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"VOL. 34. YOEKYILLE. S. O.. WEDNESDAY. FEBRUARY 1, 1888. NO. 5. Jk -Jfictial ?f tfltg. ROGER LAROQUE. ADAPTED AND TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF JULES MARY. BY OLIVER IIAIIPER. Copyrighted by the American Press Association. CHAPTER XL Tho Urst days after the arrival of Roger and his daughter at the White House were very busy, but soon Suzanne began to have a little more time, which she occupied in riding about the pleasant neighborhood, sketching and gathering the wild flowers and ferns that that grew so bountifully in every direction. One morning she started early with her sketching implements to visit an old abbey, which had many historic recollections, and ? ( reached there at>on$ 8 o'clock, anO.gave.her horse ill charge of the guard, who had a little cottage nearby. This abbey was considered a fine piece of architecture and was kept in repair by the care of Baroness Nathaniel De Rothschild, to whom it belonged. Suzanne went to work diligently and painted continually until about r.oon, transferring the scene to her canvass with much effect. Then she suddenly discovered that she was both hungry and thirsty. "I will go and get a drink. Perhaps that is all I want, after all." She returned to the keeper's house, and there the keeper's wife, a buxom, handsome young woman, offered Suzanue some lunch, and as she sat at the snowy table a young man in hunter's costume entered the door with his gun and game bag, followed by a magnificent hunting dog. He bowed profoundly without speaking, and tho keeper's wife pleasantly, if somewhat awkwardly, presented him, saj-ing: "Mademoiselle, do not be afraid. This is a gentle youth, M. Pierre Do Noirville, who has ' permission to shoot in the pai-k. Ho lives near here with his mother and elder brother. When he hunts he always comes here for his lunch." * Suzanne replied to his profound bow by a few words and hastened herf own lunch, that he might have his, as she had no mind to sit at table with him, although he was very handsopic, with something foreign in the peculiar shape of his eyes and his complexion. He looked more like an Oriental than French. Suzanno excused herself and returned to her work, telling tho keeper's wife to have her horse ready in an hour. When she went out Pierre followed her k with his oyes, and he plied the good natured Catharine with questions as to the beautiful young Miss Forney, who did not act so frightened as do all young French girls when they happen to meet a young man. Ho admired her sweet hnfc sober dinriitv mid lier evident self possession, and in fact ho waxed exceedingly enthusiastic. Pierro lingered l<jng over his omelet and fresh bread, coffee and cream cheese, in hopes of seeing the young lady again, but at last with a heavy sigh took his departure. Suzanno worked until she had finished what she wished to do and then returned to the cottage, and giving Catharine her implements and half finished sketch said: "I shall be hero early to-morrow morning, and try to finish it," and then she rode off rapidly. At the moment sho was about to leave the park she made a gesture of vexation and annoyance as tlio saw Pierre De Noirville standing immovable as a statue and gazing at her with earnest admiration. Then Pierre, angry with himself, turned ifc? abruptly andsho*p#f?fcedly1toward his homo, the Meridon farm, which was to be seen from the gate of the park. Meridon farm was situated at about 6ix miles from the\Vhite House and consisted of 200 or 300 acres, through which ran the Yvette river, and here lived Julia De Noirville with her two sons, Raymond and Pierro. This farm was all that they had to depend upon, for Lucien's death left them but illy provided for, until Lucien's undo had died, bequeathing this property to the two brothers. Pierre managed the farm while Raymond was preparing himself for the law in Paris. Julia had greatly changed during these ten years which followed the condemnation for life to tho man she loved and the death of her husband. Remorse had aged her, and, although sho was but 45, sho was bent and withered and had tho appearance of an old ! woman. There was not a day passed nor a night in which sho did not seem to see two phantoms?the one whom she had sent to a prison and death, the other her good and gen He nusoanu, ueau m ms menu s ueieuse. Her life sinco then had been one poignant I regret. Had it not been for her two sons she would certainly have divulged her part in j this horrible crime; but to clear Roger's j name she must blight those of her two sons. And she thought Roger was dead, as he was j reported to have been killed in an attempt at 1 escape. Raymond was 23 years old and Pierre 24. j Raymond was small, pale and of nervous ! temperament, with his father's soulful eyes; > while Pierre was large, robust and dark. Both were handsome. Though living in Paris Raymond ccme often to the farm, always Sundays, ancfas often as his duties and studies permitted Uim during the week. The two brothers loved their mother tenderly, and respected her habitual sadness as the natural result of the loss of her husband in so tragic a manner. The}' believed that she could never be consoled for that breavement. That evening Raymond returned from Paris, and seeing the game bag he remarked to Pierre: "If it is pleasant to-morrow I will hunt with you." Pierre did not answer. If Raymond had noticed his brother's face then he would have seen a look of annoyance pass over it. The next morning the sun shone bright and j the two brothere went out with their guns, j and for a long time kept together, as they had j but one dog, but at last Raymond found himself alone, and as he was a little tired ho do- j cided to go on to the keeper's cottage and wait there for Pierre, who would be sure to i come there for his lunch. But as ho passed j along by the ruins he noticed outlined against 1 the sky the figure of a beautiful young girl standing on a wall, which was so old that it was a wonder it had stood so long. He was so surprised by this unexpected vision that he forgot where ho was or that he held a gun in his hand, when the dog saw a | pheasant and made a movement which threw j the butt of Raymond's gun backward against a tree, and there was a sharp report, followed by a rushing, crumbling noise and a woman's piercing cry for help. The young girl on the wall had sprung as ' tlm linpvn/vYinrl rocnmuYorl nnrl till* movement started the insecure wall, which \ crumbled beneath her fee j and she fell with j and among the stones some twenty feet. Sho | screamed again as she fell, and Raymond also | heard another cry, that of Pierre. He was | too far away himself to receive any injury, and very pale he was as he rushed forward, I but met Pierre with n deathly white faco as i they both reached the inanimate body of the young stranger lying among the stones and dust at the same time. ' Dead!'' said