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Faim, Garden, and Household, < INDUCTED BY PUTNAM SIMONTON. Our friends who may have communications, ob -ervations, fact*, suggestion*, or anything of interest, : .--ruining to this department, are requested to commu nicate the same to Dr. Putnam .Simonton, Searsport. who a ill prepare the same for publication, it of sufficient im oortanc*. I ORTIXEM R tlTIM. I OR lOH Ci MEX. List week, we endeavored to show some of the principles relating to the profits of the va rious pursuits of life; especially that, among 'hem all, there is far less difference than is generally supposed. Let us now consider some it the conditions ot success. Foremost among them is self-dependence. II nv often do we hear, “O, if I odIv had some i irh relation or friends to give me a start in the world." And in this way, and for this rea son. thousands arc wasting their precious time which will never return to them, waiting tor ..one one to cluck them to th.dr business, as -. do the::’ young to their food: while the a ■ nine times in ten, al! such heip is an to a young man, by removing that -‘imu.us to self-reliance and to the develop ng i '...* powers, whose possession is the sur -* and best friend any one can have. I.ook .. i'.nd, ye halting young men and see who are th- successful merchants, shipmasters, ar - - tuechani-'s professional men, and of all the callings Nearly all them were poor boys ,i, who struck out iioaidc-d and alone, save i.y riieir own inaniy energies and a firm un yielding determination to do something. And iu-v succeeded. For “seek and ye shall find” - ,i IHvlne utterance, and cannot fail. li , you waul a SlOuu capita! to start with? H,-re it is. Safely invested at six percent, it wt.i yield you fe'iO the first year: $<£.00 the «•>■ or.d year, and so on at compound interest increasing rapidly. Save $00 every year by fitting n nnnecessay expenses to that amount, as most young men may—some two or three Lines that sum with profit every way—and you i ive the $1000 out at interest, or its equivalent ,ii annual income; $00 the first year; $03.00 the second, as before. And in this way young .udies, too, most of them, any time they mose, can find $1000 all their own to put into a -avinas bank ; a fine thing to start house keeping with. Not a small boy in the streets ut may find a fortune of two or three hun i ■ • d dollars, by saving every year the interest ■ -J tin.st sums.- now twice lost—once in the useless gratification ol morbid appetites, and again by nursing those appetites to warm into I fc the snake that by and by will devour them. Next to deep-rooted principle? of untiring in dustry and strict economy, comes that divine injunction owe no man anything.' True, af ter one lias felt out the tender and the strong places of his business, and has the back-bone ol his powers well knit by experience, some getting in debt may be proper and even profita ble: but for the young and Inexperienced to do so i- the sure road to ruin. For our observa lias never failed iu tills, that if a young man is a borrower when he ought to be a lender; if he fails promptly to meet every pecuniary obli gati"!] : if he puts off til! to-morrow, next week, or month, or year, what should be done to day in the paying of debts -he is lost; because, besides the loss of credit and standing which are everything to business men, the means will slip away for other and, perhaps, unnecessary purpose-, and which maybe harder agaiu to i ur> )'■' / a , . if possible, for everything; both '' .ms you will buy less and pay less,— tor a> it osts something to keep books and to wait, besides the risk that the debtor may fall to pay, this “charging'' costs you at least (1 per • • nt. added to the debt. This eternal charging and getting in debt, and this shuffling, slip-shod way of getting out of it, keeps poor whole gen erations : for this is one of the sins where “the : iiiiijuities ol the fathers are visited upon the j children" -s > powerful and pernicious arc bad 1 examples. Many fortunes are ma le by moral rectitude; us many art made, also, through cheating and fraud But sonn-how the latter seetn not to wear well for the sharper and the knave wield a two-edged sword which cuts bath ways. Like all sin, Ill-gotten gain bears within itself the J seeds of its own destruction; and if through shrewdness or luck it survives the Urst genera tion, “moth anil rust corrupt” It in the next. And In these times of lawlessness and crime, when the fountains of trustworthiness seem well nigh dried up, any young man who really '■n satisfy the business world that he cun be 1 under ad circumstances and tempta tions, has made his fortune. Any person who can produce such credentials will have a thou sand offers in a month to till the most honorable lucrative positions in the land; because fre quent rascality has so blighted confidence In man’s Integrity that the demand for really un doubted wortli fa- exceeds tiro supply. What young inc-n want, therefore, is to give full evi dence, in all tfie acts ol their life, that they are firm as steel against all wrong, and can be Implicitly trusted. The mischief of most people is that their principles are often too much like those of the lad whose friends lir.d procured him a line situation as clerk in a store, who, to show his shrewdness, boasted to tiie son of tils employer that on his wav to the city he had given a one cent piece to an apple-bov who mistaking it for a live cent piece, gave him four cents back. Ills employer, finding his future clerk approved and rejoiced in the act, sent him home in grief to his