, eh? I
Smith—That's what the parson told
Gray —And, of course, you are hap
Smith —Well, I don't know about
that. To tell the plain, unvarnished
truth, I'm just a little bit disappointed.
Gray—l'm sorry to hear that. What's
Smith —Well, you see, during the
courtship stunt she used to tell me
how strenuously she loved me, but we
had 110 sooner got spliced than she
gave up her $10 a week job as type
writer thumper. That goes to show
how much you can bank on a woman's
What He Wan Afraid of.
Rounderls it true that you art en
gaged to that young widow?
Gayboy—Not at the present writing.
We were engaged, but I broke It off.
Rounder—Areu't you afraid she will
take it to heart?
Gayboy—No, but I'm afraid she will
take It to court. I
Told in Confidence.
The —The man who wrote that
poem you printed yesterday didn't
know what he was writing about.
The Editor— course not Other
wise it wouldn't have been poetry.
Putting Him Wise.
Her Father—What are yon and
young Shortleigh going to live on In
case you marry?
His Daughter—Well, If you must
know, papa, go look In the mirror.
Husband—Let me see, how long has
it been since Uncle John was here?
Wife —Oh, it must be several year*.
He -was here the week after I got mj
last new bonnet —Detroit Tribune.
Little Willie— pa, what does
this paper mean b/ "ties of blood?"
Pa —Must be a new shade of red
neckties, my son.
THE LETTER FROM THE FARM.
After the day with its work and worry,
After the restless rush and rattle.
Tho mad gold chase, the pitiless hurry,
Tfca killing blows of endless battle;
After it all there conies a pause,
A peaceful hour of calm,
When he sits alone, nnd smiling reads
The letter from the farm:—
How the old brown hen has set at last;
How little Joe is growing fast;
How Ben and Mary spent the day,
And Jean's the "best yet" at croquet;
Oh, what a homely, hearty charm
About that letter on the farm.
After the play with Its jests and laugh
And painted smiles, hiding God knows
And the rerkle-ss revelry coming after,
When the fever cools and the joy stays
After it all there comes a pause,
An hour of bitter calm
When lie sits alone, and tears fall wet
On the letter from the farm:
How the mother's heart yearns for her
Can't he come home for a dny, just one?
How Tom has paid the mortgage off:
And Joe is well of the whooping cough.
Oh, what a note of vague nlarm,
Huns through that letter from the farm.
After the Service all uplifting.
Mid deep new throbs of a contrite soul;
The crimson light through rich glass
And solemn tone of the organ's roll;
After it nil hides with him still
A blessed hour of calm;
When he sits alone nnd prayerful reads
The letter from tlie farm:—
How they ill drove ovod to Little Creek.
To hear the new young preacher speak;
How his words were good und pure and
With hope for nil and comfort, too.
Oh, what a tender, healing balm
Breathes from that letter from the farm.
ji Maria's Portrait ii
•♦♦ * ♦»
W3AT are you going to do with
that, pal Why do you take
Mr. Bretman did not answer. For
the first time In his life be pushed his
child from him and called lmrshly lor
the uurse to take him away. Little
Fred made no resistance, but his
grieved lip and Quivering chin told
that he felt hurt and injured. And,
up in the nursery, he appealed to Mag
gie, the maid.
"haggle, why did papa look so
cross? Why didn't he tell me what he
waa doing with mamma's picture?
Twasn't any harm to ask."
"Och, I doubt he was ashamed, dar
lln\" said Maggie. "Be alsy; you are
not to blame."
And she took the widower's little
boy upon her knee and patted his
"Why ought he be ashamed?" asked
"You mustn't say I said so," cried
the woman. "Masther has the right
to do own will. It's none o' my
"But why did he tnke the picture
down?" asked Free ftjaln.
"There's somebody coming that
wouldn't like to see the face of the
lady that was misthress here but a
year ago," said Maggie. "Your pa is
after givin' ye a step-mother, Fred
"What's that?" asked Fred.
"A new mother," said Maggie. "Ah,
don't be spakin' of what I've said, or
she'll send me away, and there'll be
none to love ye. She'll turn your pa'a
heart, and have it all her own. It's
always so, poor balrnie!"
And the old nurse wept over the
child and with him.
Mr. Bretman carried his first wife's
picture up to the great garret, where,
truth to tell, he shed a few tears over
It before he deposited It in its cor
ner. It was impossible for him to
have those Sweet eyes looking down
upon him while living ones shone from
her chair and her place at the table.
He loved the dead woman still, though
he also loved a living one.
Maggie did not know this. She
thought as she said, that "the missus
was forgot len quite." What Bhe
thought she taught the child; and the
young lady who came smiling into the
parlor one bright morning and knelt
flown when her husband said, "Come,
kiss your new mamma, Freddie" look
ing so sweet and gentle and pretty
that, left to himself, the boy would
have liked her, was surprised by an
earnest slap on the face and the angry
words, "Go away. You made papa
put dead mamma's picture up garret.