Pierre, wildly; "dead!" "Who is she, do you know?" "I saw her yesterday for tho first time." Suzanne lay upon her back, her arms j stretched out alid a thin stream of blood j trickled down her pale faco from a deep j wound in her forehead. Pierre toolc her in ' his strong arms and earned her to tho foun- ' tain of St. Thebault. There he laid her, with her head upon a mossy bank, while Raymond wet his handkerchief and mado a compress, laying it over tho bleeding wound, which was deep and severe. . Then he bathed her hands, her face and eyes. "How beautiful she is!" said Raymond. In spite of all the efforts of the two brothers, Suzanne did not regain consciousness, and they looked at each other in despair. "We must get help," said Raymond. "She will bleed to death. Go bring Catharine and tell her husband to bring the carriole." At last Suzanne opened her eyes, though the pain in her head was so great that she could scarcely see anything. She tried to rise but sank back again. Then Raymond timidly spoke, telling her that she had had an accident and must keep still, that help would soon come. Then he brought water in his hunting cup.and wet her handkerchief I and placed that also upon her head. While he was occupied with her she noticed between her eyelids his fine and delicate face, his large, honest eyes, and she felt herself perfectly at ease with him, which she had not done with Pierre. "You are very kind, sir," said she; "please | tell me your name, so that my father can i thank you." "My name is Raymond De Noirville, but I have done nothing to be thanked for." Suddenly Suzanne grew palo again and lost consciousness. At this moment Catharine and Pierre came, and in a few minutes the carriole arrived. They made all haste to get her to the cottage, where they placed her in bed and brought a doctor, who declared that though the wound was grave and she had lost much blood, she would be all right in a fortnight, but that she would probably have a fever. Raymond and Pierre were both anxious, out aarea not go to inquire udouo ner, so each in turn, and unknown to the other, besought Catharine to rido over to the White House and find out how the young lady was. ! Catharine said: "In whose name shall I inquire? Yours or your mother's?" "My mother's, of course," each, answered. t "Ah," thought Catharine, "this is not a good outlook. Both brothers are certainly head over heels in love with that young American. It is a sorry day when brothers become rivals." Catharine had presented herself as coming from Mine. Do Noirville, which, under the circumstances, mado it incumbent upon Roger to go to Meridou farm to thank Mme. , De Noirville for the care her sons had given his daughter, and he wished also to satisfy himself as to the question of their identity. He put of! the evil day as long as he possibly could, fearing that his suspicions would take form and Mme. De Noirville prove to be Julia, and he dreaded any possibility that either of the young men might touch the heart of Suzanne. She had now been up and about several days, and even began to take her customary rides, aud had already made two or three discreet allusions to the duty he owed his neighbors of Meridon farm. Laroque understood that the moment had come, and he must accede to tho demands of etiquette, and also to discover if his fears were justified or not. They drove over to the farm and were shown in, when Raymond and Pierre received them with effusion. Pierre then went for his mother and she came in, dressed in the deepest mourning. Pale, aged and bowed and with her once raven tresses almost white, yet Roger knew her instantly, but her great avoc wot?a t?nico/1 tr\ ln'c foon witVinnf recognition of him. Nothing had told her who stood before her. As to him, he contained his emotion with the most painful effort, and ha half looked to see Lucien appear. "Jladame." said the poor man, "your sons have doubtless told you of the accident which happened to my daughter, and I was anxious to thank them for their care of her, without which most probably she would have died there alone." "You exaggerate the little service we could render her, sir," replied Raymond. Pierre was slow of speech at all times, and now he could do nothing but devour Suzanne with his eyes. As Roger spoke Julia shrunk down in her chair, and there was on her countenance a visible expression of fear, which, however, none remarked. Though sho had 110 idea of Roger's identity the sound of that voice had never changed, and her thoughts wandered to the days when Roger was still alive. His eyes were upon Lucien. As he ceased to speak she listened still and she looked at him with a searching glance. But though it was ] Roger's voice she was positive that the man < before her was not Roger. Presently Raymond proposed that they ] Pierre took her in his strong arms. should 'walk m the garden, down through the avenue of chestnut trees. Suzanne and the two young men walked on a trifle in advance ! of the parents, and they both began to talk I of their children, and Roger soon divined that Julia loved Raymond with a tender, more absorbing love than she gave to her eldest ' born. Pierre knew this, anj though it sad- ( dened him somewhat, he had too noble a character to resent it or feel jealous. Ray- ' mond did not know there was a difference, and he almost idolized his brother. Soon after father and daughter took their departure. Julia watched her two sons as the visitors drove away, and both gave a heavy sigh as the carriage disappeared, and both appeared cast down and melancholy. "Are they both smitten with the beauty and grace of this young girl? If so, woe is me." CHAPTER XII. From that time on Suzanne seldom went out on horseback or in her phaeton that she did not meet Raymond, as if by accident, but they did 110 more than speak, but after he had seen her he returned to the farm with heart elate. Both brothers had fallen victims to Suzanne's bright and rare beauty and noble character, but they made nocoufldenco of ( their feelings to each other. The brothel's ; : even seemed to avoid each other; each sought 1 solitude aud each thought his secret hidden from all eyes. But Pierre had to look after J the farm and command the laborers, so that j he had small chance of meeting the object of | his dreams, while Raymond would take his j gun for countenance and linger about places i where ho hoped she might pass. In France 110 visits are permitted to young i men at the house of any young lady, unless | after a formal engagement of marriage, and ' then only under such conditions as must bo j very exasperating to both; so neither Pierre I nor Raymond could go to see Suzanne at her j home, not even accompanied by their mother. ! The-image of tho two brothers had cer- ( tainly taken a little place in the existence of ! Suzanne 111 spite or nerseir. tseiore sue Knew them her thoughts were bounded by her home, her art and her