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fef A» ty HE COUTH He cometh in sweet sense to thee, Be it dawn, or noon, or night— No deepost pain, or halest glee, But He discerneth it aright. .' a t? HIS GUARDIAN. "Fair as a lily, graceful as a gazelle! Who is she? I would give a thousand dollars if I might paint that face!" The words were spoken hurriedly, and somewhat too loudly for the time and place. Many bystanders heard them, and looked at the speaker, the lady, then at each other, and smiled. But the lady herself:—a young,slight, girl., withlarge blue eyes, pale, golden hair, and a face like the picture of a saint, so fair and pure it seemed—held on her way, leaning on her escort's arm, without a change of expression or even a startled sidelong glance, to Bhow the artist's impetuous wish had reached her ear. Calmly she sat in her box at the con cert that evening with her blue eyes fixed upon the stage. Many an opera glass was turned upon her from below, and in a secluded corner of the stalls sat Gervase Livingstone, the artist, gazing at her with his heart and soul in his large, dark, passionate eyes. "Who can she be?" he whispered to an intimate friend. "I don't know. The face is a new one," was the low reply. "A new one! It looks as if it was just created—as if those eyes had nev er looked upon a sinful world!" raved the artist. "Years ago, when I was a schoolboy in the country, I knew a child with a face almost as pure and sweet. She died as earthly angels al ways do. Yet, bad she lived, she would have been like that girl. Poor little May!" Leaning his head upon his hand, the artist lost himself in a dream of his boyhood's love. When he looked up again the concert was drawing to a close, and the box was empty—the divinity had gone. Hurrying from the house, he inquired right and left among the attendants at the door and finally, by a gift of money, so refreshed the memory of one that he said he had seen the young l&dy drive off in a private carriage be fore the concert was over, with "a gentleman as might be her father, sir, and they went to the Everett House. To the Everett House followed the enamoured artist, only to be disap pointed. The .servant whom he teed liberally assurfed' him that no such young lady was stopping there. Some wild impulse for which he could scarcely account led the artist to look over the hotel register. He looked for the name of "Mary Cameron"—it was the name of his earliest love and it was not there. Meanwhile the object of his search was speeding from the city as fast as the midnight train could carry her toward Boston. Although the hour was so late, she was wakeful, and clasped her hands over her eyes as she rested her head on the pillow, in a vain attempt to shut out from her mind and memory the picture of a haunting face. "He did not) recognize me," she thought, with a sigh. "And yet I knew him in spite of the change—ir. spite of the added height, the alterea vice, the dark moustache—I knew him At the moment when his eyes met mine as we entered at the door." And then she blushed at the memory of the words he had uttered. "Pauline," said she, softly. The second occupant of the "sec tion" stirred in her couch and an swered, drowsily: "What is it, May?" "Are you Asleep?" "What a question? No, not now," replied Pauline, stifling a groan. "What troubles you now, my May of Mays. You generally drop asleep the instant your pretty head touches the pillow." "But not to-night, Pauline. I have been thinking about all you told me about—" "About Gervase Livingstone?" ask ed Pauline, finishing the sentence. "Hush! Speak lower,Pauline. There are so many people near. Yes, I am troubled—deeply troubled by what you say of him. Is it true May?" "Who told you, Pauline?" "My brother, in the first instance. He knows him well—is often at his rooms—and regrets his intemperance more than any of the rest of his friends, I think."' "Does yo4» brother think—does he consider him entirely past reform?" asked May, in a trembling voice. Hearing it, and the suppressed sob that followed the question, Pauline Danforth wlio waa akind-hearted little city belie, tame out of her nest and «at down beside her friend. "Dear May, my brother James has often said that if Livingstone had a reason—a motive—for reforming, his reform would be a settled thing." "What motive?" "I explainrmyself bunglingly, I tear. Jamas meant, my dear May, that if Livingstone could be induced to fall In love, the lady might work his ref ormation iMffily, if she chose to do 00." W, "He loves no one, then, at present?" "No one, May. James says that he bilie^eM him to be faithful to the mem ory of a child who died years ago. It Is an odd thing jfcp say of a man like bim, hot James declares that Living •tonereally loved that child, and that he loveeher nQW." "If that is trtie,"eaid Maty War bur ton, drying he* eytjs, "toe may yet be taved." rv "What do yoamean, dear?" "I mean that I am the child, -Pau line,• ****&>• "Bat the child died," replied Pauline^ with an astonished look, -v "Ho. My cousin, Mary 'Cameron 7*&d he must have seen the notice thirdeath or beard of it, and sup -itto be mine. Just before her ijnygood Uncle Warburtoncame if f. fc4*v it there bej tears bedim thine eyee.jr His