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HORNY HAND AM) ACTIVE BRAIN.
How, now, Horny hand,
Tolling in the crowd,
What is there In thee or thiuc
That thou scorncst me and mine
Looking down bo proud?
"Thou'rt the bee! and I'm the drone!
Not so, Horny hand!
ritit beside me on the sward.—
Where's the need to stand*—
And we'll reason, thou and 1.
Twist the green grass and the sky.
Thou eans't plough and delve.
Thou eans't weave and spiv,
On thy brow are streaks of care
Iron irray's thy scant hair,
And thy garments thin;
Were it not lor such as taou,
Toiling; morn and night
Luxury would lose its guards,
And the land its might:
Mar: and harbor would decay,
Tower and temple pass away,
Granted Homy hand!
High's the work you do;
Spring-time soweth, Autumn tilth,
Aud the red-vine's luster splith,
Were not but for you,
Art and arm aud all the pride
Of our wealth and Slate.
Start from Labor's honest hands—
Laboa high and great,
Sire of plenty, friend of uiirt'j,
Master < I the willing earth.
Yet, <roo-l Horny hand,
H';iy should'st thou be vain?
ft'uy should milder, ploughman, smith,
Boastful of their strength and pith,
Scorn the busy brain?
As if nope but they
Labor'd with incessant toil,
Night as well as day,
With the spirit aud the pen-
Teachers, euides, and friends of men!
Drones there are no doubt:
Yet not all who seem;
Flesh and blood are not the whole,
There's a honey of the soul
Whereso'er tnou deem,
Is the man who builds a book,
That exaUs and charms.
Not as good as he who builds
With his brawny arms?
What were labor but for thought?
Baseless etfort, born of naught!
i Many a noble heart,
I Many .i regal head,
, Labors harder fur our native land
Harder than the horniest haad
For Its daily bread:
Painter, poet, statesman, sace.
Toil for human kind,
Unrewarded but of Heaven.
And the inner mind.
Thou recantest? — So! — done!
Pass from shadow into sun!
AFTER MANY DAYS.
An English Romance.
. . 1!. -. ATKINSON .
Away on the dear old Yorkshire wolds
in merry England, just at the foot of the
bold hill known as the Beacon Top, rest
ing there secure from all but the south
■winds, is the pretty and quairt village oi
You ought to Bee Beacondale, for it is
the very sweetest of English rural vil
lages, whether you look at it from the
'Top," or from the low-lying south, or
walk up its one street. Its church is
worth a long walk or drive, whether you
see it inside or out, or both — such a pret
ty house was never elected elsewhere for
the worship of God. It is small and old,
bur most handsomely fitted and furnish
ed through the generosity of the Squire,
•who owns all the surrounding property,
and it is plenty large enough to hold the
rustic congregation which assembles
there Sabbath by Sabbath. Adjoining
the church is the vicarage, where dwells
the good man, who, notwithstanding his
weakness in favor of tapers and vest
ments, faithluliy tells these simple villag
ers the story of God's love. No, but what
heresy in the shape of dissent has plant
ed its fort in this wold village. For on
one side of the street is a little square
box, capable of holding perhaps forty
people, known as the Primitive Metho
dist Chapel; while opposite, and on the
same side ot the street as the church,
stands a similar brick box — only that
this Weslejan Methodist stronghold can
look down somewhat upon its neighbor
across the way; for has it not a porch al
most as large as the chapel itself? How
cverchurch and dissent get along pretty
amciably together on the whole.
Methodist farmers and Church-of-Eng
land farmers meet and are the best ot
friends every Saturday at St. Olaves Mar
ket, aad their laborers, following their
example in an humbler way, drink a
glass together at the village tavern every
pay-day, without discussing their theo
logical opinions and principles. But to
go on with our village. There is, as
hiii ted, a tavern, postoftice and a couple
of general stores (each of which displays
its stock-in-trade in a small, four-paned
cottage window), and these, with two or
three farm houses, a small foundry and
forge, and about a score of cottages,
ranged on either side a broad road and
stream running alongside each other,
make up as pretty a village as could be
discovered iv a life's tiavel.
About two miles from Beacondale to
ward the south, stood a lonely home
stead. The house was ancient and in
bad repair, but was nevertheless a real
comfortable old home, and was occupied,
together, with a large farm of several
hundred acres, by a hale old bachelor of
GO, and the mistress of the house was his
widowed sister, who lived there with her
daughter. John Fielding and his sister,
Mrs. Mitchell, were fair specimens of
Yorkshire folk — hearty, honest, lively —
keeping open Uouse for any one and lor
every one. Among ttye occasional wel
come visitors to this hospitable home was
a young fellow named Ferguson, who at
first invariably caihe with his particular
friend, George Mitchell, Mrs. Mitchell's
son. Alter a while, however, he took to
visiting more frequently, and for some
months every other Saturday saw Fergu
son at the Thorpe farm, where he staid
Will Fergusen was confidential clerk
at an extensive engineering establishment
at Milton, some fifteen miles, over the
wolds, from Beacondale. His position
was a good one, and although barely 22,
and scarce two years connected with the
firm, his employers implicitly trusted
him with their financial affairs aud the
management o^ their business. There
•was nothing particularly attractive about
Fergusen. Tall and plain-featured —
rather ugly than handsome — a pleasant
companion, generally kind and thought
ful to all whom he knew, attentive to
ousiness, he was perhaps as well liked as
any other young fellow in Milton.