father. She knew that slio was pretty and that men admired i her, but she had always shrunk from any expressed admiration with a horror unfeigned. Marriage was not for her. Two or three j times before this lier hand had been asked'of her father, but when ho referred the question to her sho refused so determinedly that he j was fain to decline, particularly, as she said: 1 "I do not wish to leave you, nor ever love j' anybody but you as long as I live." Ho thought to himself: ''Some day she will change her mind and I shall bo forgot- J ten. Let her belong to me, then, as long as j she is content." But now fc'uzanne let her horso walk along . the shady paths where the rich branches hung heavy with sparkling dewdrops, and she whispered: liI wonder if I shall see him to<lay?" And when sho saw him coining along, his gun j swung over his shoulder, she felt liko Hying j from the spot, but he looked so anxious, so I sad, and then when he saw her so glad, that , she did not go. Then they approached and i said good morning, with very few and simple , words more, and each went along their differout paths, both happier for the meeting. One day Suzanne was seated in a mossy dell in one part of their park with her portfolio anil colors, trying to catch the sunbeams and make them shine through her painted trees, but it was warm and tho drowsy sound of the little bi'ook at her feet made her sleepy, and resting her head upon a moss covered root she fell asleep, nor woke | until sho felt a soft, sweet and chuste kiss fall upon her forehead. With a strange prescience sho knew whose lips had pressed it there, and she, from pure maidenly shame an3 'delicacy,' managed to keep lier eyes closed that he might suppose that she knew nothing. Then Raymond murmured: "Alas, Suzanne, I love you so," and he was gone. Then she arose, her whole face covered with one burning blush, and her whole being filled with a wondrously sweet happiness, and for a while, in this delicious awakening of a pure maiden's love, she forgot. Then, suddenly a vision rose before her, aud she whoso whole beautiful face but a moment before was eloquent with love, grew pale and drawn with hoiTor. "What have I done! Oh, my God, what have I done! I have let him love me; I love him. For one little minute I forgot that lovo and marriage are not for me!" All that day she battled with her heart, and poor child, when its own pain had deadened her other senses, she thought she had won. She crept into the house and up to her room unobserved, and when her father came to see why she did not come down to dinner that woman's blessed boon in the way of excuse. a headache, oleaded for her. The next day Mme. Do Noirville came tc see them just as they had returned from a drive. Julia had come with the intention/of pleading Raymond's cause in his demand for the hand of Mile. Forney. Raymond had driven her over, but had not attempted to enter the house; but as M. Forney stepped forward to receive Mme. Do Noirville, Raymond sprang to the side of Suzanne, who received him with a coldness so marked that he drew back in alarm. His eyes questioned her in vain for the cause of this sudden change. He thought: "She must have awakened and resented such a liberty. IVhat shall I do?" "Oh, mademoiselle, pardon me, I implore." "In what have you offended that you ask my pardon F' said she, more coldly and haughtily, if possible, than before. "I thought?I feared?that I was unhappy enough to have in some way vexed you." "You are mistaken," said she, bowing, and leaving him speechless. Raymond managed to make a sign to his mother, begging he * to say nothing to M. Forney on the subject so near his heart, and their conversation was therefore on ordinary topics, and they soon took their leave. It would be too much to say that Suzanne regretted her severity, but it is very sure that her heart ached heavily all the time, and she lost color and spirit, so much so as to seriously disquiet her father, who feared that she 1 was ill, but she declared herself pe ectly well. 1 "Well, do you feel contented here? "Would you like to go away, to Paris or any other J place? You have only to say what you wish, 1 you know, my child, to find me willing." "I am perfectly happy hero, father," she ! replied, "and I like this quiet, peaceful existence far better than I would a gayer place. So say no more, I pray you." The real reason that she did not wish to leave her present home for Paris was that she knew that Raymond's vacation ended very soon, and that he then would be near her ' there, following her at every turn, and here she would be free. j Summer passed all too swiftly, and autumn came with its gorgeous beauty of coloring 1 and its wealth of harvest, and October had nearly gone. Already the nights were cold and frosty, though the days were bright and sunny, and Suzanne wandered about their park and even into the forest beyond, as if 1 she hunted her lost peace of mind. Her young heart was heavy with unshed tears, but 1 though sho know she loved Raymond, she 1 had been through such awful and strange experiences that sho was matured far beyond her age, and her reason and knowledge of tht past taught her that love or marriage with m honorablo man with an untarnished name ] was not for her; that fate had ordered "hat i tier life should be passed alone. . One day as she sat on a fallen tree absorbed , 1 in "these thoughts, her tears fell unheeded* 1 upon her cheeks for her withered youth and 1 lonely future which a father's love could now never fill, and she thought she heard a step behind her. i She knew so well who was there that she i lid not even turn her bead, but by a supreme effort of will conquered her agitation and ber face wore a mask of scorn and haughty disdain as Raymond came in front of her, and joining his hands exclaimed: "Suzanne, Suzanne, have pity on me!" "You can have nothing to say to me that I wish to hear. I beg, therefore, you will permit me to pass." "No; this lifo is intolerable! You treat me as if I were the veriest wretch on earth. It is uot so that an honest man's love should be trampled upon." "1 do not know what you refer to. I simply find your attentions distasteful, and I wish to make you so understand. As you seem to be unable to understand actions I am obliged to tell you so" She wished to pass him, but be stepped in front of her, saying: "You shall not go until you have heard me." "Your action makes me but the more positive that I have done right in refusing to speak to you. Since you threaten me, I regard you as a coward." "So be it. I am a coward." She recoiled a little before Raymond, who seemed no longer to be able to control himself. But behind her was the ravine, with its 1 ohtunf. ntirl ct-nnv hnnlr SO that sllH could 110t escape liim that way without danger, and she I turned to him, saying angrily: "If you make one step toward me I shall i throw myself down/' I "Suzanne, I pity you." "Me! You pity