parents, with the re mark that a bid whose principles would per mit him to cheat a poor apple boy out of four cents, would act tlm thief to him or any one else. The way to fortune, as a general rule, we think, lies along the road of little thimjn. How many waste their lives In doing nothing, be cause nothing oilers that pays large all at once; or lose a fortune by little leaks and out goes. because they seem so small. Uut remem ber, that minute particles of vapor uniting in to rain-drops, make the springs, rills and brooks which, pouring their little Hoods along, form at length the great Father of Kivers; and that Insects almost invisible to the naked eye, working uuseeu in the depths of ocean, build up, little by little, those vast coral reefs which, while they form large Islands for the abode of man, may also wreck the navies of the world; as a thousand little leaks may sink the largest fortunes. How these littles lead to fortune cannot be better shown than by one of the Inimitable il lustrations of the famous l)r. Johnson, in brief this: “A young man, tormented by the desire to be rlcb, spent his time, night and day, in re volving In his mind the great schemes which might make him so. One night his deceased father appeared to him in a dream and said_ “Come with me, and J will show you the way to riches.” Soon they came to a great torrent tumbling down the rocks, and roaring with the noise of thunder; and further on they spied a lit tle rill. “Tell me, son, wouldst thou be sudden 'ly rich like the mountain torrent, or by gradual Increase like the little rill?” “Father, let me be quickly rlcb ; let the golden stream be qu ick and violent.” But soon he found the great torrent had disappeared, its dry and parched bed only remaining,—because its only source was tbe pitiful showers which a few fervid suns dried up ; but the little rill—that was flow ing on the same.—because coming from the eternal springs in the interior mountains which parching heats could not assail; and tracing it down he found it fed a wide lake which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. rid IT AID LLUHTH BEDi-DOI I OCOVEB THEM TOO SOOI. “One swallow does not make a summer,” is an old and excellent adage. Many do not heed it to their sorrow; for, cheated by a warm and balmy day, now and theu, and thinking that all chilling weather is past, they remove the boughs or other covering from the strawberry, flower beds, c., when chilly days and freez ing nights return to give the plants a touch from which they never recover. Forquitehar dy thiDgs the last of April, and for tender ones a week or two later is early enough in tills cli mate. And not only is there a proper time, but a proper leap to dispose of this litter, which is to spread it upon some cultivated spot of garden or Held and burn it—both because it is the very best dressing you can use—ashes— and gives an air of neatness around. For few things are more painful to persons of taste than to see these old brush heaps around house hold premises, and ioDg lines of apple-tree prunings encumbering the road sides for many a mile. All these unsightly things may be changed Into money in three ways—the ashes they will make; giving you a chance to destroy the thistles and similar pests which now lurk among the rubbish: and the protit which al comes from cultieatiiuj the bump vf •>nbe. EVERY IIOlltE VEEIM A WORK - SHOP. We have long been surprised to see how few families have the tools, or are otherwise pre- i pared to do the simplest mechanical work . which is constantly required about their prem ises. If a shelf needs making or changing, a hoop starts off, a brick gets loose and endan gers the whole house, a thill, plow, harrow or rake breaks, and the thousand other little re pairs which a very little skill can make,—all these must wait and grow worse by the wait ing, till some more handy neighbor, or some regular workman at a distance, can be sent for to fix up things. Here is a bad leak iu the household which ought not to be. For not on ly is there great waste in the delay of these repairs—many things going to utter ruin be cause too expensive to hire done -buttlie cost! for paid services is a large sum in years. And what better school and teacher could boys have than a workshop and tools? It is sad to think how many a mighty genius iu the arts has slumbered and dlc.i out unseen and unknown for the want of such a cheap, but golden op portunity. Our voice then is to get up the work-shops, both as a great educator, and as a means of profit every way. First, a suitable building; then a bench and a vice fixture; then the or-! dinary tools;—will cost, perhaps, $ 100, but will pay every year 20 per cent. Interest on the Investment. A Hoituiiti.E Affair. The most recent hor ror iu Phildelphia, is the murder of his whole family, by a Mr. Blackstone, under circum stances which leave no doubt of his insanity. We get the following account from the papers : The fact of the triple murder was first knowu by the receipt of a telegram from Mrs Black stone's hither, speaking of the receipt ot a let ter in which Mr. Blackstone stated that he had killed his wife and children. The house was immediately entered through a window, and there were discovered the bodies of Mrs Black stone and her children lying upon the floor, their heads and part of their clothing covered with blood. The floor was also covered, and the flow of blood was stopped from running into the yard by a roll of muslin which had been placed in front of the door, as if purpose ly intended to keep all evidence of the crime within the room. The kitchen is a very