Will Fergusen had often visited Thorpe
farm, because his chosen friends were rela
tives of old John Fielding, and be. there
fore, accompanied them frequently; be
sides he liked tlie drive and was fond of \
the Thorpe folk, and he also liked on Sun
days to attend service in the Beacondale
One bright Sunday morning in October,
Fergusen and George Mitchell drove over
to Thorpe iaim for the sake of the ride
over the wolds and a quiet day at the
old farm ho,use.
Evening came, and, as usual, they
walked down the lovely lane which led
.to the village and church. This was
not their firit visit to Beacondale church
by any mea&PfSO that they walked in and
totfe their accustomed st&fc. The service
had commenced aud the y«uug men weie
hastily finding their place in the prayer
book, when they became aware ot strang
ers, occupying the seat immediately in
trout of them. They were bonnie strang
era, too — the prettiest handed a pray
er-book to the late arrivals, and from
that moment Will Ferguson was a gone
man. His heart was no longer his own.
m He felt that he had met his fate, and
all through that service he was trying to
devise a plan whereby he could become
acquainted with this girl who had so
completely captivated him at one glance,
and little attention did he pay to what
the Clergyman said that evening. After
service he returned the book, which gave
him an opportunity of saying one word,
aud hearing that same word— 'Thank
you' — from those pretty ;ips.
That evening on their way home the
two friends called on an acquaintance,
and, while seated there, putting cigars,
they heard soon the sound of merry, girl
ish voices, and into the room walked the
three fair strangers ot the village church.
They appeared perfectly at home here,
and the mistress ot the house introduced
them as Miss Handford, Miss Annie
Handford and Mis 3 Maggie; Handford.
Miss Handford and Miss Maggie might
just as well have been still at church for
all Will Ferguson saw of them. He was
too mucn occupied in gazing on Annie —
the one who had lent him the book at
church — the one with whom he fell over
head and ears in love at first sight.
I am not going describe Annie
Handtord; I might difler in my
opinion from Will's and hurt his feelings,
and I could never get him to say what
she was like, as he used to declare that
he couldn't do her justice. I will say
she was not one of your awfully-pretty
girls: she was pretty, but I think
it was her general behavior and move
ments and her conversation whicli were
more calculated to win a man's love.
Many Sundays passed on, but each one
found Ferguson over at the Thorpe farm
and always to church in the evening.
Sunday was the bright star which he
kept his eye upon all the week betore,
and he generally contrived to see Annie
for a few minutes at their mutual friend's
on their way home.
It appears that these young ladies and
their mother were spending a few months
at this charming village, it a house rented
for the purpose by their father, a man ot
business in West Riding ; and, as the
winter drew on, they began to think of
returning to their home in the busy town.
Will to all appearance, was no nearer
gaining the affections of Annie then be
fore he saw her, and, yet he felt it was a
step, and. indeed, .i stride, iv the right
directon to have lier acquaintance. It so
happened that ihe day the Handtards
went home Ferguson started on a busi
ness journey, and contrived to travel by
the same train as his lady friends. He
met the train (of course by accident)
at St. Olaves Junction, and there
enjoyed the immeasurable delight of
a two hour's ride in a railroad car along
with the girl he was anxious to win.
What matter if her father and mother
were in the same compartment? It was
enough to sit beside her and talk idle
nothings and commonplace bits of stale
news, wnd then it paved to something
bolder. When they parted he took her
glove, and, as the train moved on, bear
ing her to her home, he dared to throw a
kiss while her parents were not looking,
and as she nodded and smiled, lie knew
for the first time that at least he had
made a fair beginning.
T;ine wore on, and Ferguson, in the
course of journeys which he often made
in connection with his business,occasion
ally called, and once spent a whole Sun
day at the Handford 's house at Hamilton.
After a time the Handford girls went to
Beacondale on a visit to to the Vicar,and
then once more Ferguson was a regular
attendant at the church, and once the
girls* spent Saturday and Sunday at the
Thorpe farm, arid he drove them to church
in his gig. And all the time Will Fer
guson was being bound tighter and
tighter by love chains, which lie could
not throw from him. So he resolved to
follow matters up, and at the first favor
able opportunity to speak to Annie and
her father of his feelings, and ask for
a chance, at any rate, if only —
That it only. It was gnawing at one
side ot Ferguson's heart as his love for
Annie was gnawing the other. Something
lay heavily on his mind, and his iriends
noticed that he walked often with bowed
head and knitted brows. He stuck to
the office until late into each evening, in
stead of leaving, as was his wont, at 5
o'clock, to spend his evenings with gen
ial companions in various ways. Yet no
one but himself knew what the trouble
was. The fact was he w..s short in his
cash —he had rashly used some of his
employers' money in some mad specula
tion, which had failed, and to make this
loss good, he speculated again. This
also proved a failure, and he grew reck
less and took more and more. He never
kept account of how much money he had
used, and he was at last afraid to balance
the beoks to see. However, b.3 at last
sternly resolved to do something, even if
he must borrow money, and, in doing so,
tell the whole story.
