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HOMX. More than building showy mansions, More than dread or fine array. More than domes and lofty steeples, More than station, power arid sway Make your home both neat and tasteful, Bright and pleasant, always fair, Where each heart shall resteonteated, Grateful for each beauty there. Seek to make your homo most lovely, l/t it le a smiling spot. Where, in sweet contentment resting, Care and sorrow are forgot Where the flowers and trees are waving, Birds will sing their sweetest songs Where the purest thoughts will linger, Confidence and love belong. There each heart will rest contented, Seldom wishing far to roam Or, if roaming, still will ever, Cherish happy thoughts of home. Such a home makes man the bettor, Sure and lasting the control Home with pure and bright surroundings, liMtes its impress on the souL A FL7RIL\GTOLLY. "Ladies s*d gentlemen, I regret to Btkj that we shall be detained here some hours. There has been an accident on the line beyond, and we cannot get through until toward evening." There was no help for it, and the grumbling passengers got out of the carriage with various expressions-of annoyance. "Oh, Mollie! what shall we do here this afternoon?" My dear Nina, we'll have some good fun! W e're in a atrunge place, with nobody to play propriety, and we'll make this a day long to be remembered, I'm going to get up a flirtation with Somebody, and you must do the same. We nan have rare fun if you only will." Nina does not fall in with this plan very heartily, but proposes to go to a hotel for dinner, and they start imme diately. Mollie is small, fair, bewitching Nina tall, dark and rather stately looking— jttst opposite in appearance and disposi tion, yet the best of friends. "There's a large park in this place, for I've heard Cousin Will speak of it," Nina remarks to Mollie, who is before the mirror preparing for the afternoon campaign. Suppose we walk out and find it." "Just the thing," assented Mollie. We'll have fun here if anywhere." They have no difficulty in finding the park, and a very pretty place it is. They find a rustic seat, and sit down "to wait the coming man," as Mollie impressed it. "Oh, here comes two of the noblest of fellows!" she whispered, presently, "Now, Nina, you must do just as I do." "Mollie, please be careful! remem ber—" But they are near now, and auda cious Mollie smiles and bows. Both gentlemen lift their hata, pass on a few steps, and turn'back. "Mollie, don't be reckless!" "Nina, don't be prudish!" Foolish Nina hates to be called prud fch besides, she is catching the infec tion and when the gentlemen pause on their return, she sustains her part re markably well for an amateur. It is only for once. and no one will ever know of it, she reasons. A little distance back of them, Nina notices a gentleman reclining on a rus tic bench. His face attracts her—a strong, handsome face, with piercing black eyes, that might look tender if their owner so willed, Nina imagined. He must have seen the whole perform ance, and there was a half-smile of con tempt on the firm set lips, which Nina observes. Mollie, she finds a chance to whisper a side, "let's get away from these men we have carried it far enough. Do you aoe tint genleman over there who is Watching us!" "Pooh! he is only wishing he had the lame opportunityand reckless Mollie goon 011 with the "fun." Finally the two gallants propose to go lor refreshments, at the restaurant near, •Dd even Mollie hesitates. "I think we must return to the hotel now," Nina, says quickly. She has learned, from their conver sation, that they are not the sort of fompany she would like to appear in, •nd she determines to take the matter in her own hands. They insist on accompanying them to the hotel, and Nina, growing more dis fuieted every moment, has not the cour age to peremptjrily refuse them. As they leave the park, Nina cannot forbear glancing at the handsome gen tleman behind them, and she instinct trely feels that he despises them all. A year later, Nina Black is in the N hotel with a party of friends, Mol lie Gordon not being one of the num ber. Nina is at a window, observing ihe new arrivals. Suddenly she starts. Burely there is the face, which having ®nce seen she has never forgotten It it the gentleman who witnessed that foolish flirtation in the park at Newton. $he same piercing eyes, the same firm •et mouth, but the contemptuous smile gone. Will he recognize her, she Wonders? She fervently hopes not, tor she is heartily ashamed of her con duct on that occasion. Sho dresses herself with unusual ©are that evening and smiles triumph antly as she takes a parting glance at mirror the reflection of the tall, the willowy form, in pale pink draperies, is evidently satisfactory. She meets Philip Cameron, and ii introduced a few moments after enter ing the