small one, and from appearances Mrs Blackstone was about kindling a lire in the range when she was deprived of life, her hands being stained with coal-dust. The coal had been freshly [ml on. Shi-lay at full length on her back, iu the middle of the floor. Besting against her knee lay tier son, with his face to the floor, while the daughter lay with her head upon his shoul der. both iu their night-clothes, and all having evidently been killed a number of hours. All the circumstances indicate that, the wife and one of the children were murdered in the kitch en, and the other child as it lay on the lounge in the sitting or dining-room. A pillow on tilt lounge was covered with blood, and the carpet was saturated with blood underneath. It was believed that the girl had been there killed, as she partly lay upon the boy. That an axe had been used in inflicting the deep gashes on the wife’s face and neck, and upon the neck of the boy, was manifest, as it lay close to them, and. was very bloody. The wounds indicated a state of frenzy on the part of the murderer, as tlie heads were nearly severed from the bodies. And yet nothing else on the premises betoken ed a diseased mind. Everything was in order so far as could be expected in a house in which the family had arisen but a short time before. In the sitting and dining-room, between the kitchen and parlor, was a table with a few plates, a goblet or two upon it, and a child’s chair was close to it, which contained the girl’s clothes us they had been taken from her the ! evening previous. After committing the mur ers, Blackstone wrote a letter to his father-in law in Connecticut, informing him of what he had done, then came down to the city, visited I the office of a real estate broker, made an as signment of some property, and then walked to i the Delaware, intent upon putting an cud to j himself. He was arrested by officers who judged from his appearance that he was insane, j but breaking away from them he threw off his coat and hat and plunged into the river, where lie was drowned, i _ A late Macou paper states that near Drayton a negro assaulted two little scliool ! girls, threatening to kill them instantly if they screamed. One of the children did scream, and the brute immediately cut her throat with a clasp knife. She gave one groan and died. Her companion he gagged, bound and threw into a thicket and left her after subjecting her to repeated violence. She finally managed to escape, and telling her story. The neighborhood was soon aroused and in pursuit of the black monster. After a long chase he was captured and put into jail. Perhaps the Bureau will supply him with rations and keep him comfortoble until he is hung. A Western journal tells us that “a whole herd of office beggars have returned from Washing ton with faces as long as hog's snouts. One of them swore that Johnson’s Administration could yet be considered respectable in compari son with Grant’s.” “Have you seen my black-faced ante lope f ’ “No, I haven’t; whom did your black-faced aunt elope with ?” Yes or No. And one face shining out like a star, And one face haunting the dreams ot each, And one voice, sweeter than others are, Breaking into silvery speech— Telling through lips of bearded bloom, '1 he old, old story over again. [Nora Perry. The revel was over. Mrs. Van Duyne’s grand Twelfth-night Ball, that had been the talk of the county for the last fortnight. The lady had been extremely gracious in her invitations, and the grand old mansion opened wide its stately doors as a palace -might. Indeed, there had been no lack of royalty. Kings, queens, courtiers, and handmaidens, princes of nearly every realm. ' had been represented. Old decorations be longing to a past generation had been brought to light, and re-hung, giving the ! rooms an antique air that accorded well with the dresses of the guests. Indeed, the picture was perfect. Here, in the cor ner of the long hall had stood two white haired harpers in pilgrim guise, their worn sandals attesting the length of the way trodden since they were new and brig-lit. ! Here and there a troubadour, with his guit ar thrown over his shoulder, joiuing the melody of the dance, or, in the pauses ut teriug some plaintive song. “Viol, flute, and bassoon,” blended iu the chorus with their deep-throated or silvery voic s, and i every moment had been crowded with en joyment. Mrs. Van Duyne knew well that the fame of her ball would spread far and wide, until it became r county legend. She liked the high and aristocratic distinction at which few might aim, and fewer still reach. But she had not done it merely as a grat itication tor pride. It had been in part her I sou’s plan, and she enjoyed his pleasure as much as her owu. If his mother, iu her young days, had been queen of the county, lie reigned now as its prince. His horses were the hand somest and the fleetest, his little suppers held iu hardly less esteem than royal ban quets, his sayings and doings copied as far as the limited capital of others would al low. Now and then sundry stories had been whispered about his pleasures in Wash ington or Baltimore, but so long as his stately mother upheld him, few were brave enough for open censure. She always re ceived him with open arms, and there was sure to be a series of festivities to render his visits at home fully as beguiling as his sojourns abroad. Iruth to tell, Mrs. Van Uuyne, with all her smiles, and pride, and regal airs, now and then held a troubled visitant in her heart. In Gerald’s young days she had felt gratified with the sensation he created and the admiration laid at his feet by