He was the only one who need take the
books in hand, and his employers would
take his word entirely as to the balance,
without personal investigation ; and, after
the annual stock-taking, etc., he would
have a whole year to retund the money.
He had a good salary, and he would save,
and borrow from his friends, and quit
this mad ani toolish practice which he
had called borrowing, but which he saw
now was nothing less than theft.
Alas, this chance was not giving him.
Jast toward balancing time he was laid
on a sick-bed and kept there for many
weeks, during which time one of the
partners in a spirit of kindness, and to
save Ferguson additional work when he
recovered, set to work to balance the
books. Not a word was said to Fegus
son, but soon after he opened a drawer
and there saw a sheet of paper contain
ing names and figures, and at the head
he saw jotted in pencil, 'Accounts marked
off the ledger, but not in cash book.' It
was Saturday, a busy half-day at the
works, and Ferguson went through his du
ties mechanically. On his way to the
bank for the wages, he called in at his
lodgings, packed a couple of valises with
a tew necessaries, ard also called to say
good by to some of his particular friends,
saying he was going to Manchester for a
few days. Having thishedhis work at
the office, by 2 o'clock he was seated in
the railway train, with little cash and a
heavy heart, fleeing from Milton, his
friends and the law, and going he knew
The nex^t week's Miltou News contained
the following paragraph :
A warrant has been Inued for the apprehen
sion of William FergQMO, lately In the em-
Dloy of Mwn< Noble & Croaker. It is
stmed that ho is a defaulter to the ainouut cl
£700. Ferguson was last seen at Merthyr
Tydoil, in iWuks, and has beou traced 10
The news came like a thunderclap on
the little world of Milton, where Fergu
seu was well known and respected. It
was the talk of the town, but like all
nine-days' wonders it died 'a natural
death. Not so, however, iv a London
home, where a fond father and mother
were almost heartbroken at this news
ot the son of whom they had been
so proud; not so in more than one
hoiue at Milton; not so at Thorpe Farm,
and not so at the Handfords' home at
Hamilton. In all these places Will Fer
guson had been something more than an
ordinary acquaintance, and in these
places dwelt his true friends — friends
even in his disgrace. Annie Handford
then found out for the lirst time perhaps
how much she cared for Ferguson, and
the poor girl felt tho blow keenly. But
she liad some natural pride, aud though
she pitied the poor fellow in trouble .>be
felt she could never again have anything
to do with a man who had to flee to es
cape a felon's cell. And so Ferguson's
name gradually dropped out ot conversa
tion though not out of mind.
When Ferguson got into Wales, he
thought he might safely take t?me for
breathing and looking around. On that
Saturday afternoon he had, on his way
west, called in to take one more look at
and a gloomy tare well of Annie, and he
then resolved to work incessantly until
he had earned sufficient to refund what
he had taken and retrieve his position. But
in Wales he met with no success whatever.
He had no character, and no one would
engage him without. Then he went to
Portsmouth, and thought of enlisting
in the army, but he decided to leave that
as a last resource. He made his way to
London, and having a good voice and
knowledge of music he obtained an en
gagement as a singer in the chorus at
one of the opera houses. This prored a
poor game and offered no chance of in
creased salary, and consequently Fergu
son resolved to quit and cross the Atlan
tic. He got sufficient money from his
old grandmother and after a sorrowful
farewell to his parents he started off to
try his fortune in the New World. Dur
ing the first six months in America he
worked as a farm laborer's clerk, and sub
editor of a newspaper. Remuneratire
employment seemed hard to obtain, but
he toiled on patiently, hoping for better
He had ceased to think of his attach
ment for Annie Handford, except as a
secret memory to be treasured, but spok
en of never. Yet, when Christmas came
around, and with it a couple of letters —
one from home, and one from an old and
trusty friend as Milton — one of them con
tained just a Chris tins card, washing the
compliments of the season in the most or
dinary way. But the wrapper was ad
dressed iv a hand-writing well remem
bered. It was trorn Annie, and no*v Will
Feiguson, in his loneliness, knew that
the pure girl, whom he loved, but whom
iG had never told ot that love, did care
something for him in his disgrace, and,
if that was so, even though it might be
the expression of a mere leeling of pity
on her part, he would renew his efforts to
gain an honest name, and lie patiently
and honestly kept his resolve, with what
success, we shall see.
Five j-ears have passed away, and
changes have been wrought even in that
short time. Thorpe farm is occupied by
others than John Fielding and his sis
ter. They reside at Rillbrook farm now,
about three miles trom Hilton. It is
summer time, aud the house is full of
visitors, the number including three of
Mrs. Mitchell's daughters, and Annie
Handford. Annie Handford is now a
beautiful woman of 37, and the rest of
the party look all the years older than in
the old times at Thorpe farm. After sup
per, seated in the parlor, with the win
dows open to allow of the summer breeze
tilling the loom with odors of the flower
garden, they begin to speak of by-gone
times and old friends, and some one
mentions the almost-forgotten Will Fer
guson. Said one :
'I heard that he came back to Eng
land to set some scheme in connection
with the publishing business afloat, aud
that he proved most successful, and made
piles of money.'