me?" i "Yes, for you must lovo me well to treat ; mo in this manner. You must have some 1 reason why you do not want?not dare accept my love, and thus try to hide your own. j 1 I feel now what I have never dared hojx;? ! you do love me." "You are utterly mistaken; I do not love ; you. I never did, never shall, and your lovo j is an offense to me." "Suzanne! you are very hard, very cruel. | Listen. Impose upon me any condition you i think neccessary. However hard it maybe I I will accept." : Still no answer. "Then there remains but one thing for me, j I and that is death. I cannot live without | hope, without your love. Adieu, Suzanne, i j May you bo happy." And the young man, in a half demented | l condition, raised the muzzle of his gun and l placed it against his heart, both barrels | loaded, and before Suzanne could speak | 1 raised his boot to strike tho triggers. Suzanne j 1 sprang forward involuntarily and caught the ' muzzle, turning it slightly, so that the two ! i charges whizzed by her head and tho powder ! burned her dress. 1 Her heart melted. Ono second more and j he would have been lying a corpse at her feet, t and, forgetting all that had seemed to her | such potent reasoning, she sank to her former j seat, powerless and faint. 1 CHAPTER XIII. "Raymond," said Suzanne, in a feeble, | tremulous voice, "you have frightened me. I 1 will tell you something which you have a right to know. I love you. have loved you from the first. I am not ashamed to say it. ' I even think I lovo you truer than you do ' me." This was said in a deep, low voice, and 1 with a profound gravity, and no mute permission was given to Raymond to do as lie wished?seize those two little hands and | 1 cover them with kisses. Suzanne seemed to ! gather her strength for one last effort. j <> i 1 "Raymond, use must see each other no j 1 more." 1 "But I Lave more to say. Raymond, be ' 1 courageous. Alas! wo must see each other no more. All this pleasant dream must now bo broken, and you must cease to think of me." "I do not understand" "You will never understand. How gladly I would have spared you this. I tried, Raymond, even though it seemed my own heart would break. I did not want you to love me, nor to love you, for I knew what tho end must be." "But what obstacle?" "I cannot tell you." "Is it fortune? I know I am poor, but we are young, and I feel sure that 1.shall succeed in my profession. Indeed, I nm doing well now for a young man." "It is not that. This is an insurmountable obstacle and one not of my creation nor yours. Wo must bear it as best wo may, having for our only consolation our mutual love. And, Raymond, I think it better that we part nnw. nnrl forever." "Is not this something which you havo imagined graver than it is? Is it your father's opposition that you fear?" "No." "But, Suzanne, I love you!".continued he, with all the sublime egotism of a lover who considers that one faqt to entitle him, ta. everything ho wants, and to excuse him all his follies. "That is what I feared, what I wished to avoid, for it is a great misfortune. Renounce me, renounce all hope." "Is thero anything against my family? What is itr "Hush. Raymond. I should bo proud to bear your name, but it is utterly impossible. I shall never marry, neither you nor another. This obstacle has existed always anil will as long as I live." The two young lovers talked yet a long time, but always with the same conclusion, and Raymond was obliged to a'-ccdc to the firm resolution of Suzanne. When ho walked home, his head bowed upon his breast and his heart in a mingled tumult of joy and despair, his mother watched him attentively, and at last decided that she would go alono and ask of M. Forney that ho consent to receive Raymond as a suitor for the hand of Suzanne. ni__ 1 1 T? ..1 41.^4. one loveu luiwuuau so icmiuuv mut biiu could not bear too see bis visible suffering. When she asked Pierre the following day to harness the pony phaeton for her,as she wished to drive out ulone, he said: "Mother, I have wished for some time to speak to you, and if you can spare a few mo- | meats I will say what I wish now. You ar9 going out to drive. Will you not go as far as the White House and ask M. Forney's permission for me to address his daughter! Of course, you could not have known anything of my heart, as I could not gather courage enough beforo to speak of it, but I feel as if life will hold little charm for me if I cannot win Miss Forney for my wife." Julia sat as if petrified. Slio had known before that Pierre admired Suzanne, though J for awhile sue forgot, but now, while her favorite son's fate hung in the balance, sho could not think of his pain. Besides, she thought that the extreme quietness of this avowal betokened a lack of feeling and that Raymond loved more profoundly and would suffer more; therefore, she took Raymond's part in her mind. "I will do as you wish, my son," said she, "but be prepared for a disappointment. I have some reason to tbink Suzanne's heart is engaged elsewhere." "The man who becomes her husband will have reason to be thankful for so great a blessing," said Pierre growing wbito to tho very lips and turning away. Little did he imagine that Raymond loved her. Suzanne was sitting in her room when Mme. Do Noirville drove up and sho felt a premonition of what was coming. Julia asked only to see M. Forney, and Roger went down to the reception room in obcdienco to her request. His heart beat high with fmpteasdnt erfiotiorls which no dWaysToftTn.! her presence, but ho had schooled himself to bear it in tbe pursuit of bis purpose. "1 bavo not come to make a simplo visit," said sbc, "but to ask a great favor of you, ona so great tbat my beart fails me before I ask." "Speak, maclame," said Roger. "Jly son Raymond loves j'our daughter with all bis heart, and I have come from him to beg your consent to bis paying bis addresses to Mile. Forney, if you have made no previous arrangements with another. At tbe first words Roger rose, pale and breathless. At last he said hoarsely: "Impossible! Impossible!"' "Sir," continued Julia, "be is poor, but bo has talent and honor. II is father was one of the best lawyers in France, uiul Raymond inherits his ability. You must have beard of bis father, M. Forney. His name was Lucien De Noirville." "I think I have beard his name," said Roger painfully. "There was something, I think, in the papeis about?some terrible?some poignant" "You have beard tbat then?" said Julia in a constrained voice. "Did be not die in the midst of an address to tbe jury, in tbe interest of a friend accused of robbery, I think followed by assassination?a friend and brother in arms, whom bo believed innocent?" "IIo was innocent, tbat friend. He was, indeed!" "What became of this man? IIo was condemned, was he not?" "Yes, but most unjustly; and be was killed a year or so afterward while trying lo escape from tbe galleys." Her bead drooped, and she would bavo