fool ish women. Having no daughters, her whole heart centered in her son’s triumphs. But now he was past thirty, and evinced less inclination for settling down than ai twenty-five. Indeed, then he might have yielded to a woman’s sway with admirable grace ; now he shrugged his shoulders a little, and treated his mother to French proverbs with all due respect. The belles and beauties of five or seven years before had married, or, what was equally fatal, faded. Perhaps in the hearts of some there lingered a faint romance con cerning Gerald Van Duyne, for lie was ten der, winsome and fascinating. When he chose, he could be very sweet and danger ous. anil being a man, he was nowise loath to use his power. There had ciossed bis path at last one royal Esther. It might have been because most girls were so easily won into listening, that lie as easily tired of their sweetness, quite forgetting that when be put the sem blance of his soul into the strife, they could not always discern the wavering light that the beacon carried. But here was Edith Wiuchester, single at two-aud-twenty, with the blood of an old line of royalty in her veins, and the beauty of a poet’s dream in her face. True year by year the broad Winchester lands had grown less, forests of timber had been felled aud sold ; the old house had fallen into decay ; the servants become an idle, thriftless set. Mr. Winchester was a court ly gentleman of the old school, polished, scholarly, caring little about the world, but living amid his folios of transactions, illu minated title pages, which were perfect gems in their way, and stores of knowledge from the buried centuries. Mr. Winchester’s brother had married a thrifty New England womau, and utter her husband’s death she had filled the post of housekeeper in the Wiuchester mansion ; ■ but when her reign ended, the careless ser vants had to a great extent resumed their i sway. Edith was her father’s companion and friend, aud she ministered to his wants so continually that she had little time or thought for other matters. As for Mr. Winchester, no child could have been more careless or indifferent a3 to the sources of prosperity. So long as his present wants were supplied, ho asked no more. They had fallen into a very retired man ner of living, and the county folk were rather surprised when Mrs. Van Duyne be gan to be attentive to Miss Winchester. No I other phrase expresses it. Edith could not \ be patronized. In her high-bred, delicate way she held herself above all coarser at tentions. “What a very handsome girl that Miss Winchester is !” Gerald had said one day. “The purest blood in the country. It shows in every line of her face, and in ev ery movement. If these were the days of royalty she might be a queen,” Mrs. Van Duyne replied. During the next six weeks of Gerald’s absence, Mrs. Van Duyne cultivated Miss Wiuchester assiduously, but with a delicate grace that could not have offended the most fastidious. For she began to look with dismay on her son’s increasing expendi tures and frequent journeys from home. Miss Winchester possessed every requisite for a daughter-in-law, even if her fortune was on the wane. A few thousands more or less, would not be of momentous impor tance to the wife of Gerald Van Duyne. After a little, I think, Edith Winchester understood whither the current was drift ing. At first she held herself rather haugh tily aloof from Gerald’s attentions, but as he began to grow more earnest, he made her feel that it was a man’s honorable affec tion, and not the pastime in which he had so frequently indulged. Old Mr. Winchester took a great deal of interest in the acquaintance. Gerald paid him a charming deference, and he was glad to see Edith sharing the honors that were her natural right. Ami though he rarely went into society, they had all joined in persuading him to be present at this scene of festivity as a spectator ; and he went for his child’s sake, "'ho was to be queen in deed. It must be confessed that Edith had en joyed the preparations very much Mrs. Van Duyne had held long consultations with her concerning the appointments of the sev eral rooms, chosen her dress and ornaments, and treated her with most tender courtesy. Her heart warmed amid these gaveties, and she began to feel wonderfully at home. The evening was a perfect success. The arrangements complete, the rooms brilliant wish lights, rare dresses, and the gleam of jewels. For miles around the conservato ries had been rifled of their bloom and fra grance, and choicest music filled the soften ed air with wafts of melody. Gay voices, rippling laughter, and “twinkling of merry feet,” wooed the happy hours. Edith, too, looked on, laughed and en joyed. Tim scene was so different from her quiet world, tiiat it roused her every pulse like a draught of rich wine. .She felt so at home in her queenly robes, receiving homage and bestowing smiles, granting the honor of her hand to one and another of the handsome cavaliers. Some wore a domino, but many only the dress of the pe riod they were representing, and among them all, Gerald Van Duyne was conspic uous by the elegance of bis figure and the richness of his attire. He seemed to claim the beautiful Edith by a right which no one dared dispute. i here was a lull iu the dancing, and he drew her away to a miniature labyrinth formed by a skilful disposition of evergreens. Sweet swells of music reached them, soft ened by the branches and intervening space. “How very, very lovely !” she exclaimed. “Mr. V an Duyne, your mother seems to possess an enchanter’s wand.’’ “Does she?” He laughed low and music ally. “I think you. too, have contributed no little. And your presence—the greatest charm of all. Edith colored warmly at this. He had made more than one allusion this evening that had roused her from her usually serene mood. And now with a little tremor she essayed to lead the conversation in a differ ent channel. “The house needs a queen,” he said, re turning to it. “Some one young and fair and sweet.” “To supersede your mother? Is that a son’s love, Mr. Van Duyne?” “Oh, Miss Winchester, you wrong me ! A mother can never be superseded in the heart of a worthy son. And when I mar ry, as I hope to some day, it must be one that my mother admires as well as myself.” Gerald Van Duyne might not have made this filial speech, if there had been any doubt of his mother’s regard for Miss Win chester. “And you will not even give me a good wish?” he said playfully, bending his hand some head until his eyes seemed to shine into hers with a fire that sltutled tier. “My wishes would be of a small account,’ ’ she replied gravely. “Ah ! you are mistaken.” There was a little tender touch to his voice that gave the words effect. “Let us go back to the dancers,” she said turning. Some women might have taken delight in luring him oil to confession, but she was no coquette, neither did she feel at all sure that she wanted what he had to offer. “Not yet : it was so lovely to linger here, with you. Edith, there is something beside good wishes that you have the power to be | stow—happiness—love." He had never faltered iu telling the story before, but there was a sense of purity and highest honor about this woman that made him hesitate a little. She was silent. Standing there in her peerless beauty, she stirred a deeper sen timent in his heart than she imagined. “Edith, I love you! Will you listen? Will you be mine—my wife?" Gerald Vau Duyne stood before her, barring her egress, his lace flushed with expectation, his eyes deep and beseeching, but with her next breath Edith knew why she could resist them so well. “Oh!” she exclaimed ; “I wish you had not said it. I think-” • inay, my gracious queen, put all thoughts ami misgivings aside. If you do not love me, and I may have been too ab rupt, let me teach you the sweet lesson.” She met his glance fearlessly, raising her owu serene eyes; and he knew then that he had not moved her soul. If piqued him into desperate daring, and he determined to overrule all her objections. But one came that he little expected. “I will tell you the truth,” she said. “I have loved oue man ; I do not know that I can love another.” This calm, fair Edith Winchester, mak ing such a confession. lie hated the man cordially, whoever he might be. How had a lover found entrance into her secluded life ? “It must have been a childish passion,” he returned, making an effort to keep a tremble of anger from his voice. Her first impulse was to turn away with out any further explanation, but he caught her hand. “My darling 1” he exclaimed vehemently, be merciful! I will wait until you have forgotten the past, so that you are mine. If I can gain your regard at the last, I will be content. Nay, do not answer me now?” Then he led her away, judging rightly that delay would be his best ally. She floated up and down amid the gay throng, listening to compliments and badinage, the little scene seeming like a dream. A knight in a domino begged the favor of her hand presently. Earlier in the even ing he had been introduced, but she had forgotten the name now. Some strange impulse urged her to accept. Why Bhouhl the old life and the old love come back to her with such force ! Why should she remember a boyish face and a boyish voice with such distinctness. Was it among the living, or lying somewhere in the silent grave? If in the former, it had failed her for all the brave promises given, and she smiled haughtily. Five years passed and gone, and no sign. The music blew out a lingering waft of melody, and the dancers paused, breaking into lines and groups. The two walked on unthinkingly. “You are grave, gracious queen, amid all this inspiring gayety.” i A full, rich voice striking some deep chord in her nature, and making her tremble un aware. •‘A queen must needs have grave moods, Sir Knight. The cares of state may press heavily.” “But queens are still women.” Something in the tone gave it a meaning, but she seemed powerless to translate. “\ou come from a far land,” she said slowly. ‘‘And what may your quest be?” “A search for constancy.” He gave a low, light laugh. “Methinks, Sir Knight, he who takes a woman s love as his guerdon, has no right to doubt until she be proved false.” “And then.'” There was a strange, ex pectant quiver in the voice. “It your quest has ended thus you should have chosen more wisely.” She could not tell why she should utter those words in so sharp a tone, save that there was a nameless pain at her heart, for the woman who watched, and to whom re turned no brave and loyal knight. Gerald Van Duyne approached, and the ! two parted, but Edith glanced after the van ! ishing form and saw it no more that night. And at last the revel tvas done. Long past midnight, and Edith Winchester had gone to her room. Her father, who had been sitting by the fireside, dozing, and watching for her, started up. “My darling!" he said—“my precious child ! you were fairest of them all, and won as you deserved to win, a fond heart. Already I have given Gerald a son’s place.” She shut her scarlet lips decisively, and | a little frown gathered about her brow. She did not like thus to be forestalled. “I have not decided,” she returned al most coldy. “But you will?”