'If that is so,' was the reply, 'why
doesn't he act honorably by Noble iSc
Croaker, and refund the money he used?
'By the way, 1 said George Mitchell,,
who was present, and now just caught
at what they were discussing; 'at Milton
market, on Saturday, I was shown a
paragraph in the 'agony column' ot the
Times. I copied it down,' and, taking
out his uocketbook, he read, 'Messrs. N.
& Co., of M, if you will let me know the
amount of W. F.s defalcations, six years
ago, I will remit same with interest. R.
Tape, solicitor, GSO Chancery lane, Lon
don.' That is "Will Ferguson, sure
enough.' Shortly after he added, 'Moth
er can you find another spare bed? A fel
low I was once acquainted with wants to
come down here to knock around our
worlds ; he won't trouble you much, I
dare say, and he's an old friend of mine.
His name is Wilson.'
Then Mrs. Maria Smith, Mrs. Mitchell's
married daughter, talked to Annie Hand
furd of Ferguson, and Annie said : "I
never knew whether I quite really loved
him ; I liked him very well, and more than
I ever cared for any other fellow, but at
any rate, if I ever did, this feeling is
entirely dead now, and if I felt sure that
I loved him, I would never marry a
The next day brought Grorge Mitchell
and his friend, Wilson. Mr. Wilson was
a tall, bronzed and bearded man, and,
though George said he was only 27, he
looked like u7, and all the inmates of
the house remarked that they fancied
they had seen him before. However,
they conclude^ it to be entirely fancy, as
none of them knew any Wilsons resident
"Weeks passed away, and it was soon
pretty evident that thi3 Wilson was
deeply enamored of Miss Handford, and
it was also plain to the most careless
observer, that his love was reciprocated.
One day he announced that he in
tended to depart on teh morrow, and
in the evening he asked Annie
to take a walk with him. On a stile
in a shady lane, with the red sunset shed
ding its glow upon them, once again was
the same old story told. But, before
Wilson obtained Annie's answer he told
her that he knew Ferguson ; that he had
known him all his life; known of his sin
and disgrace, and also knew how bravely
he toiled to redeem his name, and that
he was new a comparatively lich man. He
told her that he knew that Ferguson
loved her deeply, though he
had never known whether it was mutual
love— and he had asked her to say whetii
er it was so? 4 Oh, no,' she replied, 'it was
all fancy; I never loved until now; be
sides,' she added, I could never wed a
thief, you know.' These words were
like a sharp knife in Wilson's side, but
he went on :
'Don't you think, if you saw him, you
could love him as 1 know he loves you?'
'O, never, never! Don't speak about
him, please; all that is gone and past
years ago, and we need never mention bis
There was a short pause.
'Annie,' said Wilson; 'Miss Handtoid,
forgive me for deceiving you. 1 came
down here only known to George Mitch
ell* just to take a look at old scenes aud
old friends. I am Will Ferguson. 1
never meant to speak to you of love, but
from the moment I ueheld you again, I
was no longer master of myself. But I
shall go away to-morrow, and never again
shall you be troubled with the love of a
thief." When he finished speaking she
tell on the grass in a kind of dull amaze
ment, aud as she began to see how mat
ters really stood,she was at a loss what to
do, and speak she could not.
'Miss Haudford,try to control yourself,'
said Ferguson, *and think no more of
what has occurred ; let us return.'
They walked mechanically to the house,
in perfect siience, and saw no more of
each other that night; and when Annie
awoke in the morning Will was on his
way to London. Now that she had time
for reflection, she felt that she still loved
that man. She felt annoyed with him for
deceiving her; and yet, after further
thought she decided that it was a pardon
able deception — but, there was that dis
She consulted with her great friend,
Mrs. Maria, who advised her to wait a
bit, and let her father know all about
If Milton had felt disgraced by Will
Fergusen when he fled a defaulter, it
now did its best to try and give him a
firm footing once more. The lecal news
paper contained a long laudatory para
graph commending his honorable con
duct in refunding double the amount
which he had stolen, and old Mr. Noble
had shaken him heartily by the hand,
wishing him well and entirely forgiving
him. Will was now proprietor, too, ot a
good renumerative biisiness, and had
good credit in the commercial world. By
degrees, where his disgrace had been
known, it was becoming fast forgotten,
and in nineteen-twentietns of the country
it had never been heard of.
So old Mr. Handford wrote to his
daughter and bade her please herself ; he
'wasjsatisfied Ferguson had learned a les
son from the past, and meant for the fu
ture to do well. And thus it came to
pass that Will one day in October, re
ceived a letter from his friend Mrs. Maria
Smith telling him to 'come down and try
again.' He went, and, one Sunday after
noon, exactly seven years after they had
first met, these two, who had waited for
their fate so long, plighted their troth.