drawing-room. Nina almost looses her self-possession as the black eyes rest on her so keeuly but evident ly he does not recognize her and in a few moments they are chatting in a very friendly manner. "Shall we waltz?" he asks, as the music strikes up. And they are soon gliding through the lighted rooms. Thty stroll out in the grounds after the waltz is over. "Your face seems very familiar to me," he says musingly, looking down into her dark, expressive eyes, as they stand in the moonlight. "Can it be possible we have ever met before to night "She laughs lightly, perhaps a little guiltily, for she remembers it all so well. "Once having observed a face, I never forget it," he goes on without waiting for a reply. For instance I met a gentleman in a restaurant a few weeks ago who impressed me as some one I had seen before, but I could not determine when or where. This morning I sud denly remembtred that he was in a train with me two years ago and occu pied a seat opposite." "You woulk make a good detective," she says, feeling that it was only a ques tion of time when he will remember that unfortunate afternoon. "Whv should I care?" she thinks impatiently. "It is no more than hundreds of girls do every day, and think nothing of it." But she does care, nevertheless. It is the skeleton at the feast of good things which follows. Picnics, drives, walks, with dancing in the evening to bewildering music. Nina enjoys it all so thoroughly with Philip Cameron at her side. A sultry morniug, and Nina is loung ing in one of the little summer-houses that dot tlie lawn. Two gentlemen come up and take possession of a rustic bench out side the ivy forms a com plete screen, and Nina is not aware of their proximity until the, sound of voices warns her of it. They are evidently discussing some lady—for one of them is saying. "I met her first 011 one of the boats going to the seashore. She bowed to us as a means of getting up a flirtation, and I of course responded. We were together all the afternoon, and 1 have called on her several times since. She If "There, Joe, I have heard enough." Nina starts at the sound of that well known voice and rises to leave the sum mer house, but the next sentence trans fixes her. "Any woman who will de liberately attract the attention of a stranger—'get up a flirtation,'as you ex press it—in so public a place as an ex cursion boat, is unworthy the name of woman." "Now, Cameron, you always did have some Straitlaced nofions, and this is one of them. Why, my dear fellow, thev all do it!" "Not all," objects Philip "I am well aware that a great many do: but 1 con tend that no woman cau engage in this sort of thing without lowering her wom anhood and rendering herself less re spected even by the man who responds to her advances. I tell you, Latimer, I have seen too much of this sort of thing. Why, every school-girl one meets will ogle |ind smile if one happens to look at her," "My prophetic soul tells me you will marry an incorrigible flirt," Joe says, not having any opposing argument to advance. "Never! I despise them too heartily." Nina, listening to every word, feels that she can bear it no longer, and suc ceeds in leaving without attracting their attention. White and shivering she reaches her own room. So this is Philip Camerson's opinion of a woman who does what she lias done. All that day she broods of his cutting words and when evening comes, her mind is made up she will avoid him as much as possible but, if worst comes, and he asks her to be his wife, she will refuse. The dream of bliss is over for ever. Nina is rather hard on herself, and too generous to throw the blame where it really belongs on saucy.Mollie. The days go by, and Philip is puzzled and not a little troubled at the change in Nina Black. He is not conscious of any fault on his part, and he tries in vain to dispel the cloud that had risen between them. They go out walking one evening to view the sunset from a high point neai\ Nina feels that she is treading on for bidden ground. She has conscientious ly avoided being alone with him, but to-night the temptation is too strong. They witness a brilliant sunset, and Nina grows enthusiastic. "This is a beautiful world!" Phillip savs, as they watch together the western sky, all flushed into sudden glory. "Yes." Nina replies, dreamily, "Per haps it is to some, while others find only the fading gray tints. See, the red and gold are fading even now. The beauty in our lives, like the beauty in yonder sky, is but for an hour, and then comes—" She stops abruptly, warned by the ex pression of his face. He lays his hand tenderly on hers as he says: "And then com^s the silver tint of quiet happiness, which is iar better than the transient splendor of excitement." No answer. Nina docs not feel equal to talking sentiment with Phillip Cam eron to-night, but he goes on eagerly: "Nina, you