—and the weary eyes en treated wistfully. “He loves you so well, Edith.” “It is late,” she said, evasively. “Good night, my love,” and kissing her, he departed. She seated herself at the old-fashioned escritoir. There lay a letter before her, she recognized the writing at a glance. Gerald Yau Duyne meant to beseige her at every avenue, and she smiled with a little disdain. Some lines of tender, passionate plead ing, and entreaty for an answer, be it ever so brief. Edith Winchester felt that it was a tempt ing proposal. Wealth, position, love, and a life of fullest eujoyment. She could see that her father was already enlisted on Ge rald's side Which should it be—Yes or No ? She leaned her head on her hand in deep thought. Should she give that brief epi sode to Gerald’s keeping, and thus dismiss it forever, like laying some ghost of a haunt ing past? To-night it had been strong up on her—the remembrance of five years ago, when she and Roger Prescott were lovers. Tender, impulsive, boyish Roger, with a proud, strong heart, and a daring will, with which to make his fortune. What wonder ! fut romances tney had planned in that May time ot youth, she but seventeen and he two-and-twenty? Had any of it come true? j Year after year she had gone on in so dull a fashion, that now she found herself almost | longing for some excitement and pleasure, and what of him ? She remembered the day of their parting. A mellow, hazy October afternoon, with King reaches of glowing woods aud waters, and dusky meadows, And because Roger i had doubted her a little, she had been curt and cold. A woman’s faith is always longest lived,” she had said. “Men often solace them selves with new faces, while women sit at home aud dream.” A line of white showed just above his lip ; a stern, set resolve. “You have called me unreasonable,” he said, and blamed me for doubting. I give you my faith here, I ask no word, uo tid ings from you. For five years I will go on my silent way, aud if I live, come back | worthy of you. If not—you will be free.” 1 She would have relented at a word, but he had no further persuasion to oiler. And so they kissed and parted in the twilight, and five years had come and gone. Whether Roger had died in his faith, or, failing in his high hopes, turned toothers, she could not tell. But it was his face that come to her now, his soft and tender eyes, and she almost listened for the pleading voice. How much she bad hoped she knew now, aud it seemed as if half the brightness had gone ont of her life. Here was her subtle temptation reach ing out its golden fingers. Yes or No. She dallied with it there, her brain as bright and fresh as if she had not danced \ until midnight. She tried to write, mean ; ing av, first to tell Gerald her story, but it ! was too sacred to place there for careless eyes. No—that must rest in the quiet grave with Roger—dear, lost Roger ! Something peering through the window startled her—a streak of yellow dawn. The lamp burned dimly, her answer was yet unwritten, her masquerading dress still un changed. Should she take the tiara and sceptre, or sit uncrowned all her days? And then the figure of the knight rose be fore her, and the tone in which he had an nounced his quest—a search for constancy. Why should his light laugh sting her even yet ? With a hurried movement she wrote a simple word npon a slip of paper aud fold ed it. The revellers would be late at breakfast; so wrapping herself in a shawl, she took possession of the luxurious couch, but not to sleep. In those waking dreams the tender face brooded over hers again with the smile it used to wear. Gerald Van Duyne, entering the library, found his answer waiting him. At first he frowned, and shut his white teeth together in a desperate fashion. He was not used to having women say him Nay, and this one would come to her senses and relent. He did not despair. She looked royally beautiful when she came down to the breakfast, a queen with out her robes. She gave a quiet smile as she fancied herself sitting behind that daz zling silver and china—vision never to be realized. With the earliest dispersion of guests went Edith Winchester and her father, in spite of Mrs. Van Duyne’s urgent request for them to remain. Gerald was a little moody, but Edith was too lovely to be eas ily relinquished. At home agaiu, Edith and her father ■—— __—. settled to their olden places iu the faded room, so different from the brightness they had left behind. But she told her story bravely—her long-kept secret, love for Roger. “And he is dead,” she said iu her soft, tremulous tones. “Last night I might have fancied him false, but never, never again. Aud so, papa, I cannot marry Gerald Van Duyue. I will stay here with you always, and we two will grow old together.” “Poor Roger,” he returned musingly. “If he had but lived to comeback he would be his uncle’s heir. The others are dead. Yes. The poverty that once stood in their way would no longer be a frowning 1 bar. But that eveuing when her father, wear ied out with his usual dissipation, had gone to his room, aud she sat alone before the 1 fire, half-buried iu the cushions of the great chair, a visitor was announced. She gave a sharp and hurried glance at the intruder. Not Gerald Van Duyue, as she had feared —a form that, if less elegant, was manly aud strong, and a bright flushed face, beard ed and brave with exultant mauhood. Deep and tender eyes that smiled with a lost re membrance in their depths. “Edith!” Where lnul she listened to that lull, rich voice? Only one man had a right so to call her. And then she took a step nearer, and with a low. glad cry, was clasped in the waiting arms of Roger Prescott ! “The quest is ended,” he said, with a rare inflection. She knew llien, and her heart gave a great bound. There, in the ruddy glow of the firelight, they told their stories. He, of success even beyond his hopes ; but at the last, of un toward events, that seemed to delay him on every side, and of days that had been like, ages to him. At his coming, tidings had greeted him that Edith had been won by another, and he had stolen into the festive scene to judge for himself, and if the news were true, to become a wanderer again. He held the sweet face in the rosy shad ow of the flames, and glanced for many seconds into the true, earnest eyes. “And my answer?” lie asked—“ Is it Yes or No?” The crimson dash rose to her temples, but she said softy—"Yes." “My queen !