And one day, when the snowdrops were
peeping up through the hard, wintry soil,
the belts of Beacondale church rang out a
merry peal. For Will^Ferguson had de
termined to wed his Wife at the church
where he had first seen her; and so after
tte long years of disgrace and pain, and
labor, and at last success and honor, from
out the little church, followed by the
blessing of the old vicar and the cheers
of the villagers, stepped into the carriage
which was waiting to convey them to
Rillbrook, Mr. and Mrs. Will Ferguson.
HOW GREEK MET GREEK.
"So it is true, Jessie Hardbrook ! You
have been trifling with me from first to
last. May God forgive you — I cannot!"
said Ralph Ashton, bitterly, as he
dropped the white hand and gazed down
scornfully at its owner.
"Why, Ralph," lisped an affectionate
voice, "I never dreamed you meant any
thing really, it seems so odd!"
"Odd,' Jessie Hardbrook!" and his eyes
flashed angrily. "You never dreamed
that I loved you? You knew it well! Day
by day you have been leading me on.
Why, when you saw that I was begin
ning to love you trom my very soul, did
you not check me? ; Twas because you
wished to swell the list of your victims.
1 congratulate you upon your success.
Now farewell forever !" And before the
apparently astonished young lady could
frame a sentence, the door had slammed
behind Ralph Ashton.
He strode fiercely down the street to
his studio, and entering it, locked the
door behind him. A picture stood on
the easel, partly concealed by a cloth
which had been thrown over it. This he
snatched hastily off and ' revealed a full
life portrait of Jessie Hardbrook, just as
she looked the first time he had met her,
clad in a white silk trimmed with tube
roses, the same which nestled in her long
golden curls. A smile parted the saucy
red lips, and dimpled one daintily tinted
cheek. It was Jessie Hardbrook, surely,
but a thousand times more beautiful, for
he had endow«l it with a soul — not her's,
but one of his own creation — one that he
imagined that the woman he loved pos-*
He had spent much time on this pic •
ture, and had succeeded beyond his
wildest hopes. It had become the great
est pleasure of his life to sit before it,
and with every stroke of the brush paint
and fancy a wonderful dream of the
future when he should call her his very
All this may seem romantic and non
sensical for a strong man to indulge in:
but it was true. Ralph Ashton possessed
the sensitive nature that continually
leans toward the ideal andjsuns the prac
tical side of hie. Whatever pleased or
attracted him, he endowed with gifts of
a divine nature. He was honest . and
truthful in the highest degree— just the
one to fall a victim to the snares of the
hard, hard world.
Jessie Hardbrook was a flirt ot the
deepest dye, without a shadow of a heart.
Her one aim was to secure a rich hus
band — who would keep her in ease and
affluence all her butterfly life . She had
been pleased and flattered with Ralph
Ashton 's presence, and, when sne saw
him falling under the spell of her charms,
instead of releasing him there and then,
as an honorable woman would have done,
she strove the harder to please until she
gained her own — mainly, to say "no"
to the important question;
g£As Ralph Ashton gazed long and bit
terly at the beautiful picture, he felt the
one great hope of his life died within
him, and all became darkness and de
spair. At last, snatching it angrily from
the* easel, he ripped the canvas with his
knife and thrust the whole into the grate,
watching the flames consume it with a
look of fierce hatred.
The next day a friend, coming to call
was surprised to find this placard on the
door, "Gone to Europe.
A suppressed murmur ran through
Mrs. BB — — 's crowded rooms as Ralph
Ashton entered them. It was his first
appearance in society since his ictnrn '
from Europe, and Mrs. B had secured
him, though by dint of strategy, tor that
one evening, at least, as she announed
triumphantly to her guests.
He was quite a lion, for his paintings
had won him fame, and already riches
enough to secure comfort. When lite
had becouie barren and distasteful to him
he had sought consolation in his work,
and had grown to love it with the inten
sity which insures success.
Jessie Hardbrook was there. She had
tailed, although it was four years later,
to secure the rich husband. She had not
altered, but looked as fresh and beauti
ful as ever as she stood under the full
light ot a chandelier, ciad, singularly
enough, in white silk garlaned with
tube roses just as he had seen her for the
first time whe i he had fallen so madly in
A blush dyed her cheek as she observed
his figure approaching her. "I will wiu
him yet," she said, under her breath. For
the man whom all the world acknowl
edged seemed very different to her trom
the poor, unknown artist she had scorned*.
"Miss Hardbrook? What pleasure!"'
She felt her hand grasped cordially,
aud thought she noted a look of interest
in the speaker's brown eyes.
He remained by her side the most of
the evening, making himseli wonderful
ly agreeable by descriptions of his trav
els, and when he placed her in a carriage,
"May I come to-morrow?"
After that their old intimacy seemed
revived. The gossips began to dream ot
a grand wedding, and all the girls en
vied Jessie her good fortune. She was
very happy, too ; for the first time she
knew what it was to love; yes, she
loved Ralph Ash ton from her very soul,
and felt sure that he loved her in return.