know I love you! Oh, my darling I will trv to make your life per fectly happy! Nina, my love, answer me one word!" She covers her face with her hands to shut out the vision of his pleading eyes. Oh, if she had then the courage to tell him all! But she still remember! his sweeping assertions of contempt, and her courage fails. He seizes her hand almost roughly, "Nina, I believe you love me. Will you not be my wife?" He rises quickly, but a glance at her white, pained face restrains him. Again he pleads for one word of love N in 1 becomes desperate. She rises and faces him. "Philip Cameron, when we met here a few weeks ago, you told me my fae« seemed familiar, and that we must hav« met before. We had met before. It was a little more than a year ago, in the public park of Newton. Do you re member two foolish girls who flirted with two equally foolish young men He has risen again, and she knows by the expression of his face that he re members all. "Nina—" She stops him with a gesture. "I have another confession to make. A week ago I was in the little summer house near the drive, and overheard part of your conversation with Mr. Lat imer. I learned then, what I already suspected that you despised any woman who would lower herself to do as I havo done, and that is why I cannot be your wife." For a moment they stand facing each other, without a word. Philip Cameron is greatly surprised. He has studied Nina all these weeks, and he has exalted her above all wom en. He has thought her the exponent oi of ptire womanliness, and would have sworn that she was incapable of the boldness to which she eonf s s He is silent so long that sho tries to leave him. "Nina," he cries out, "I can forgive you anything: only tell me you are not in the habit of doing this thing. I re member thinking that, the blonde voting lady was the leader. Was it not so?" But Nina does not utter a word in self-defence. "Tell me, have you engaged in thai kind of flirtation since?" "Mr. Cameron, you have no right to question me thus.H "I have a right, for you are to be my wife!" And before Nina could remon strate, Philip's arms were about her, and she has to acknowledge herself van* quished. Clay's Farewell to the Senate. Ben Porlcy Pooce in Boston Budget. Henry Clay's ferewell to the Senate, on the :51st of March, 1842, attracted a large crowd, and every available place was occupied, the ladies having not only filled their gallery, but invaded the floor. When Mr. Clay rose between 1 and 2 o'clocR. to make his farewell speech in a chamber which he ha 1 entered nearly thirty-six years before, ail eyes were upon him. Senators of all parties took their seats at id gave the most respectful attention. Members of the house flocked in and occupied the priveleged seats round about the chamber. Then came the address, for it was more of nn address thau a speech, the report •f which was only the body of a beautiful oration without the soul. The pict.iro presented in such a congregation of people was^ot only fair enough and perfect enough in all proportions to charm the eye, but it was a scene which might have given, either in the sympathy created or in the pride excited, a feeling but little less than one inspired. The ladies, who were all hope and buoyancy a moment before, were now "like Niobe, all tears." Mr. Clay, in speaking of himself, of his friends, of the noble State of Kentucky, where he had been received as a son forty-five years before, was himsell quite unmanned. Others were much more affected, and many of the oldest Senators were in tears many times while Mr. Clay was speaking. He retired from the storm and turmoil of public life to the bosom of his family, in the State which'tie loved, and which had honored him for nearly forty years. To leave the councils of the nation for one's own alter and home, was next to leav ing this world itself, in the hope of en joying another brighter and better, a consummation which almost every pub lic man might covet. The wildest am bition of Mr. Clay's case must have been fully satiated. He had been at the head of a great and triumphant party. He had shared its confidence in prosperity and adversity. He had admiration $uch as has rarely been given to any man in any age. His friends were legion, and they clung to him to the last with all the tenacity of holy affection. He left the Senate with a reputation for states manship, for patriotism, and for elo quence which any man might covet. He left public life, too, ,at peace with all mankind, and with a conscknce void of offense. In his retirement he carried with him the best wishes of all men. There he could have no foes, and those who had been foremost to denounce were among the first to speak his praises. The last act of Mr. Clay was to present the credentials of Mr. Crit tenden, whom he spoke of in the most exalted terms, and into whose