sympathy thotfrfindest plaid— The darkflkt midnight of the skies He weepeth with the tears of rate. It thou art joyous, He has had His gracious will, and lo, 'tis well As thou art glad, so he is glad, Nor mercy strained one syllable. Wild TOWS are words, as prayers are words God's mercy is not measured bj Our poor deservings He affords To listen—i! we laugh or cry. James Whitcomb Riley in Indianapolis JourntU. •TS$ a poor aind friendless orphan, adopted me as his own child, ana gave me his name." "And was it in that little country town that you knew Gervase Living stone as a boy?" inquired Pauline. "Yes. He bad been sent to the house of some old family servant for his health, and remained there for two years, while his parents were in Eu rope. Oh! Pauline, to was the no blest, kindest, most generous-hearted boy! If you will only help me now to save him?" "I," exclaimed Pauline. "You," replied May, caressing and kissing her. "Oh, don't refuse me, dear. Papa is so stern and unforgiving about such things. He would think Gervase—I mean Mr. Liv ingstone not worth saving, because of this one fault. It is in vain to hope for help from him. But, if you will only assist me, dear good, Pauline, I have such a plan!" "Indeed," said Pauline, laughin "So I am to be bribed by a kiss. Well, let me hear your plan for the benefit of Gervase—I mean Mr. Livingstone— and we will see what can be done." "I shall need your brother's aid too, but that you must secure. And oh! both of you must promise to keep my secret from every one," said May Then leaning her cheek against Pauline's she whispered in the silence of the midnight her innocent plot for the redemption of a human soul. Pauline Danforth's stay in Boston was but a short one, and on her re turn to New York, it was noticed by her escort that she carried in her own hand and for the whole distance, a small ebony box mounted in silver, and fastened with a silver lock and key. "A jewel box," as he supposed. On the evening of their arrival at the home in Fifth Avenue, after the family greetings were over, Pauline sought a private interview with her brother James, and after a long ex planation, left the box in his care. "May is a trump, Pauline, and you are another!" was the young man's somewhat undignified exclamation as he brushed his handkerchief across his eyes. And Livingstone is well worth saving, and this little box shall be in his possession to-morrow evening before he sleeps." "Secretly, James, remember," said Pauline. "He must not know from whom thegiftcomes, till he has shown himself worthy of it." "Trust me for that," replied her brother. "If there were more women on earth like you and May, women ready to use their influence over men in this fashion, we should be a great deal better than we are, my dear." So James carried off his prize to his own room. The next evening, a party of gay friends met, as they were often in the habit of meeting at the artist's rooms. Wine flowed freely, and the pictures on the wall could scarcely be seen, for the cloud of smoke that rose from their cigars. When the revel was at its height James Danforth rose from his chair and held out his hand to his host: "Good-by, Livingstone." "What! are you going! So soon?" said the artist, surprised. "Yes, going for good and all, my boy." "What do you mean?" "I mean," said Danforth seriously, "that there is a time for all things, and the time for reflection has now come to me. We are all on the down ward track, boys—you know it as well as I. An angel has warned me, and I am going to stop now while I can. Follow my example if you have any regard for yourselves, or for the mothers, sisters, and wives at home that love you. Good-by, boys, Good-by, Gervase. I shall join you here no more." He left the room. They all sat gaz ing at each other in silence. His words had struck home into every heart, as he had intended them to do. One after another of the now quiet party stole away with some excuse. In half an hour after James Danforth had closed the door behind him, the artist sat alone by his fireside, lean ing his head upon his hand, and gaz ing sadly into the burning coals. "The wives—the mothers—the sis ters at home—who loveyou," he mut tered to himself. "They did well to obey the call. I would have obeyed it in my turn, but who lives now to care for me? My mother and May are both in their graves sister, I have none—wife I shall never have. Ah, what does it matter? A short life and a merry one for me, and no one shall ever shed a tear over its ending. I'll have another glass of wine. What's this? In reaching to the mantel shelf for the glass he had left there, his hand struck against the little ebony chest, which stood in the place of honor, directly under a little water-color sketch made from the long lost child, "May." The silver key was in the silver lock. The artist turned it, wondering how the beautiful toy came there without his knowledge. His surprise increased when the lid flew back, displaying a beautiful drinking cup of gold, elab orately chased, and enriched with ru bies beneath the curving brim. "What a beautiful thing!" exclaim ed the artist, lifting the cup from its bed of rose-colored velvet. 