Only one thing troubled her; he did not
"He is waiting to be sure of me,*' she
would say to herself. "He will not risk
another refusal. And she became doubly
One afternoon he remarked carelessly,
as he sat by her side, —
"I am going away to-morrow, Jessie;
shall you miss me !"
"What a question, Ralph P 1 she replied,
blushing, i 'You know I shall. You'll not
be gone long?"'
"Only a few weeks. I shall bring a
friend back with me whom I hope you
will love for my sake/
"Indeed I will," she answered. u ls he
"Hardly." And a curious smile played
about Ralph Ashton's mout!i as he rose
and bade her good bye.
Three weeks later Miss Hardbrook re
ceived a little three-cornered note, which
read as follows :
"Dear Jessie: Meet me at Mrs.
W 's reception to-night. I wish to
introduce you to my friend. R. A."
It wa3 with great care that she pre
pared for the reception.
"I must look my best; Ralph will wish
me to appear well before his friend," she
whispered, as she gazed admiringly at
the image reflected in the mirror.
The rooms were crowded with guests
and the little Swiss clock on the mantle
piece had chimed eleven, still Ralph
came not. Jessie was growing impatient
when a hush for an instant proclaimed
a new arrival, and she saw through the
crowd, making his way directly toward
her, Ralph Ashton with a beautiful wo
man dressed in pure white leaning on
' ; Ah! we were looking for you," he
said, as he approached. "Edith, dear,
this, is the friend I told you oi. Miss
Hardbrook, allow me to present my
Jessie Hardbrook grew white to the
very lips at that word. The room whirled
and she reeled and would have fallen
had he not caught her in his arms.
"The heat has overcome you," he said
aloud. But he knew better: for bending
close, he whispered in her ear, "Greek
Maud Muller on a winter's day,
Went out upon the ice to play.
Beneath her Derby gleamed her locks
Of red banged hair, and her crieison socks.
She straddled about from ten till two,
And then a hole in the ice fell through.
On the bottom of the pond she sat,
As wet and mad as a half-drowned rat.
A man with a hickory pole went there.
And fished her out by her auburn hair.
And then her mother thumped her well.
Though just how hard Miss Maud won't tell.
And hung her over a stovepipe to dry,
With a thumb in her mouth, a fist ia her eye-
Alas for the maiden! Alas for the bole!
And 'rah for the man with the hickory pole!
For the truest words of tongue or pen
Are, "A skating girl's like a heedless hen."
"You wonder, mother, at my cool re
sponses and evident disinclination to en
ter into conversation with the distinguish
ed-looking gentleman who sat opposite
at dinner to-day. Let me make you com
fortable in this easy chair and 1 will tell
you his history, as related to me by Emi
ly, yesterday, before she left us. To be
as brief as possible, he is the only child
of very wealthy parents ; bright, charm
ing, loveable, when in his right mmd,
but subject to fits of melancholy, and at
times, of insanity, when he must be
guarded aud kept confined. But usually
he is perfectly courteous, and, as you see,
the most interesting gentleman at the
springs. Emily is deeply interested in
him ; say 3 his mother is a lovely, grand
old lady, and that, for her sake, the
guests at the hotel pay no attention to his
freaks, but try to ignore the fact and
treat him like a sane person ; and she has
begged me during her short absence to
appear as unconscious of the dreadfnl
fact as possible, but not to be too gracious
as he might be troublesome."
"But how do you know this is Count
Polanski, as you call him?"
"Oh, Emily and I saw him at a dis
tance walking iv those beautiful grounds
just across from the park; and we hasten
ed to meet him when some attendant
came, and they walked ofl in a different
direction; but she said he was tall, with a
light mustache, and beautiful chestnut
hair, and features that looked a 5 though
they were chiselled; a refined, scholarly
looking person. Doesn't he answer the
"Yes, it must be he ; but, my daughter,
don't be indiscreet or foolhardy, and do
not let him break through your reserve ;
for I saw that he evidently admired you,
and was determined to make you talk.
Now let us listen to the grumblißgs
and ejaculations of the gentleman under
"Rex Milne actually snubbed ! What
a half curious, half shy, half frightened,
half sympathetic look those sweet brown
eyes would at times cast on this poor
mortal ! She looks like sunshine but acts
like an iceberg.
"Just as I thought the dreadful monot-.
ony of these springs waa to be broken by
a sparkling, intelligent beauty, the dain
ty sprite repels all my little civilities,
and I am left to amuse myself with my
little Russian girl, who is "of that tender
age when she can tell me as often as she
likes that she loves me."
"Here she comes."
"Well, Vera, what is the joyful news
your tell-tale face seems to have in store
"Oh, sir, have y<. v met the beautiful
kvdy? She told me such pretty stories,
aud when I was in my little bed last
night, came into my room ami said that
her mamma was tired and wanted to rest,
so she came in to me and sung me such
merry songs until I fell asleep.
"Then she can be affable, and take an
interest in something beside herself."
"Oh, wait till you know her. She asked
me if I knew Count Polanski who board
ed here, but I don't, do you?"
"No, but run and play, and by and by
I will take you f«r a boat ride."