hands he expressed his willingness to yield the interests of- his State and cquntry. The Senate adjourtied as soon as Mr. Crittenden l^ad talaen his Meat tho\igh the Hour was early. The crowd scat tered, and the late Senator from Ken tucky was surrounded by hosts ol friends. Upon opening a gvave in a cemetery at Albany last week the corpse, which had been buried for '29 years, was found in a perfect state of preservation, even to the hair and eyes. THE MOSS BOSS. Paraphrase from the German. Beneath a rose, a.s morning broke, A11 an gel from his sleep awoke. Pleased with the flower ahovohis head, So fair and beautiful, he said: "Thy fragrance and thy cooing shade, Have doubly sweet my slumbers made. Fairest of flowers on earth that grow, Afik what you will, and I'll bestow." "Grant. then," she cried, "I'll ask no more, Some charm no flower has known before!" The angel first seemed at a loss, Then clothed the hush in simple moss. And, lo! the moss rose stood confessed, A lovlier far than all the rest. DEACOS IOAB'STRODIGAL. The deacon watched anxiously for hia son's reply to his letter. He felt sure that Alexan der would reply. He judged from his own standpoint, and from his knowledge of the disputatious young man. He forgot to take into aecouut the influence of marriage, and of living in a community where men have to be careful in matters of contradiction. He was ignorant of many circumstances in his son's life which made this letter of Iosb importance to him than it was to the lonely, anxious sender of it. He was sorry at its tone, and he said to hia wife: "I have ltti a little premature. Scotchmen have lou,, memories for an offense as well as for a kindness. I kent where he is at a' Perhaps I ought. I uiearu, perhaps it would be kind like to look after him. 1 wouldua like to meet his mother in another warld if I had failed in mercy to the lad. Whatever way can I make it up wi' him." 1 It was in a mood of this kind he went to church one morning. His thoughts wandered a great deal until they titted into the words which the dominie was reading—the words in which the wise woman of Tekoah urged I)avil to bring back his banished son Absalom. He pointed out the imperfection of 1 avid's forgive ness, in that, though he bought him back, he suffered hiiu not to see his face. Then he turned to the father of the newer dispensation, limned in Christlike colors, running to meet his prodigal when afar off. taking linn to his breast with kisses of forgiveness, called to gether his friends to rejoice with him over the son that was lost and found. When the deacon left the church it was with one fixed purpose—to go and tind his son. "And you'll do right, deacon," said the dominie. "You are halo and viperous, and ueedna fear the travel. You hae plenty o' siller to go to the lad maybe he hasna a baw bee to come to von. He may hae fallen very low hae you tfioughr of that''" "Ay, have If 1 c«n liinl him, however, low he has fallen. I'll lift him up and gie him a son's portion a' things." "If that is the spirit you are in go your ways, deacon, and the Lord go with you. Where" to first?'' "He wrote me a letter frae a town on the Gulf o' Mexico in Texas: but I hae written twice to that place and got 110 answer back, for I nid him leave it on pain o'my displeasure, and he'll hae gane. but whichever wav is mairthan I can tell.'7 In a month the deacon was in New Orleans, and from there he went to Corpus Christi but since Alexander MoNab had lived there it had been visited by an epidemic of yellow fever, and th* population had been a constantly shift ing one. No one.remembered him. "I'll go up to the seat of government," he said to himself: where there is lawmaking I there'll be lawyers. Maybe I'll find the lad amoug them." I So tie bought a horse and boggy and went leisurely through the country. It was in the first week in June, and he was lost in amaze ment aud delight. There was a pomp and glory in the sunshine and flowers which he I never dreamed of: and as he rode through i miles of blowing grasses and saw the countless herds of cattle, and felt all the lonely beauty i and peace sank into his soul, he waul, raptur ously, "Here one kens that the earth is the Lord's." The highly oxygenized atmos- Ee here gave him a feeling of exhilaration found himself singing lines of his favorite hymns 01 snatches of snch authorized songs* as "Auld Lang Svne," or "Scots who hae wi' Wallace bled." But the I strange happiness in his heart he put entirely down to the credit of his conscience. "It's a gran' thing'' he thought "to be on an errand ofmiorcv. I dinna wonder now there are sae many philanthropists." However, on the fourth day he left the open prairies and got into the pine woods. The heat increased, unknown insects troubled him, he saw huge snakes gliding away into the underbrush, there were strange sounds all around, and