'Who can have sent such a gift? Did those fel lows bring it secretly with them to night, I wonder? Anyway, it is a per fect gem, and I'll fill it to the brim with champagne, and see if I can drive away these melancholy thoughts." Approaching the table, he lifted the flask. Something flashed at that mo ment at the bottom of the cup. Turn ing it toward the light he saw a pict ure framed in gems, and bending near er, the large blue eyes of the lovely stranger at the concert looked up at him from the depths of the goblet with an earnest appealing gaze. He nearly dropped the cup in his surprise. Snatching the ebony case from the chimney-piece, he searched it for some clew ol the mysterious gift. Half-hidden in the velvet lining, he found a morsel of paper, and drawing it forth, and holding it up to the light, he read: "Not dead, but hoping and praying for you ever. MAY." "May! May alive, and remember ing me!" And then, as the full signifi cance of the gift flashed across his mind, the crimson flushed to his tem- Eis les, and sinking on his knees, he laid head down beside the magic goblet, and burst into a passion of tears. Those who called at the rooms of the artist during the next week found them closely shut. At last it was rumored that had suddenly sailed for, England, and a few days more proved the rumor to be true. passed by, and at the annual exhibition of Academy painters, a ore made its Every paper noticed it, every person spoke of it, and so numerous and so approving were the comments, that pretty Pauline Danforth, who, in gen eral, cared nothing at all about pict ures of any kind, asked her brother James to take her to see the wonder on a certain day. James, like a kind brother, consented, but with an odd twinkle in his eye which Pauline could not quite understand. When that evening train from Boston brought Mr. Warburton and his adopt ed daughter, May, for a visit of soma weeks, James' eyes seemed to twinkle more brightly than ever, and on his own accord he invited Miss May to join their party on the following day. May accepted the invitation with a suppressed sigh. Hearingwhich,James smiled so broadly that Pauline hunt ed him speedily into a corner, and de manded a share of his secret, whatev er it might be. But James proved obdurate She would know all, he said, at the gallery, where the name of the successful ar tist was to be proclaimed on the fol lowing day. Pauline reflected a moment. "Oh!" she exclaimed and her eyes began to dance in their turn. But not one word said the little traitoress to her friend May. Only she took care that their visit to the gal lery should be paid at a very early hour before the fashionable world had scarcely risen from their beds. Early as it was, however, one gen tleman stood before the famous pict ure, gazing intently at the beautiful, golden-haired, guardian angel, who, with white, waving wings, bent for ward over the shoulders of a dark browed man, walking heedlessly on a flower-strewn descent, toward a fear ful gulf, and drew from his unwilling hands a golden cup overflowing with wine. Pauline gave one swift glance at the angel in the picture and at the solita ry gazer. Then she touched her broth er's arm, and while May went unsus pectingly forward, the two vanished into an inner room, where a portrait gallery had been recently improvised. Hearing the light step behind him the artist turned away, with a crim soning brow, from the contemplation of his own picture. But, with his first glance at the face of the newcomer, he paused. May, unheeding him in her haste to see the picture, lifted her eyes to the canvas. She stood rooted to the spot in her amazement, her heart throb bing, her color rising, and at last, her blue eyes filling with tears. "Oli, Pauline!" she exclaimed, in an agitated tone. "It must be his picture! No one else could have paint ed it! He is saved!" "Yes, thanks to you, sweet angel, under God, he is saved!"repiled adeep voice. She turned, and met the dark eyes of the artist gazing at her in worship. "May—my little May—will you take the life you rescued?" he asked. With a noble courage she laid her hand in his. And now no home is happier than that of the famous paint er, where his sweet "Guardian Angel" smiles upon his walls, and dwells en shrined within his loving heart. The Human Family. The human family living on the earth consists of about 1,450,000, 000 individuals not less, probably more. These are distributed over the earth's surface, so that now there is no considerable part where man is not found. In Asia, where he was first planted, there are now approximately about 800,000,000, densely crowded on an average 120 to the square mile. In Europe there are 320,000,000, av eraging 100 to the square mile, not so crowded, but everywhere dense, and at points over-populated. In Africa there are 210,000,000. In America, North and South, there are 110,000, 000, relatively thinly scattered and recent. In the islands, large and small, obably 10,000,000. The extremes of the white and black are as five to three the remaining 700,000,000 in termediate brown and tawny. Of the race, 500,000,000 are well clothed— that is, wear garments of some kind to cover their nakedness 700,000,000 are semi-clothed, covering interior parts of the body 250,000,000 are practically naked*. Of the race, 