—and for royal robes we will have love.” Getald Van Huyue, smoking his Turkish pipe amid the luxury visible everywhere in his room smiled regretfully. There was one woman in the world who could not be bought with gold—and lie had missed her. But do all the good things of life belong to one man? [Amanda M. Douglass. A Detective’s Experience—A Life of Crime. One of the most remarkable cases iliat ever came within my experience was that of Lucille Dutton. She was a very re spectable woman of the world. Fascinat ing, brilliant, dashing, possessing an ex quisite grace of manner and rare conversa tional powers, that charmed every one who came within the sphere of her influence. Until her crime were known ami her ar rest attempted, she reigned here an ac knowledged belle. Even tlie most jealous ly envious of her own sex admitted the wonderous spell exercised hv her singular and surpassing beauty. An actress, a vocalist, it would have been no extravagant eulogy to have called her a prima donna. Tall beyond the aver age of women, her slender, graceful form was modeled into an exquisite symmetry that would have been a sculptor’s ideal. Curling, silky tresses of nut brown hair shaded a face fair and delicate as a child’s. Great luminous eyes flashed front beneath the beautiful lashes with a strange mes meric power that few indeed had the power to resist. This expression, combined with her beauty made her regnant over many a heart that had never before felt the spell of a woman's charms. She had come to New Orleans as a vo calist. Her engagement was attended with a success never before equalled bv the most accomplished professional. Night after night tiie theatre was crowded with her ad mirers. Her appearance was ever the sig nal of an enthusiasm all but wild. As the weird light of the proscenium flashed on jewel and gem, and the queenly form radi ant in beauty stood before the multitude, who swayed to the magic charm and im pulse of tone and voice, 1 have often fanci ed her beauty supernatural. Youth and age alike felt its influence. There was a thrill in the low utterance that trembled on the air like the soft vibra tions of a harp whose strings the wind bad struck, and rising in fullness and strength of tone until a rich, delicious harmony fill ed the vast building with a magical cadence, which no ear attuned to music could resist. Her name was on every lip—her picture adorned every window along the fashiona ble thoroughfare. Before the charm of that strange, wondrous beauty, fashion forgot exclusiveness, society opened its doors. Petted and caressed in every cir cle, admired and loved, her heart remained insensible to so much flattery, and homage of men and women was received as if it were her due. It was at a time when her fame was greatest and her success in fashionable life most assured, that an event occurred which changed it all, aud precipitated a catastro phe which I cannot even now reflect upon without a sense of pain. A few months before her advent here a series of the most startling tragedies had occurred in Montre al. An entire family had beett poisoned by a governess. The papers were never weary of the episode of horrors the recital furnished. The instrument of this wicked ness had fled, and with such consummate skill had her flight been contrived that not even a trace of her was left. It appeared her beauty and accomplish ments had won the affections of a youth whose marriage with her his parents op posed. Driven to desperation, Harlow Vincent had in a moment of frenzy, perish ed by his own hand. Over the corpse of her lover the governess had sworn a dire revenge. IIow faithfully she adhered to her guilty oath, the rapid decrease of his relatives full well attested. The story of the Canadian homicide had long since reached us, but had left but lit tle impression, as a matter with which wo had nothing to do. One night a gentlemau returning from the theatre, entered our office. His look was disturbed, and his face wore au e\ pression of profound agitation. Mr. I-handed him a chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, he inquired if I had heard of the tragedies in Montreal. I replied that I had. “ Have you no suspicion of the actor in that dreadful drama?” " The governess, of course.” i- Yes ; but have you no suspicion of who that governess is ?” " Certainly not.” “ Would vou like me to point her but to you ?” Most certainly, I would." '• And you would arrest her it I did?" " Certaiulv." li Then, sir, your task is easy ; the wo man who is setting your city wild at pres ent, the fascinating Lucille Dutton is the person.” “ What?” I exclaimed, "you are mad?" •• Xot I; I speak advisedly—I know the woman ; I am a resident of Montreal, and have known her for years.” The telegraph was at ouee put in requi sition, and in less than au hour all the in formation sought for was obtained. There was no longer a doubt : the enchantress ot the theatre was the murderess of Montreal We were warranted in taking her in cus tody at once ; but, as there was no possi bility of escape, we delayed until morning. I confess I felt a f.range reluctance in ex ecuting the duty I had to perform. 