a sense quickened his pace, rounded trees, and then saw a white hon*» Some chilJrer his I will adventures, wait a year and write again.' But a year passed and he did not write two and three years, and then he began to tbiuk he eould hardly write again unless his father re quested it. He might be suspected, if he did, of mercenary motives. He had better let things alone. So year after year passed away and the silence was unbroken. In the meantime a great change had taken I nlace in the deacon: but it bad been so gradu al that his oldest friends rather thought their estimate of him had been wrong than that his character had been altered. "He is hard when you first know him, but he mellows as your friendship grows," said McLaurin, who i had been a familiar friend for forty years. But it was something more than the mellowing of 1 time. As drops of water will wear away gran ite, so the preaching of Dominie Frazer had told upon the deacon's spiritual nature. There had indeed been times when he had seriously disapproved him, when he had even feared he was listening to something very like Arminian ism, but through it all very few Sabbaths when the words of Jesus had not foand his soul, even in its most secret places. i In the ninth year of his son's absence he be gan to remember him very tenderly and to find excuses for him. "He was very young, and he had my ain high tamper and quick tongue. I ken weel I hae a gunpowdery temper, and the laddie was like a flash o' tire in the vera nature o' things mischief would come. I wish 4 itself beneath th*m. white, came running to the littlo him !Q "Well, bairns, is the Judge "No but ma is," said a little Ud ,L vears old "Go to the house, sir- that "I hae many friends and business As ho entr-ivd it the landlord said "The judge is in his room, stranger at or a'. awful solemni ty came over him. He was alone with God in the thick woods and he feared Him as he had never done before. All day long the prayer of contrition and adora tion was on ins lips. 'Iuward the gloaming he was delighted to reach the prairie again and to meet two travelers. "Good night, stranger." "Guile night to baith o'you. Ken yon whar I can get a bite and a sup and a night's lodg ing V" "Yes, sir—straight ahead. You'll come to the judge's in half an hour. They are right smart folks, and you'd best light tlk-re for to night. I reckon." "Thank you, gentlemen. Gude night." He rode on very anxiously. The sun was sinking last, and an inexpressible solitude was around him. One lonely, silent bird flying hastily to its covert gave a still eerier feeling to the hour and scene. Suddenly tie heard the oyful laughter of children at, play. He i E & W e o a If V at W»» vfC s Will take your buggy.» 'iUB «d He let them take it very gladly, iw —J— the house. A pretty woman met piazza. She needed no explanations. a stranger wanting food and shelter gave them with a charming courtesy once put the Deacon at ease. •J am sorry my husband is awav •. with pardonaole wifely pride, ""'hup member of the legislature, and it j, session. 11 adjoin era' Alii n, at 2 885, tor he trans 0ine took to them wonderfully. Ohihlr... a —John StillwelL be Then the children oame back, and •]„. laainxt 1 eon new form of humanity to him- 7 'n nothing altout them. But "there was im Subject m-ndence and good fellowship about tlv-on lad, -is he told him all about his aiimtia quite delighted the U°P mac. and After a littlrf they went to bed in ibe n8« room, and he heard them saving thi-ir pra-*l tavor to their mother. "God graiidpai'.0fmeet How the words smote 111111. lb* grew Jo vous and restless that when the laly lisped W 1 the same petition he eoul 1 no lon»t'r sit He walked to the window, where tbeTe wj! table and a lamp and some newspapers, he noticed a large bible, and he ln,w ittoi-WSPA him. Almost unconsciously lie turned to jr thl'i family register. "Alexander McNah, bort Glasgow, March IS—," was the first BOOH ho saw He made 110 outcry lie ncvi.r mw ra- gel His eyes were rivet«-d uponthe words and those that followed: "Mary lUvlnr, UrMdiU' Galveston, Janet McNab, David McN*b i i-Mv, McNah, Peter McNab." Gn the uppoHiti: the "death of Janet McN'ab, ageil ten mur idVfint He bad objected to her bearing her gr.unjs or's name, and she was in heaven wm, Ho opened the door softly and went n' obje the piazza. God had led him to Ins I, house, and he had eaten at his son's tatO® P«1 had not known it. His emotions w. iv 1:. kj© mi municable, even to the Heavenly Fa.:h.*r sat, as si ill in his joy as he had utt n -libCIftl his grief anil ojM-ned not his mouth, U .nonQf he was so sure that (iod had done it. After a little Alexander's wife oatne»:.®» down beside him.aud he eucouraged hen gfOWt of her husband ami his prospect least, believed in him sublimely. 