500, 000,000 live in houses partly fur nished with the appointments of civil ization 700,000,000 in huts or caves with no furnishing 260,000,000 have nothing that can be called a home, are barbarous and savage. The range is from the topmost round—the Anglo Saxon civilization, which is the highest known—down to naked savagery. The portion of the race lying below the line of human condition is at the very least three-fifths of the whole, or 900,000,000. A Lost Industry. Boston Transcript. "But why don't you go to work?" asked the lady of the house. "Ah, madam!" exclaimed the tramp, how gladly would I do so, but unfortunat ly there is nothing to do in my line now." "Poor man!" said the lady pittingly, pouring out another bowl of coffee and piling up his plate afresh "and what was your business?" "Madam," replied the fellow, after having disposed of the victuals, "I am a professor of roller skating, but there is nothing doing now, nothing at all." "But you did make money while the business was good?" "Ah! that's just it, madam my usual luck I didn't enter the profession until all the rinks had closed. Some men are always a day too late. Good morning, madam if you'll be good enough to hold the dog for a few minutes I'll tear myself away and go to some shady spot where I can forget my sorrow in slum* ber." Don't be a Chump. From the Toledo Blade. Don't be a chump. Don't want the earth. Don't think it was built for you alone and other people put on it to contribute to your comfort. Don't .coddle yourself into the belief that your only lookout in this world is for No. 1. Strange as it may seem to you, there are milliops of men beside your self, and they have as much right«to live as you. Just sit and talk to your self awhile and see if you don't come pretty near being a chump. Don't imagine that a few extra dollar, makes you any man's superior. Don't try to make every one believe that beet man living. Be a you are the man. ifsrn* ," Don't be a Tint IU8TEB OF THE HOUSE. He^cannot walk, he cannot speak, Nothing he knows of books and men, He is the weakest of the weak, And has not strength to hold a pen He has no pocket, and no purse, Nor ever yet has owned a penny, But has more riches than his nurse Because he wants not any. He rules his parents by his cry, And holds tliem captive by a smile, I A despot, strong through infancy, A king, from lack of guile, He lies upon his back and crows, Or looks with grave eyes on his mother— What can he mean? But I suppose They understand each other. In doors or out, early or late, There is no limit to his sway, For wrapt in baby robes of state, He governs night and day. Kisses he takes as rightful due, And Turk-like, has his slaves to dress him, His subjects bend before him, too, I'm one of them. God bless himl —John Dennis. A JUDICIAL CRIME. BY WILKIE COLLINS. Just prior to the American revolu tion, a Bristol trader arrived in the harbor of Boston, having one passen ger on board. This person was a young English woman named Esther Calvert, daughter of a shop-keeper at Cheltenham and niece of the captain of the ship. Some years before her departure from England Esther had suffered an affliction—associated with a deplor able public event—which had shaken her attachment to her native land. Free, at a later period, to choose for herself, she resolved on leaving En gland as soon as employment could be found for her in another country. After a weary interval oi expectation, the sea-captain had obtained a situa tion for his niece as housekeeper in the family of Mrs. Anderkin, a widow lady living in Boston. Esther had been well practiced in domestic duties during the long illness of her mother. Intelligent, modest, and sweet-tempered, she soon became a favorite with Mrs. Anderkin and the members of her young family. The children found but one fault with the new housekeeper—she dressed invari ably in dismal black, and it was im possible to prevail upon her to give the cause. It was known that she was an orphan, and she had acknowledged that no relations of hers had recently died, and yet she persisted in wearing mourning. Some great grief had evi dently overshadowed the life of the gentle English housekeeper.. In her intervals of leisure, she soon became the chosen friend of Mrs. An derkin's children always ready to teach them new games, clever at dress ing the girls' dolls and at mending the boys' toys. Esther was in one re spect only not in sympathy with her young friends—she never laughed. One day, they boldly put the question to her: "When we are all laughing, why don't you laugh too?" Esther only replied in these words: "I shall think it kind of you if you won't ask me that question again." The young people deserved her confi dence in them they never mentioned the subject from that time forth. But there was another member of the family, whose desire to know something of the housekeeper's his tory was, from motives of delicacy, concealed from Esther herself. This was the governess—Mrs. Anderkin's well-loved friend, as well as the teacher of her children. On the day before he sailed on his homeward voyage, the sea-captain called to take leave of his niece—and then asked if he could also pay his respects to Mrs. Anderkin. He was informed that the