fallen to tbe floor without his aid. "It is nothing; a slight giddiness. There are some recollections that are very painful in every life," said she. There was a silence of some moments. Then she resumed: "So you will not accord me tho happiness of my son?" Ho made no answer. He was passing in review all that dreadful past with its tragic history. He tried to think whether ho would not be iu some sort repairing his wrong toward Lucien if he gave his only child to Lucien's son. Strange fatality that brought Julia to his feet to supplicate the happiness of her oest loved son at his hands. Was he not in honor bound to give liis sole treasure into the keeping of another's hands, smothering his own grief, to restore a little brightness in the home ho had left desolate? Ho decided Olid liis nervous march ceased, and he stood before Julia with his face set and white, as must have been those of the saints and martyrs. "It shall be as 1113* daughter desires." i?ud then he sent a servant to bring Suzanne ta" him. "Suzanne," said he, "can you divine the reason for which I have called you?" "I am sure I cannot," answered she, trying to smile unconcernedly. "Consult j our heart, mj* child. Is there anything you desire?" "Nothing, futhcr, but your love." Sho know now, and felt that tho battle she bad fondlj' supposed ended had but begun. And then she continued: "I do not quite seize your meaning; but I have 110 secrets from you, and I want nothing that you cannot give me." "Suzanne, Mine. Do Noirville \as com here todaj' to ask inj* consent to your marriage with lier son Raymond. I have told her that it should be for you to decide. What do you answer?" "I have told jou often, father, that I do not wish to marry. I have not changed my mind." ' I shall not alwaj's be with jou, my child. I may die, and you will be left alone without protection or friends." ' I have told you, father, I never wish to marry." "Tell me, mj' dear child, do you love any -..nut tj.. f. 1. ..... 1? there is another whom you love in your heart, tell your father, my dear." "Oh, father, that is most unkind! 1 never loved any one as well as 1 do you, and I never shall. Please say no more about it, for I shall never change." There was such an accent of determination in this that Roger's thoughts Hew back instantly to tho time when this child had maintained in the face of everything that she 'knew nothing; saw nothing," and he gave up the attempt to alter her decision. "This is strange," said her father. Mine, do Noirville, desperate, thought of Raymond. "Is this your last word? Have you no pity even for him, for ln's mother, whose happiness is bound up in hist" "I am truly sorry," said Suzanne, "but I lannot change my resolution, which has been taken long since." Julia returned homo with her heart in a tumult. She had failed. Pierre took her melancholy air as the death blow to his hopes, md only asked hoarsely: t *T '.it? "WeUf "She loves another." JNo one saw liim again that night. Ray- R; mond did not know what had taken place j I for several days after. j. After Julia had gono Roger thought to jj himself: "Who can tell what is in a young s' girl's heart?" and ho was vaguely uneasy for two reasons. One was he feared she had c loved somo one in America, and hiding that j love in her heart was bound to suffer in silence all her life, for he knew the quiet per- n sistcncy of her character; and the other v thbught was that she might not have forgot- f ten that awful time, and that she felt that olf doors to happiness were closed to her for- ^ ever. But how to discover? How dared ha break the silence? ^ Still he could question her more fully, more j| tenderly and alone. Perhaps she would tell s| faim, but no, tbo answer was always the s same. She loved no one so well as he, and she jvosdetermined to never marry. c Almost out of patience with her, he at last h said, brusquely: "Keep your secret. We t! will spefOt no mora of marriage, but I may I say that you have bitterly disappointed me;" n anH he loft her with her eyes full of tears and t outstretched hands which ho affected not to tl %1 in the two families contin- a ued the same for a few days without new c incident. Father and daughter avoided each other as much as it was possible, and when they were together there was no allusion y made to the demand of Mme. de Noirville, y though their thoughts ran often upon the y subject. Mme. de Noirville had finally told Ray- a mond'ortbe step she had taken, and at first a he was inclined to reproach her for her un- b fortunate errand, undertaken without his s] knowledge. The answers of Suzanne to her father's questious aroused in him the demon o of jealousy, and at last he could bear no fj more. "I must know, I must know," he cried s< and rushed off through the woods and into tho park, in the blinc^ hope of finding her who k filled his thoughts. Nowhere in the park y could he find Suzanne, and half himself he approached the house, feeling that alone and n singlo handed, he could storm a fortress for tho sake of seeing her. Drawn by invisible o: attraction, he went to the large green house y whero Suzanne was walking listlessly among tho planks. Ho reached her side and held T out his hands in silence. She saw that his F face was drawn and haggard with suffering, h and her whole heart cried out for him, and d she gave him her hand. ir "Suzanne! Suzanne! I have had horrible b thoughts. I could bear them no longer. What is this obstacle betweesn us? I have a right to ai know. Your silence leaves me in 1 he black y, shadow of doubt; and forgive mo, Suzanne, n I think such dreadful things?such things as tl you cannot imagine. They are worse to bear y than the truth would be, no matter what it h; is. I play you, Sezanne, on my knees, tell y mo what it is that stands between us, hi and I will bear it bravely if it must be borne; tl but, oh! tell me. Save my mind from such agonizing torture as your silence imposes t< upon mo with its unworthy doubts." p "Raymond," said Suzanne at last, wiping away with her own handkerchief the beads of sweat that stood out on his forehead as he knolh hofni-A hpr?"Ravmond. vou suffer much, tuid I pity you with all my heart. I will tell you. You have the right to ask me to lay bare my secret, though it is not in reality mino, but unother's." "Then hush, Suzanne. Forgive me. I no longer wish to know." "It is too late," said she. "In spite of your cruel doubts which dishonor me, I pardon you; but you must hear my father's secret. But first you must swear secrecy the most absolute." "I promiso you, Suzanne, on my honor." Suzanne closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall. , "RaymoucL" said she, "I cannot be your I wtfo, Jjgcaus^ the name I bear is not mine, of'piy lathed-, for'I hm the daughter "* \ ota man in hiding from justice; because ho committed a great crime, not one of those crimes which vengeance explains and extenuates, but an odious, frightful crime, which dishonors a whole family forever. My father killed a man for money!" 