11.' »„int}88 I best and greatest man in Texas—sin lu doyott doubt about it I'eter could have snsik-.i had not been so full of thought, iua 1 their asked her if her husband was born j,. "Oh, no!" she answered, frankly, born in Glasgow, a town in Scotland i be dr pose vou know the citv, for you talk, ra Scotchman." 1 leaVI the fat tions there, ma'am." She hesitated a few moments and then 3* "Did you ever know or hear tell of Mr any McNab? He is a lawyer." "I may say 1 ken" him vera wee! ul8 MM think niucb o' him either, ma'am. He sijup ft 11 auld mau. "Ho is my husband's father, so yc: nor say mo here. His son thinks very hie him, and perhaps you may be misiakt business men, even kind men, areoft'1:). to be hard.Then sho turned the mi. titn. and the deacon was glad of it He did not sleep much, and the neit r, ing was on the road to Austin at dayl'rcas jj reached there in the afternoon, and Smith's Hotel A few words of inquiry eticulu tied him. ahar The Judge was staying there—he w* in from the apitol about o'clock. And thn bairns arc just the ni'^t ostiri" bairns I evor saw. Baith o' th« a bit like me, and 1 would na wonder if 1 a' the comfort out o' little Davie I rl""'1'1 had out o'his father." Then Alexander smiled and pressed hi' You are very strict about a bawbee, eon,'' said one of them. "Just sae, Mr. Intyre but my son, McNab, is coining home to take the busm* s r8uall' men ing in ire the it. 3ft fOli gentleman had any private business- .. 110 use going there. The Judge was lii.nB®*!'t of the committee, and not apt to xeof floor in the daytime. lint Peter could not sit still He r?frttM5rMa' himself, ami then turned his face the white building standing so loftily at the of the beautiful avenue. He soon mitorM DUBI1 halls and gazed upon such a body of I era as Ik* had never dreamed of seeing, u: was wonderfully impressed loth by tl.-IUW and the niethoils. lint he did not lind and after an hour's stay be detenninsd back to the hotel and wait then- for him. 1 a liV 1 door on your right hand.'' bCf(i He walked straight to it and opened it. a ander, who was asleep upon a sofa. tnrfr-MWj head, gazed one moment, and then Kat jjjy his feet. "Father! My dear, dear father!" U* 1 "Ay, ay, my lad, I'm here. A l-^v gQ journey thou hast brought me, an am. like me, too. 0. Alexander!" CTMkt And then the old parable which had father to seek his son was reneweo 1 sweetness and tenderness, and that m&dkMB deacon went up to the Capitol lean mil' o son's arm, and he was proud ami yond expression. ade ai "iou made a vera fair speech, Al- U,:-B» a he said as they returned homo. It wein-WOX a been better if there had been fewer tween your premise and your peroi V __ you'll do in time and wi' mair pr.e'tk* W• dinna much wonder your wifo sets sn-h '-gg|||Qg by you." ""My wife! Have you seen Mary'''' 3D8KU "Ay, I stayed at your house la-t "Km* She's no as bonniu as some women, hut loving and ladylike, and what's man, l«tt ^'ig eon prudent body, and can baith speak and e o n u e S o s e s n o a n o i n a u tall hi O i ther's arm closer to his side, for little had taught him some lessons he would learned in no other way. S 168* In three months the deacon was back on the Glasgow pav nipnts, as brisk anu tive an I as full of life and business as hf ot DC been ten years before. He went into 'U,ui_ fairs witn an exactness and promptitude rather astonished the men in wheat) ie they had been left. 8ber ge«iv and he's no mau to nut up wi' abaubeci I can tell yon that. He had always been very reticent *boiit|— jjj son's long absence. There were none friends that felt at liberty to ask any que*1"*®?*® or to make any remarks to him about hufltn turn except Itailie Scott, who was, pel hap'^BTSll a little nettled at Peter's air of satisfaction^^ "Sea you bea found your prodigal at Deacon," he ventured to say one afteniootU"u tbey met in front of the court house. TOst "Nae vera hard matter that, Baili** When a man is a Judge o' a District To Dominie Frazer, however, he opeiu heart with all the humility of a trulv gr»bt goi man. ,ng, 4 "God has been better to baith o' us titan serve Dominie. But we hae seen our faulty said sae, and the futuie is to be for thf o'them. There is nae either thing 01 1' blood to do." Sf "You are building him a fine house, "Ay when have coaxed the lad aw» jLwjt his am hanie it's but a just thing to build another. He'll get here by the tin..", it for him. Then I'll hae mv son and a bit daughter-in-law and the four braw b&i®* I never hoped for sae much love and joy af- —. never. I have 11a the words to express Jff. thankfulness but Dominie, I'll write vo liberal check out for the kirk debt for ken when a man talks in gold sovereign!! be says. "—Illustrated Weekly. 1 'nnrt-c|. w a member o' the legislature and has an ex Governor's daughter, he's no ill to fttir 1 Gude day to you Bailie," aud lie walked with the air of one who felt that he had a question thoroughly. r'