"Thank you, I will run down now and
look at the pretty boat."
Alter sauntering hround he bethought
himself of his promise and upon appioach
ing the stream, what was his consterna
tion to find that his little pet had seated
herself in the boat, and was drifting
down the stream. She cried to him in
her fright and he pacified her and tried
to think what was best to do. Upon
throwing a stone in the water he found
that it made a current, and the boat, if
he could make a suilicient commotion
with the stones, would approach the
shore, so he told Vera to bow her head
and he commenced to rapidly throw
Just then Adelaide Warren appeared,
and the sight of this maniac throwing
stones at a" lovely child helplessly float
ing on the water in the boat maddened
her, and at any cost, she meant to draw
the mad-man away. She ran to him and
frantically seized his arms, pulled him
and entreated him to go with her to the
hotel. He was too amazed to resist and
so perplexed at the contrary moods of
this altogether incomprehensible maiden
that he called back to Vera to keep quiet
and that she should come on shore in a
In the meantime, Miss Warren kept
pulling and urging him on till she met a
servant, aud speaking to him in an aside,
she delivered over Mr. Milne to him, tell
ing the later that she would attend to
Mr. Milne could not shake off his guard
till he reached the hotel, when he told
him he must beat a hasty retreat, as he
could take care of himself; whereupon
the man grinned and seemed to look up
on the whole tiling as a good joke.
Little Vera wanted to know why she
had sent .the kind gentleman away, since
he was always good to her, and was
amazed to see how frightened Adelaide
seemed to be, and so overjoyed when she
had her in her arms and telling her never
to be so far away from her maid again.
She did not meet the count till the next
One feature of his malady was that he
cared for all animals, as he believed that
the soul of human beings took the form
of some animal and thus they should be
protected and tenderly treated.
She was seated in the garden listening
to the band playing when he approached.
He talked so well and inteiested his
hearers so much that they forgot, both
mother and daughter, that he must be
treated with reserve, and when other
boarders approached, who knew the
mother, he offered his arm to Miss War
ren for a walk through the lovely grounds.
She knew that at times he imagined
himself to be a dog, or a cat, or a bird,
and at one time he was an owl. So she
said to him how lovely it must have
been for you the night you were an
"Allow me to say, Miss Warren, that
I never was on owl.''
"Oh," she thought, "he has forgotten."
"But don't you think there are some
"Would you like, Count Polanski, to
be a weasel or a parrot?"
"I can't say, Miss Warren, that I should
like to be either, but why call me Count
Polanski? My name is — "
"Please let me call you Count," she
hurriedly said, fearing he would go off
into some long dissertation about being a
canary or chicken ; "and, with your per
mission, we will return to my mother."
Without a word of dissent, he escorted
her back, and left her "with the sad,
mournful thought that she was at the
springs to see if the healthy air and in
vigorating waters would not cure her of
her strange hallucination, as she was cer
tainly daft on the subject of her soul wan
dering around in the body of the animal
kingdom: on all other subjects she was
so clear and sensible.
"But what a strange freak to call me
Count Polanski ! lam glad Dinsmore
comes to-morrow, he will kelp me solve
The next day Milne and Dinsmore,
who had arrived on the early morning
train, while takiag the usual walkjin the
gardens before dinner, met, as Milne had
hoped they would, Miss Warren. "Now
I shall introduce you to my fair friend,
and I want you to tell me candidly, what
you think of her, for I confess, in spite of
her eccentricities, she charms me, and if
it is folly to nourish such sentiments, I
want to know it in time to fortify myself
After introducing his friend to her, he
excused himself, and left them to oecome
Dinsmore soon saw that there was
some strange mistake, but, if dispelled,
could he have the company of this charm
ing young lady all to himself, and as he
was to stay but a short while, why not
let them think each other demented, and
he enjoy a harmless flirtation? The moth
er, who found out that many of his friends
were hers, that he was rich and eminent
ly respectable, was rejoiced to have him
appear, for it was evident that her daugh
ter's thoughts ran too much on the un
fortunate, elegant count.
But Milne did not intend to deny him
self the charm of her society altogether,
so he proposed a boat-ride to the island
and a ramble about the old town. She
joyfully accepted the proposition, when
it flashed across her that she must not,
dare not trust herself with a lunatic, so
she made the hesitating lame excuse that
she believed she had better not, as she
might be seasick.
Thoroughly vexed, he left her, jumped
into the boat and rowed for the island.
While resting in a shady nook battling
with his own uneasy thoughts, he heard
voices, and spied Miss Warren and Dins
more merrily chatting over the beauties
of the island and toweT. Dinsinore, an
acquaintance of a day, civilly treated
while he was shunned, what did it mean.
But he had not a long time for thought,
for Dinsmore, in trying to show his sirill
in rowing, had run against a snag, and
the boat with all its valuable freight up
set. Somehow hw friend seemed to lose
his presence of mind, and was not show
ing much nerve, sc Milne threw off his
coat and dashed into the water. Adelaide
was sensible and cool, and with his as
sistance was soon in his boat, and put on
That night, after her hot bath and lin
ger tea, she was Bitting, wrapped, upon
her bed, when Vera came in with a bask
et of water lillies and water-cresses,
beautifully arranged, and with a card for
"The beautiful L'ndine, from Count Po
"How graceful of him to do so, and
what exquisite taste," said Adelaide
'•You will wear one in your hair, won't
"No," said the mother, "it is best not."