I don't want you for a new mamma;
I won't have you. Go away."
I And ay that the bride, almost a child
herself started up, flushed and angry,
and returned to her husband's pro
tecting arms, quite overcome by this
greeting, and the face of the old nurse,
In which she saw no pleasant greeting,
but defiance and anger instead.
The father, stung by the chlld'i
' words, seized him, for the first time in
his life, roughly by the shoulder and
turned him from the room.
"Go, sir," he said, "and do not come
back until you can behave decently
It is that Ignorant woman's fault," he
said to bis young wife, and led th«
way to the dining-room.
But the shock of the bride's recep
tlon had robbed both of any appetite
and Helen even woudered whether sin
had been wise to break her resolutior
and "marry a widower who had chil
1 "No one ever has any comfort witl
■tcp-children," she thought
And who can say what was in tht
man's mind? They were silent, botl
of them. And, after lunch was orer
the huaband marched Into Maggie's
nursery and addressed her sternly.
"You have been filling the child's
head with wicked thoughts," he said.
"How dare you do It? He hat In
sulted Mrs. Bretman, and you are the
cause. I have half a mind to aend you
packing; you deserve it."
"Have just a bit of pity on me and
on the boy, and nlver do it. I'm all
he's got now," sobbed Maggie. "Don't
blame me. I'm ould and remlmber
better than a young man. She was a
"You were good to her and are still
good to her child," said the gentle
man, gravely; "but remember, no more
of this underhand work. You must
teach the child to love his new mother
and to obey her."
"Obey he mny," said Maggie, "but
love can't be taught; and we've but
one mother in the world, however
many wives an' husbands we may
The man looked at her sharply, but
there was no insolence* in her face;
and he left the room and returned to
his new wife, and saw no more of
Freddie for that day. Indeed, the
child did not seek him. Never before
had he been harshly used, and the
shake his father had given him had
been a terrible thing to him—the very
confirmation of Maggie's prophecy.
More and more he clung to the old
nurse, and, though Mrs. Bretman tried
to make friends with both, the old
woman's grim face and cold monosyl
lables and the child's passionate re
pulses were too much for her. She
abandoned the effort. And the boy
took his meals In the nursery, walked
out with the nurse and brooded In
silence, as very little children do, over
It was easy enough to forget him In
the honeymoon hilling and cooing, und
the father was careful to give Maggie
all she asked for—new shoes and caps
and toys and books. That was his
duty; as he often said, "he never for
got his duty to Maria's child." But
what his father had to do with his
comforts or pleasures, Freddie did not
know; be laid all to the kindness of
old Maggie. Papa never kissed him, or
had him In to dessert, or took him out
to ride. The lady with the pretty hair
was his worst enemy. He grew used
to this state of things In time, and
used to kiss the picture in the attic
before retiring, and saying to that,
"Good night, mamma," but he was as
wretched as a child could be, and no
one knew it. Even old Maggie did not
guess at the depth of loneliness within
the little breast.
Young girls do not, as a general
thing, really love children; and the
JT WAS MAUIA'S I'OKTRAIT.
girl who was Freddie's step-mother,
though she had intended to pet her
husband's boy, had felt him the stum
bling block to her happiness, even be
fore she met him. She was very glad
that Maggie made him her very own,
and shunned both carefully.
The weeks rolled by, and the months
followed them. If Maria's spirit had
ever wandered through the home
where she had once been so happy It
must have flown weeping away—not
so much that she found another re
posing upon her husband's bosom, for,
In pity of human weakness and human
longing for living love, this might woil
be forgiven ly the angels—not that
her fair picture stood, with the cob
webs clinging to Its frame, in the cold
garret; but that the lonely boy, as fa
therless as he was motherless, dwelt
alone, save for the old servant's faith
ful love, in the very room where his
birth had been hailed with much re
joicing. "It's the new lady doea it,"
said Maggie, honestly believing It, and
never guessing that she herself had
caused this unnatural estrangement
by her unwise chatter. She had
tuught the boy that his step-mother
came as eueiny, else he would have
greeted her with a klsa and been pet
ted until she eaine to love him as her
own; else he would not have been ut
terly forgotten when one bright win
ter morning the sun arose upon a lit
tle face that Its setting had not shone
upon, and Helen Bertram kissed the
unconscious lips of her first-born.
And somehow, as this breath floated
over her cheek, the remembrance of
another child came to her, whose
mother slept in the cold grave—whose
sulky mouth and angry eyes when he
met her in the garden path had made
her loathe him. So might some other
woman fee! toward her babe some day,
If she also slept beneath the church
yard sod and another filled her place.