lady of the house had gone out, but that the governess would be happy to receive him. At the interview which followed, they talked of Esther, and agreed so well in their good opinion ot her, that the captain paid along visit. Thegovern ess had persuaded him to tell the story of his niece's wasted life. But he insisted on one condition. "If we had been in England," he said, "I should have kept the matter secret, for the sake of the family. Here, in America, Esther is a stranger —here she will stay—and no slur will be cast on the family name at home. But mind one thing: 1 trust to your honor to take no one into your confi dence—excepting only the mistress of the house." This was Esther's sad story: In the year 1762, a young man named John Jennings, employed as waiter at a Yorkshire inn, astonished his master by announcing that he was engaged to be married, and that he purposed retiring from service on next quarter day. Further inquiry showed that the young woman's name was Esther Cal vert, and that Jennings was greatly her inferior in social rank. Her father's consent to the marriage depended on her lover's success in rising in the world. Friends with money were in clined to trust Jennings, and to help him to start a business of his own, if Miss Calvert's father would do some thing for the young people on his side. He made no objection, and the mar riage engagement was sanctioned ac cordingly. One evening, when the last days of Jennings' service were drawing to an end,a gentlsman on horseback stopped at the inn. In a state of great agita tion, he informed the landlady that he was on his way to Hull,but that he had been so irightened as to make it impossible for him to contihue his journey. A highwayman had robbed him of a_purae containing twenty guineas. The thief's face (as usual in those days) was concealed by a mask, and there was but one chance of bringing him to justice. It was the traveler's custom to place a Ee rivate mark on every gold piece that carried with lyim on a journey, and possibly be the stolen guinei traoed in that way The landlord (one JHI tended on his guest a wife had only that mo of the robbery and he stance to mention which to the discovery of the iPi 1 I f," «•,! Mr •lill •p* Brunnell) at supper. His told him a circum igh't lead 7 In the to a first place, however, he wish at what time the crime had 1 mitted. The traveler answerl he had been robbed late in tl ing, just as it was beginning dark. On hearing this Mr looked very much distressed. S The landlord hesitated. "It seems hard on Jennings," he said, "if we prove to have been suspicious of him without a cause. Can you speak posi tively, sir, to the mark which you put on your money?" The traveler declared that he could swear to his mark. Mr. Brunnell yielded. The two went up together to the waiter's room. Jennings was fast asleep. At the very outset of the search, they found the stolen bag of money in his pocket. The guineas—nineteen in number—had a mark on each one of them, and that mark the traveler identified. After this discovery there was but one course to take. The waiter's protesta tions of innocence, when they woke bim and accused him of the robbery, were flatly contradicted by facts. He was charged before a magistrate with the theft of the money, and, a3 a mat ter of course, was committed for trial. The circumstances were so strongly against him that his own friends rec ommended Jennings to plead guilty, and appeal to the mercy of the court. He refused to follow their advice, and he was bravely encouraged to persist in that decision by the poor girl, who believed in his innocence with her whole heart. At that dreadful crisis she secured the best legal assistance, and took from her little dowry the money that paid the expenses. The judge summed up, finding liter ally nothing that he could say, as an honest man, in favor of the prisoner. The jury returned a verdict ot guilty, after a consultation which was a mere matter of torin. Clearer circumstan tial evidence of guilt had never been produced, in the opinion of every person—but one—wno was pres ent at the trial. The sentence on Jennings for highway robbery was, by the law ot those days, death on the scaffold. Friends were found to help Esther in the last effort that the faithful crea ture could now make—the attempt to obtain a commutation of the sen tence. She was admitted to an inter view with the home secretary, and her petition was presented to the king. Here, again, the indisputable evidence forbade the exercise of mercy. Es ther's betrothed husband was hanged at Hull. His last words declared his innocence—with the rope round his neck. Before a year had passed, the one poor consolation that she could hope or, in this world, found Esther in her misery. The proof that Jennings had. died a martyr to the fallibility of hui man justice, was made public by the confession of the guilty man. Another criminal trial took place at* the assizes. The landlord of an inn was found guilty of having stolen the property of a person staying in his nouse. It was stated in evidence that this was not his first offense. He had been habitually a robber on the high way, and his name was Brunnell. The wretch confessed that he was the masked highwayman who had