But Adelaide meant to do so or let him
know in some way that she appreciated
his gift, but the next daj-, his seat at
dinner was vacant, having received a tel
egram that he must attend to some busi
ness in another place. Dinsmore was
glad, for, as far as his selfish nature
would allow him to like anybody better
than himself he did like Adelaide Warren,
and he had about made up his mind to
oiler his heart and his estates. He so
amused her, was so considerate, and so
entertaining that she seemed lonesome
when he was not around, and the mother
felt that with his refined manners and
grand estates how could her daughter do
Milne was expected in a couple of days
but to-morrow Dinsmore was to have an
answer that would either bind his life
and Adelaide's together, or separate them
forever. Alas, for the plans ot mice and
men, he was obliged to leave that night
on the first train, as his father was dan
Adelaide felt secretly glad of her de
lay; she did not understand herself, and
felt that she wanted to think, and it
seemed that she was not to be allowed to
pine for something to interest herself in,
as the Count's mother had arrived, and
the stately, sad-faced mother took a great
fancy to Adelaide, and unburdened her
heart as she seldom did to strangers.
Adelaide had missed the Count, but
dreaded to make inquiries and conclud
ed it was one of his ill-times, and so had
shunned the subject. The mother said
that she had been sent for, as he seemed
to be muca more unmanageable than in
former times, and she dreaded the re
While talking a servant entered an
nouncing the fact that he had escaped,
and the search thus far had been in
Adelaide had tried to pacity her and
told her that she knew her son well and
would help in the search. In the mean
time Rex Milne had left the coach, to
walk through the forest to the hotel, and
before reaching tue grounds, heard stifled
cries and mumbling talk when, at a turn
in the path, he came upon a scene that
startled him, and with one leap, grasped
a wild, haggard-looking man, and after a
struggle that was desperate , freed Vera
from his grasp. He had been shaking
her, tossing her up. pulling her hair, and
calling her his naughty little dog; that he
would not punish her if she would only
bark. The poor frightened, torn, soiled
little girl was an object pitiable to see,
and Rex, in his tussle, looked in need of
repairs, when whom should he meet but
She screamed and called to the attend
ants, who, by the way, had never seen
the Count, but had come with the moth
er to take the place of the old ones, to
seize him, and, if necessary, to chain
him, but at ail hazards not " to let him
Poor Rex, carried away a prisoner,
locked in a room, resolved to make some
one suffer for the indignities heaped up
The mother had been told that her
son had been found, and Adelaide per
suaded her to take a little rest before
visiting him, as she was exhausted with
anxiety. She complied with the request,
and it was late when shown to her son's
room. Imagine her amazement upon
"Sir, 1 was told mv son was confined
"Madam, there is some mistake; my
name is Rex Milne."
"Oh, sir! What reparation caa I make
to you for this insult? and my poor son
is still wanderinar about, free to do any
"Let me help you,*' said Rex, "then I
hope this snarl we seem to have become
entangled in may be unraveled."
When they reached the stream they
saw the same individual Rex had en
countered before, tormenting poor Ade
laide, trying to make her go through the
antics of a dog, and threatening all kinds
of torture if she did not do better.
"My son," cried the mother, "don't
you know your mother?"
He turned, trembled, and as she took
his face in her hands, and caressed him.
and looked lovingly in his eyes, he burst
"He is all right now," she said. "We
shall have no further trouble with him
at present, and I trust that you and Miss
Warren will be able to explain how she
came to take you for my poor unfortu
There was much to explain and many
circumstances to talk over, but it was all
cleared, and when Dinsmore returnei,the
part he had played was more difficult to
explain, and his trickery and disloyalty
to his friend put him in no enviable light,
and though he made one brave fight to
regain his old footing, he met with no
encouragement, and was obliged to take
his departure, humiliated and ashamed.
Not long after, Rex, one just such sunny
day as before said :
"You refused to take a boat ride with
me once before; will you to-day, Ade
"No, indeed do let us go over to the
Upon returning they met Vera :
*'Oh, Miss Warren, your face is so joy
ous. De you like Mr. Milne as well as I
"Yes, Vera, as well and better than
you ever did or ever can," she said, with
eyes full of content and love, for she and
Rex had been telling the old, old story.
"Did you make the train?" asked the
"No,"' said "smarty,'' "it was made in
the car shops."
"I mean did you catch the train,"
with a slightly embarassed manner.
"Of course not; it's not infectious,"
was the cute reply.
"Well, you darned fool, did you ar
rive at the depot in time? 1 '
"No, you infernal idiot, I arrived in a
"Great hearens '" shouted the question
er, "did you board the cars?*'
"Jumpin' Jerusalem!" howled tho
smart man once more, "you know I don't
keep a boarding-house."
Ths no-bility— The members who op
pose the introduction of any more bills.