Dead Maria arose before living Hel
en's memory; dead Maria's child found
a place in her thoughts. She pitied
him from her heart, and for the 'first
time since she wore his father's wed
But old Maggie did not com* near
her. and she would not tend for the
old woman. She had been hurt by her
grim face and cold rolce and wa« bow
hart by neglect No, in « «*.,/"*"
call Maggie. But on. day. ***
was able to tear, her room 2. m 5 #
her way to the nursery an"'^ **♦
There was no one there; onlyT^ !
toy upon the floor told of the to?
existence. Maggie had gone out S*
an errand. She had seen the ,ZT '
old figure trot down the street 5£
she left her room, else she had not
come hither. But where was the chuTr
Afar she seemed to hear a sound of
sobbing-soft, heavy sobbing, like that
of a grown person. Her heart beat
faster The little stair door leading to
the attic stood open. She followed
the sounds, and climbed the stairs
There she saw a scene that seemed
to take away her strength The win
ter sunlight fell through the skylight
In a broad, slanting stream. l n the
flood of gold stood a picture— the por
trait of a woman, fair and young
with soft blue eyes and a dimple in
her cheek, with coquettish curls fall
ing about her neck and diamonds In
her dainty ears— and upon the floor
his cheek against the lace-veiled boih
om of this exquisite picture, sat Fred
die, weeping as children weep, and
sobbing, "Mamma! mamma:"
It was Maria's portrait! Helen re
membered the words the child had
spoken very well — Maria's portrait,
banished from the parlor wall when
she came thither to take her place.
She could not stir or speak. And
as she sat there, some one else climbed
the stairs—her husband, Maria's hus
bnnd—the father of these two chil
dren; the weeping one here, the smil
ing one in the cradle below. Then the
wife and mother arpse and crept up
to the boy and gathered him to her
"Paul," said she to the father, "Is
that Maria? Is It Freddie's mother?"
"Yes, love," he answered.
"The mark whore that picture hung
is on the wall still," she said. "Let it
fill its place once more. Am I so
meanly Jealous as to forbid you even
a memory of that sweet, dead woman?
Let me see her smiling down on me,
and fancy that the knows that I love
her boy as I do my own. For I do,
Paul. And God forgive me for the
past, for which the future shall atone."
Then slu> took Freddie by the hand,
and his blue eyes looked no longer an
grily upon her, nor did his tiny hand
essay to push her from him as of
yore. And she led him down to the
little crib where the new-born child
lay smiling, and laid him beside the
"Love him, Freddie," she said. "It
Is your little brother."
And husband and wife stood hand la
hand nnd watched the little tear-stain
ed lids droop in slumber, with the
dimpled hand lying softly about the
neck of the young creature who hnd
opened a place In a mother's heart for
TRADE-MARK ARTIST TALKS.
Moat Sucreaafttl Idea la Signature
and Coined Ward.
Art is a fanciful mistress and has
many wooers. One of the latest is the
trade-mark maker. There are a half
dozen prosperous members of this trade
in the city. The best-known is an
Irish-American with more wit than
talent for line or color. He was a
mediocre lawyer before he took to In
venting trade-murks for merchants.
His legal knowledge makes his ser
vices doubly valuable, says the New
"There are lots of tricks In this
trade," said he, "and one has to keep
his eyes open. Did you know one
couldn't register a trade-mark unless
ho was a merchant or engaged in a
business of some kind? An insurrec
tionist or an exile cannot register eith
er, but Indians and married women
can, although some States with an
tique laws won't allow them to own
property In their own names. Women
get us Into a lot of trouble. A com
plexion maker ordered a mark called
Easter Lily Balm. It didn't go, be
cause it had nothing of the Easter lily
"Another woman collected Insects'
eggs and preserved tbem and ordered
a mark, American Caviar. That ww
void, too. Then the feminine mind de
lights in actresses' names for goods,
and if there Is any possibility of th»
histrlons ever going Into the business
the marks suggest, the government re
fuses to register. With historic names
such as Dolly Madison, Martha Wash
ington, etc., it's all right.
"Animals make Rpleimld marks and
give the artist a chance. I think the
most successful Idea, however, Is the
signature and a newly coined word. In
the former patent-medicine makers
turn out the most novelties, and In tho
latter the cereal-food manufacturers.
Some of these merchants think nothing
of turning out a new food and a new
mark each month. Sometimes prizes
are offered for newly coined words, and
sometimes the artist supplies the word,
the legal knowledge of registry and
the sketch of the mark. In this case
there Is bound to be a splendid finan
cial return. The latest thing Is the
collector of trade marks and labels.
He haunts the studios and makes life
a burden to us."
He Got It.
Tough TlnmilnaGimme somethln'
to eat? "
Mrs. Farmer —A big, strong man Ilk®
you baa no right to be Idle. Why don't
you go to work?
Tough Tlmmlns —I won't go ter
work till I gets Wat I want I'm look
lii' fur a snap!
Mrs. Farmer—For. a snap, eh! Hera,
Rover: tic —Philadelphia Press.
His Santanlc majesty probably
doesn't think It necessary to waste any
time on the man who lores his ene
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