stolen the bag of guineas. Riding, by} a nearer way than was known to thej traveler, he had reached the inn first' There he found a person in trade wait ing by appointment for thesettlemen' ot a bill. Not having enough mone^ of his own about him to pay thfj whole amount, Brunnell had madeusi of one of the stolen guineas, and hac only heard the traveler declare tha his money was marked after thi tradesman had left the house. ask for the return of the fatal guine was more than he dared to at tempt. But one other altera tive presented itself. The mercilesi villain insured his own safety by tlia secrifice of an innocent man. After the time when the sea-captain! had paid his visit at Mrs. Anderkin's house, Esther's position became sub ject to certain .changes. One little domestic privilege followed another so gradually and so modestly that the housekeeper found herself a loved and honored member of the family, with out being able to trace by what sue-? cession of events she had risen to thq new place that she occupied. The secret confided to the two ladies had been strickly preserved Esther never even suspected that they kney the de plorable story of her lover's death. Her life, after what she had suffered, was not prolonged to a great age. She died—peacefully unconscious of the terrors of deatn. Her last words were spoken with a smile. She looked at the loving friends assembled round her bed, and said to them: "My dear one is waiting for me. Good-bye." The house of Frank Moore, a miser ly man who lives a few miles from Pemsborough, W. Va., was robbed re cently while Mr. Moore was tempo rarily absent, of $5,500 in gold and $2,000 in bills. Moore is one of those who have no faith in banks. liaffi *1 "I have got a waiter1 named Jen nings," he said, "a man superior to his station in life—good manners and fair education—in fact, a general favorite. But, for some time past, I have ob served that he has been rather free with his money in betting, and that habits of drinking have grown on him. I am afraid he is not worthy of the good opinion entertained of him by myself and other persons. This even ing I sent him out to get some small silver for me, giving him a guinea to change. He came back intoxicated, telling me that Change was not to be had. I ordered him to bed, and then happened to look at the guinea which he nad brought back. Unfortunately, I had not at that time heard of the robbery and I paid the guinea away with some other money, in settlement of a tradesman's account. But this I am sure of, there was a mark on the guinea which Jennings gave back to me. It is, of course, possible that there might have been a mark (which escaped my notice) on the guinea which I took out of my purse when I sent for change." "Or, the traveler suggested, "it may have been one of my stolen guineas, given back by mistake, by this drunk en waiter of yours, instead of the guinea handed to him by yourself. Do you think he is asleep?" "Sure to be asleep, sir—in his condi tion." "Do you object, Mr. Brunnell, after what you have told me, to setting this matter at rest by searching the man's clothes?" a'' v&tfffce «BU?^ 1 At the next assizes the case was tried. The proceeding before the judge was a repetition (at great length and with more solemnity) of the proceed ings before the magistrate. No skill in cross-examination could shake the direct statements of the witnesses. The evidence was made absolutely complete, by the appearance of the tradesman to whom Mr. Brunnell had aid the marked guinea. The coin so marked) was a curiosity the man had kept it, and he- now produced it in court. Almost Slain by Buffaloes. in the summer of 1879, while sta tioned at one of the frontier forts in the Yellowstone Valley, Spotted Eagle's band of hostiles, as fragment of Sit ting Bull's great camp, were brought in as prisoners of war. Orders were received to send them to Standing Rock Agency, and it fell to my lot, writes a Lieutenant in the regular army to the Philadelphia Times, to escort them across the country. My detachment numbered thirty men, mounted on Cayuse ponies and well armed and equipped. The next morning, with our prisoners under guard, we struck out boldly across the country in the direction of Standing Rock. It took us sixteen days to make the journey, which was full of interesting incidents and adventures, for the country was a wild, and, so to speak, unexplored region as yet, with hostile Sioux and Cheyennes scattered all through it. The plains of Montana were pretty full of buffalo at the time I write, and it is of an adventure with them lam going to spec*k. About the third day out we were in the midst of thousands of bi son, and as it was no fun to kill them with a rifle or to still hunt, by reason of numbers, I proposed to liave the rare sport of hunting a few with the revolver and from horseback. Next morning I was up before break of day, and telling my orderly to accompany me we started ahead of the command to hunt our game, each with a brace of Chit's "forty-five" revolvers and two hundred rounds of ammunition apiece strapped across our persons. We came in sight of one herd as day was breaking, and immediately gave chase. The bison fled before us, we tearing after them like mad but in a few