1 ad mired the beautiful creature, despite her crimes. I thought I could understand how these could have been committed without her being wholly bad. Maddened by the deat.i of one she loved • hating with bitter animosity those who were, in a measure, •responsible for it. and incited to the deed by the fierce, revengeful nature of her race, it seemed to me more the crime of other* tliau her own. Still, I would do mv duty. r.ar.y the ensuing morning Mr. 1 and myself visited her apartments at a fashionable hoarding house on Camp street. Although the hour was earlv, she was up, and to the servants inquiring if two gentle men could be admitted to her. received an affirmative auswer. The bright golden sunshine of the early Spring morning gleamed iu at the open window, tilling tin room with light. It shone on the beautl fill lady like a crown—red with crime, she might have lieeu—hut the nut brown hair, iu the sheen of those golden rays, seemed glory crowned. Robed iu white, a single jewel flashed from the belt that encircled her waist—my utterances became indisfin : as I told my errand. ‘- And do you believe me guilty *• Bv no means, I.adv : I hut execute mv duty !” •• You do right.” Her voice was low and sad—so exquisit ly powerful, that tears come into mv eyes. A single hectic flush fevered on the smooth round cheek, as she rose and walked across the room to an escritoire that stood in the corner. The great luminous eyes were sheathed now. and the long dark lashes drooped over them. She sat down at tin desk and leaued her head on her hand for a moment: then searched for a paper or par cel iu a nook iu tho desk—I did not observe her closely until she turned around, facing me. “ I am guilty.” she said—iu the same low tones of sorrow—•• yes, guilty in the eves of the world, hut not iu the sight of Heaven. 1 was insane when 1 did tin deed. Insanity has its cunning—delirium its passionate sense of revenge. They broke my heart, destroyed iu their bloom all the flowers of my lit'e. 1 am a maniac even now, for 1 feel no terror iu my crime. 1 have looked for this hour. 1 am ready for it. My dead body the law may have : hut with it no sense of shame.” As she spoke she swallowed a dull, grav ish looking powder, threw up her arms, and fell back iu her seat—dead ! Origin ot' tho Volocipoilo. While Frederick the Great was King ol Prussia, a German watchmaker was con scripted into the army, and in one ot the great battles in which he was engaged lost both legs. (>n his recovery he returned home, and being of a mechanical turn of mind, he conceived the idea of making a pair of legs, with machinery inside, that by winding it up like a clock, would run itself all the time, and propel him where he pleas ed. Whether this is the origin of the v ■ locipede, or uot, history does not inform u- . but it is known that the watchmaker cheer fully worked along, day after day, with his idea. lie hoped when he got the artificial legs all completed, to he able to move from place to place without assistance. At length, alter months of weary work, he succeeded in getting them finished, and one bright morning, in tho presence of his neigh hors, he proposed to try his new plan of lo comotion. The news of the invention ha\ ing spread throughout the neighborhood, a great many people gathered to see the new discovery. After satisfying himself that everything was right, he strapped on the wonderful legs. They were then wound up and he assayed to walk. At first, he moved slowly, but as he nun ed along his gait became more rapid. From a walk he began to trot, still the gait in creased ; from a trot ho began to run—.--ti!l bis gait kept increasing. The watchmaker became alarmed ; his coat tails stuck out, his hair stood on end—still his speed in creased. lie called in vain to tlie bystand ers to catch him, but it was impossible, they were soon left far behind. On he wont lie attempted to grasp whatever came near him, but it was no use, he could uot catch anything; the speed still increasing! On ward he sped, gaining renewed speed at ev ery bound, and was soou lost to the sight of the spectators! 1‘eople mot him on the road ; they spoke to him, but he returned ii not. They thought the man was mad : his eyes flashed fire, his face became haggard still on he sped. Without rest or food, he moved for days and nights, gaining all the time. The news soou spread over the coun try ; he was seen at different points, always going at lightniug speed. Ilis clothes were soou torn in shreds ; his flesh became lac erated, and his bones protruded, but still he moved. Weeks ensued, and still he was seen moviug. lie passed a lager beer es tablishment and made a tremendous effort to stop, but it was no go ; ou he went, his gait still increasing. He soon became a skeleton, but still he sped forward. He passed iuto a strange land—the people were alarmed. Ou he moved, he grew thinner and thinner. His spirit had long since passed the realms of space, but still he mov ed. He was last seen iu the forests of Bo hemia, his gaunt figure and terrible speed striking terror in all beholders—the people trembled at his name, blit ou he sped, re gardless of every obstacle, and, when last heard from, he was still bounding forward through the forest, on his wonderful veloci pede.