7 Raymond could not speak. She continued: "You know of this crime, Raymond, w though you were young then, and your father, the friend of my father, died in his sj defense." p, "Roger Laroque I" whispered Raymond. B, "Alas, yes." a( "You aro his daughter. You, then, are f2 that little girl who boro herself so nobly, so bravely." ni "Alas, yes. My father escaped and lived all these years in America. Ho thinks I do y, not remember, and ho wished to return to France at the risk of being taken." js "What is his object?" "That he cannot tell me, as ho thinks I have | tl forgotten. As if I could ever forget-." st "But my father said that Roger Laroque n( wasinnocent! He knew him well, and friends jt; like him do not mistake. I believo my father was right, and that your father was unjustly %v condemned. There was a mystery that was fi( never cleared up. Suzanne, do you know that?" "Alas! Raymond, you are good to wish to h< defend my father, but for me there exists no hi mystery. The judges were right in their in questioning. I knew all. My mother and myself saw all. My father was the assassin." j;1 "i CHAPTER XIV. hi These two poor children stood side by side tc in the greenhouse, dumb with sorrow, almost a< /\f fV,^,inrl-,f na fliniirrli tliAir honrts I llltuyuuio UUV/Ub..^, ? ?-w C1 were scorched by lightning. For poor hi Suzanne to be obliged to toll this fearful tale, which she had buried so deep in her young heart that her father had not discovered it in in ten long years, was almost like living it over fcj again in reality. She bad said truly 6ke n! was doomed to a lonely, loveless life. And she loved Raymond with a deep and abiding tc passion, but a hopeless one. fij Raymond had thought nothing could augment his love for Suzanno before, but now tl this revelation showed him her noble character, and-his love centupled, mingled with a j tl respect so profound that it bordered upon j fi] veneration, and a deep compassion filled his , n: soul for iho sufferings this young girl had j hi so worthily borne. [ tl "Now," said she, "you know all. Let us J tc say one last ndieu." c< "Adieu? No! A thousand times no. My j I life belongs to you now, more than ever. I j shall live to suffer with and for you." I tc "O^Hhuirtond", we must say goodby; I i is prefer to feel myself alone to suffer and to re- I ]i member. Leave jne to my solitude and sor- ' I ro\\." j S But he answered: "I prefer to love you and ! Bhal) always do so." j w Then the}- said goodby, sadly and sorrow- | gi fully, without more than a hand clasp and a u lingering look. tc He rushed out into tho forest, where bo hi wandered about, not knowing or caring su where, and not returning to his homo until be late at night. Suzanno sat weeping for a while, nnd then dc gathered up her strength to try and reach | her own room. As she passed a large plant | m which stood between her and the door lead- I 111 ing to the house she found her father lying ! fit unconscious 011 the floor, not ten feet from ' lie where she had stood with Raymond, and he ca had heard all! j tb She threw herself 011 her knees beside him i sh and kissed him wildly. She called for assistance j di WU1I0 reeling ins cuesc to discover u ms iieui i. i ? beat. It (lid, but feebly, and sbe called him j m by endearing names. She oi>ened a window I ra to give him air. Servants camo and they did w everything they could to restore him, but it I was one long hour before he revived. Remembrance camo to him with conscious- j ness, and ho heaved a deep sigh, and reclosed ' his eyes and lay for a time in silence gather- j r.-. ing his faculties. Finally ho signed to the \ ? ( servants to leave him, and when they wero j gono he said with effort: "So, then, unhappy | A ^ child, you have not forgotten?" i Suzanne knelt beside him and hid her faca j L< on his breast, weeping bitterly. as "Do not cry. It is not your fault, my poor U lamb. We cannot command our memory, cli But you have given mo great pain. I novel re suffered so acutely since the day I saw you? mother and you accuse me, by j our silence, 'pj beforo the judge.. What shall I do to urov< qjtoyou? For, my child, I am innocent of that crime. I am innocent, Suzanne. Do you hear me?" 'Oh, father, the past is gono; let us forget ?I it and bo happy together, you and I." !-?( "No, the question is now opened between i h us and you must know all. I was and am still a victim." "But mother and I saw you" ,. "Saw me, oh, child! saw me kill that poor old man?" "Yes: we were on tho balcony. Wo saw ou come up the street, hiding under the hade of the trees. Wo called you, but you id not answer. Then you went into the ouse. There was a man thero counting uonoy, then a horrible struggle, then a pistol hot. und darkness." The young girl placed her hands beforo her yes. "And you both knew me?" "I assure you wo did. That is why my lotlier mndo mo promiso silence, for what ire must havo said would have been so dreadul." "But you were so young, you might havo een mistaken." "I was young at night, father, but I havo eon old ever since. If I havo "appeared gay i was to render you happy. But, mother; ho could not havo been mistaken, too, could he?" "Yes, my child. I did not commit that rime, and only one person belioved in my mocencc?Lucien De Noirville. Ho divined ho truth, and his death was caused by it. aston, Suzanne. Tho time has como when I lust tell you all, and though I am ashamed hrough all my nature to havo to tell you liis, it must ,be told, and it will bo untber-punishment added to thofeo I have lready borne. Do you remember all tho inidents relating to that trial?" "Alas, father" "That which condemned mo more than all cas that tho money I bad paid tho dead man ras found in my possession, and I will tell ou about that." And then Roger began at tho beginning nd told tho wholo story until tho end, though s ho told her about tho woman who had rought the money, he blushed painfully with bamo. Sho blushed, too, but believed every word f that unhappy story, and felc that her ither was indeed an innocent man, victim of 3mo foul plot. "Oh, father, pardon me,"'she cried, as sho nelt besido him, and she covered his hands ritli penitential kisses and tears. "I forgive you freely, my child. You could ot have known." "But, father, somo one was guilty?some no who looked like you, was dressed liko you, 'hom and I mother saw. Who can ho be?" "That is wliero the mystery begins, my dear, here is a guilty one, and my presence in ranee is for tho rolo purpose of discovering im. I feel that I shall not die until I have iscovered tho murderer of Larouette. I live 1 the hope of having my sentence reversed y law and my good name restored." During more than a week Roger lay sick nd Suzunno.remained by his side, and never 'ere that unfortunate couple so happy, for ow there were no more shadows between lem and they could