minutes the herd scattered, and so we selected a certain bunch, which we followed up. I had gotten pretty close upon my quarry, when whisk! out of sight they went, and in a mo ment I had followed them. They had gone over a bank into a creek so sud denly that, not observing it, I follow ed close upon their heels and there we were, buffaloes pony and myself, un injured, but floundering and swim ing about in deep water. By the time I got to the opposite bank and secured my pony the buffaloes were gone out of sight, scampering across the prairie to join the main herd, and my orderly stood on the bluff behind where we had just tumbled from, laughing at my predicament. He had luckily checked himself and steed just in time to save both from following us. In half an hour matters were straightened out and we rode to the top of a neighboring knoll to get a view of the surroundings. Our origi nal herd were dim in the distance, a cloud of dust on the horizon telling where they were still going at full speed. While regretfully watching them, my orderly suddenly exclaimed: "Look, Lieutenant, here comes an other herd across the country, and making straight for us." Casting my eyes in the direction in dicated, sure enough another tremen dous herd was pointing in the direc tion of our knoll and coming directly at us like a thunder cloud. No use to fly, for there was no place to fly to. One solid, black mass was sweeping toward us like a whirlwind, and it became necessary for us to do some thing, and do it quickly, too, or have the life trampled out of us in a few minutes. "Dismount!" I cried slingthe bridle over your arm, and, when I give the word, fire as rapidly as you can." We both dismounted and drawing our four revolvers opened fire on the solid phalanx at long range. The great drove of animals were plunging wildly forward with their heads down, almost sweeping the ground, and con sequently did not see us. Our hope was to attract their attention, and by so doing to frighten them and en deavor to throw them out of their course. Had they seen us in the first place they would probably have halt ed or turned their course to one side. As it happened, they kept madly on until our bullets began to sting them, when the leaders looked up and seeing the strange sight in frontof them, act ually paused, or attempted to do so, but it was at their peril, for the fore most were immediately trampled be neath the feet of the rushing, crush ing multitude behind. The pile of bodies was our salvation, tor it served as an impediment to those in the rear, and together with our rapid fire sort of stampeded the whole out fit. The pile became higher and high eras buffalo after buffalo came rolling on to the heap, and this blockade actually caused the tremendous mass to split and divide, a moiety .going to each side of it. The center had been checked, but the wings were sweeping by at railroad speed. We hurried down to the pile of carcasses as being our safest point, and stood there watching the sea of animals raging and tearing by like the billows of an angry sea. A hundred yards further on tne wings came together again, and there we were, in the midst of that living mass, safe and free from harm. It was a strange, remarkable, sight —one which I never expect to see on earth again. My headT turned dizzy with so much motion all about me, but both myself and the orderly had sense enough to blaze away incessant ly directly in front of us, which had the effect to throw the successive lead ers in still more confusion, and no doubt was the means of saving us from being trampled to death. After thut tremendous herd of bison had Eour, assed going at about twelve miles an which consumed some forty minutes of time, we found ourselves among the soattered tail end of the herd. Here was our chance. Quickly singling out an aminal, I was soon dashing alongside of him and pump ing cola lead into his bosom from my revolver. My pony, well trained to this sport, never left his side until the poor Drute staggered in his tracks. When he rolled over on the prairie, the last throes of death I singled out an other bigfellow and was soon pouring leaden pills into his shaggy hide also. I had dropped an even dozen before my little Cayuse or I became winded. Then I looked around for my orderly, but he was nowhere to be seen. I anxiously scanned the horizon to catch a glimpse of him, and rode back over my trail until .sunset in hopes of finding some trace of him but I saw no sign or indication of his, presence, and so, regretfully, had to give up the search for a time. Taking my land marks I Btruck out for camp, which I reached about 9, o'clock that night. The orderly's pony had already come into camp ahead of me, which left the •r fellow had j$! -ps had receiy jibssibly he nent be lying waiting as immediately concluffm that t: beetf*m$M^f!o 5d som-^^cbideip might, helpless on tne praii sistana from us. 8tarterf tthefcw hole cofo'fQand out in search/of liim," with -orders to scour our .baick trail, even as far back as our last camping-place. I myself went along )with one party. About mid night we heard a single shot fired far aheact in the darkness, and, listening! intently, had about come to the con clusion that it was a mistake, when