talk upon tho subject hick engrossed both their minds. Raymond ad tried in vain to meet Suzanno, but as she ent out no moro he naturally could not see er, and at last, one Sunday, ho could bear ie suspense no longer. Ho must see her, ho ?lt, or die; besides ho had something to say ) her which ho hoped might lift the dark all which had fallen over their young lives. here were no more shadows between them. Suzanno had no reason to believo that he ould come, but still she expected hm, and as ?r father had gone to Paris on some business, io wrapped herself and went out into the ark, where she saw him coming toward her viftly. She could not retain her joy, and Ivanced to meet him with such a joyous ice and light step that Raymond exclaimed: "Suzanne, my Suzannt! What i? it? In the ime of heaven, speak!" "Oh, Raymond, come quick. I will tell du all, and I have so much to say. Como ito the house; I daro not tell you here. It about father." And when they were in tho houso and te door to tho reception room closed 10 told him all. Roger Lnvoque had it named Julia, and Raymond could not aagine his mother as in any way interested i tho matter. Ho could not associato her itli any such thing, and yet his thought jw involuntarily toward her. IIo said: "Did your father know my mother?" "He must have known her, but, of course, 3 did not wish to bo recognized. I remem31* now that he hesitated strangely about goig to your houso after my accident." "That is so," continued Raymond, scarcely lowing what he said. "So," ho continued, t was a woman who held his honor in her mds, almost his life, and yet said no word ? savo him. Who could sho be to have ;ted so cowardly?" "Consider, Raymond; perhaps she had liklrcu; think of the dishonor she would ring upon them." "Did he tell you her name?" "No; that ho could not do without betrayig the coniideueo which ho came near losing is life to maintain. Ho will never tell that ime." "Baroque is a man. 31 y rawer una reason j > lovo him, and I esteem him still more for | is reserve." Raymond became silent and pensive again; ion ho spoke: "Suzanne, since your father is innocent lero must be some one elso guilty. Now to ad that man seen by you and your poor lotber. That man whom your father is anting for will I also search. Besides, some- ! ling tells me that that woman had something ! > do with that crime. I think she is an ac- j imp] ice through vengeance, and that woman ! will And." "Ra3*mond," said Suzanne, with instinctive rror, "spare that woman. Think that if she a mother it would be a fearful thing to dover her to justice, to cover her with shame, am sure that my father would not wish it. pare her!"' "Wo shall see when the day conies, and j bile waiting I will not lose a minute. I shall I it the records of the trial and study them ! [>, and, Suzanne, I see my way clear. You ] ild me but a little while ugo that you wera j appy, and now I say the same, for I feel : ire that tho day is not tar off when you will ! s my wife." "May God hear and aid you," said Suzanne, i ivoutly. "Now goodby, dear Suzanne. Wo may not ! eet again for weeks, for I will not return I itil I can bring you good news. Ilavo conlence. My father loved yours, but he could , )t prove his case, and ho died for grief beiiiso of it. There where tho father failed j e son may succeed. One worked for friend- j ipand the other for lovo; and I, too, will j e, if necessary, as he died." And so saying, j ith his great, dark eyes blazing with exciteent, he kissed tho two little hands and went .pidlynwayto begin his labor of lovo, which as, alas! to bring such bitter fruit. TO UK fONTINUKl). Ill IIMII WWWt^^m\ I I'M - /-, I 1JIE |1'UKC1IASK Uf UKI',(.U.\.? j le entire region west of the Rocky | ountains,'"extending north?from : exico to the British possessions, ! id hounded;' on the east by the ">uisiana purchase, was long known | Oregon. It was ceded to the ! nited States by Spain in 1810, a j \use in the treaty ceding Florida, i linquishing all her "rights, claims j id pretensions" to such territory, j ie dispute between the United j atesand Great Britain concerning e northern boundary pf Oregon j me near resulting in a war. Many j the school maps are wrong. The j misinna purchase was bounded on | e west by the Rockies. fir It is an irrefrgableplaw of mind j at moral efforts become definitely I sir by repetition. 1 jjUisccUancous grading. For the Yorkville Enquirer. REMINISCENCES OF WESTERN YORK. Our first acquaintance with Meredith Shurley was made in 1848. He taught school near the present residence of G. C. Leech, Esq. Here we learned the alphabet.* He had a large school. Many grown young men and ladies were scholars. The Berrys, Leeches, Ilemphills, McKinstrys and Whitesides were the strongest families. Of these but few are now living that we know of. Joe Moss and Joe Morgan were among the large scholars. But as the poet j says: "Friends have been scattered Like roses in bloom ; Some by the bridal, And some by the tomb." Joe Moss is now living in Craighead county, Arkansas, and is rich. He went there in 185b. Joe Morgan 1 is dead. ( Many pf tl\ose pow living I in'Western York will remember ' what fancy head lines he had written in his manuscript under which he kept the sums he worked in Pike's arithmetic. Those lines were ornamented with birds' heads, snakes and I every other device that could be drawn by a pen. It was while attending this school that the writer had a severe attack of pneumonia. Dr. Allison was the physician, and as a last resort bled his patient. In those days Dr. Allison and Dr. Wright had most of the practice in Western York. In all critical cases they or one of them was called in. I don't suppose higher toned gentlemen ever adorned the profession than they. Mr. Shurley took great pride in having his school to "show off." 'For a week or two before the "quarter day," or "last day" of school, he would drill the scholars. Boys and girls were put in line and marched to the drill ground. Every evolution known to military tactics was gone through with. The last day of his school in 1848, we drilled for two hours in widow Hemphill's yard. It rained all the time. Several ladies were present. She lived where G. C. Leech, Esq., now lives. We had sticks for guns. Any one who failed to properly perform his duty in ranks was taken out " ? '1 / ! ?111 n / ! 