again faintly in the distance the shot was repeated. There could be no mistake now, for the signal was repeated at regular in tervals of ten minutes, which led us to the spot, where we found the poor fellow trudging along, tired and worn down with fatigue, but in good spirits and entirely unharmed. His horse had gotten away from him somehow, and left him alone and afoot on the prairie. He immediately struck out across the country in a direction that must carry him acrcss the main trail, which he did really discover before darkness set in. He had been follow ing it ever since, and firing his revolver as described until found by us. All the relief parties came up in an hour or so, having been attracted to the spot by the signal shots, which had served to bring us to the same place. Mounting the orderly on his horse, brought along especially for the pur pose, we once more turned in the direction of camp, whicb we reached just as the fctin was coming up over the eastern hills. A. "Whole French Xovel in Brief. The Parisian journals announced the wreck of the Comete, between Buenos Ayres and Marseilles. Two days after the passengers had been rescued by a passing ship, it was discovered that M. Paul Rostain had perished. The history of this man furnishes a truth ful romance, stranger even than fiction. M. Paul Rostain in 1S83 was twen ty-six years of age, handsome, intelli gent, industrious, amiable, and a charming conversationalist. He met at the house of an old friend of his parents, a young girl named Lucie, of remarkable distinction, whose pretty face commanded his admiration, and he fell immediately in love with her. The admiration being mutual,the par ents consulted each other, as is the custom of this country, and they agreed that the couple should be be trothed. The father of Lucie suddenly found himself thrown into financial dis tress, in consequence of having risk ed his entire capital in a scheme which proved a signal failure. He was ruined. When he saw that he had nothing left but disgrace—for bankruptcy in France is extreme disgrace—his de spair was terrible. In this condition, he received one day a visit from an old man who lived near him, and who was reputed to be immensely rich. "Sir," said the old man, "I will not importune you long. I love your daughter yes, old as I am, I love her with a love that knows no reason. I have long sought the opportunity to tell you. To-day that occasion pre sents itself. I know your ruin. I will save you. Give me the hand of your daughter, and I will give her three million of francs, which will permit her to save you! That is all. If you agree to my proposition I am at your disposition." "But," cried the merchant, "my daughter ha3 been promised to an other!" "I know it," replied the old man, "yet I repeat, I love your daughter with a love that will listen to no ar gument." Without waiting for another reply the old man retired. At this moment the girl entered, and her father said: "The old man whom you have seen leave is well apprised of our ruin, and he offers you a part of his fortune if you will marry him." The girl turned pale as she asked: "Am I not betrothed to Paul Ros tain?" "That is wljat I answered," said her father. She stood trembling with mental anguish, while sobs and tears attested that she was thinking of her father's ruin—his dishonneur—all—ev» erything. She would consult Paul. That evening, when Paul Rostain came, Lucie called him into the garden and told him simply what had pass ed. "What shall I do?" asked Paul. "You must leave this place—go away to some remote country for if you stay here my strength would fail me and I should—" Interrupting her Paul replied: "I will go." THE LOVERS PART. The two martyrs separated without even a last embrace, for fear of relax ing their determination. When he was gone Lucie sought ber father, and, kneeling beside him, she said: 'Paul has chosen. You can in form your rich friend of this morning that I will marry him." God bless you, my child," cried the father "I have given my life 'i 1 for :.^Kv 1 y6u and you give me back my honor, girl hastened to her room, she threw herself on her bed and sob bed and wept. The next day M. Paul Rostain embarked for Buenos Ayres.' poor girl hastened to her room, where THE SAD ENDING. Two years had passed, during which not once had they ever written to each' other, though in spite of their separa tion they could feel themselves united. One morning the husband of Lui was struck by lightning and instant killed. The young woman was Her sacrifice was ended. Finding the parents of Paul Rostain, she procured his address and sent him a dispatch in these words: I am liberated. Come take your wife. To this she recieved thi3 reply: I embark by the first ship leaving. PAUL ROSTAIN. The unhappy man has not recieved the recompense of bis devotion. Fa tality was against him, and? it was written 'that he should nevdF realize the happiness which' was soaear. Only one person was ttowned in the wreck of the Comete, and that one was Paul Rostain. Old age has been obtained in all cli mates and under all circumstances. Man flourishes in the hot, the temper* ate, and the cold, and undqr every formof diet and where medical know!* edge is least he often thrives Jsoftt.