1 m m Dnnr1rtimt*rl on norl J' UUU umicu in au awivuaiu ovjuuui Spelling and reading matches were popular, too. George Leech and William Jenkins were the "brag" spellers. Mary McKinstry was the peer of either of them. A ticket, written on red paper with red ink, was given to the one standing head in the spelling classes each night. The ticket read thus: This is to certify that ended head spelling in my school this ... day of , IS.... M. Shuklet, Teacher. These tickets were kept until the first "quarter day" and counted in the presence of the school trustees and the public generally. A "quarter day" was at the expiration of one fourth of the time he had agreed to teach, (which was generally twelve months at a time). He generally boarded among the scholars. The scholars would always tell him the night he promised to go home with them. They were proud to get him, and many times arguments and perhaps hard feelings would arise between scholars as to who had the best right to his company. The last day of the school in 1848, I remember that Capt. James Montgomery formed a cavalry company of the visitors (men) and drilled them in the cavalry tactics. He had perhaps 75 or 100 men in line. He was a tall, good looking man and made a fine soldierly appearance. He was a patron of the school, and worked for its success. In fact, people in thos.e days took more interest in making their children happy and wise than they do now. They didn't depend on the teacher doing all the work. They made regular visits to I tho snhnnl hnimps and heard the scholars spell, read, and in other ways show what their teacher was doing for them. About this same time an old man by the the name of Lackston was digging gold on the place now owned, I think, by G. C. Leech or Mrs. Lizzie Leech, near the line of the Charleston, Cincinnati and Chicago Itailroad. Specimens of this ore can be found on the branch between Mrs. Castles' and George Leech's, on the Howell's ferry road. Though living the life of a hermit, in a little hut on the bank of the branch, he spent his peaceful life with no company but his Bible. Where he came from or how he got here I never knew. He was a professional miner and had forgotten more about geology than some experts ever knew. He had examined many places on Guion Moore creek, and followed that stream to the head, and was among the first men to give the Martin mine its notoriety. On Mr. Moses White's land he always claimed there was rich ore. Perhaps he was the first man who ever stuck a pick there in search of gold. Near Hickory Grove he followed up his prospects to and across Broad river, to the Darwin mine at Flint Hill. Between Smith's ford and Dr. Darwin's, he always claimed there was gold in abundance, as well as on the Smith lands. In 1849 he was badly bitten by a dog of Mr. Wyatt Neal, who then lived where Mr. Moses White now lives. He was also a great gardener and had all kinds of vegetables in his garden. He was an Englishman, and I always thought he was exiled from his mother country on account of disloyalty to theCrown. lie closed his peaceful life in death at Mr. Wyatt Neal's, and his remains were interred at Unity church. He was beyond doub.t the noblest work of God?"an honest man." His history has never been written, or even known by his most intimate friends. Another character in my early acquaintance with Western York was John Gibson, generally known as "Jack the Sailor." This son of Neptune was a man of great physical endowments, but his life, occupation and habits were such as to exclude him from the bestsociety. An Irishman, full of life, wit and humor. His occupation was that of a welldigger of the Charlie Cassiday stripe. He was a Roman Catholic by profes*sion. Being a very intelligent man, he could tell many things that happened in his eventful life that if written up would' make an interesting history. His stories of whaling voyages on the Pacific Ocean were a treasure to the student of history. His unenviable life came to a close at " XI 7 T ? I William u. lirowD's, on inu union side of Broad river, in about 1850 or '51. He was also buried at Unity church. Hickory Grove, then as now, was the metropolis for all that section of York county west of Clark's Fork and Bullock's creek. This section has been proverbial for the longevity of some of its citizeris. Some of the elder Bolins died at the advanced < age of 100 years. Of these we prom- i ise to speak hereafter, as well as the < great natural advantages of soil, climate, water power and mineral re- 1 sources of this delightful section of i country. J. l. h. ' < PHOSPHORESCENCE. The cause of phosphorescent light, as well as its nature, is, in many cases, a puzzle alike to the common and scientific observer. The light comes from very different sources. The appearance of any fish that is partially decayed gives the most common example. In the case of such decay, the light may be attributed to the phosphorous set free. But the same pame is given to the light emitted by the glow-worm or the firefly. In this case there is no such decomposition of elements. The phosporescence of the sea is referred to the presence of minute medusie creatures of the simplest organism. There are some species of fungus that are producers of light. In these instances it seems to be a result of the functions of life, rather than a phenomenon accompanying death. This light is given off in some instances where the decay does not seem likely to liberate any phos jjuuiuus, auu \vncict 11 aily luu^u^ is growing; it cannot be detected easily. A Scotch writer, Mr. W. A." , ' Smith, tells how he was surprised at the appearance of a piece of fir wood. In this country a decaying maple log, lying in a wet place, yields the best results. "During our walk through the woods the other evening,'' says Mr. Smith, "we came upon what appeared to be a salt herring lying in the road. On turning it over with our feet it seemed slopply, and we foolishly passed it. A * * few yards farther on another brilliant streak of light attracted our attention, and we this time decided to attempt its capture. A piece of paper was employed, to prevent an unpleasant meeting, and we then lifted, most circumspectly, what proved to be neither more or less than a piece of Scotch fir from one of the falleo. trees alongside. Apparently a new break was the phosphorescent surface, and the night being wet and dark, we suppose this had some influence. After drying it next day we again tried it in the dark, and it still showed brilliantly, so the wet had nought to do with it. Under a lens no fungus could be seen, only the rough, broken fibres on the surface? Youth's Companion. THE CAUSE OF THE GLACIAL PERIOD. The ocean equalizes the earth's temperature. How delicately balanced the forces of nature are as to glaciers, may be seen in the fact that therp have been five periods of advance and retreat in Switzerland since 1800. Were the Sahara desert to be inundated, it might disastrous ly change the climate of central* Europe. The orbit of the earth is an ellipse; its longer diameter being 3,000,000 * miles more than its shorter. The sun is in one foci of this ellipse; the earth's summer solstice is fullv sev en days longer than the winter. The present is favorable to glaciation in the southern hemisphere. There should be an increase of glaciers each 21,000 years, due to the earth's changing relations to the sun. Special epochs have been 200,000, 750,000 and 850,000 years ago, and similar epochs are expected 500,000, 800,000 and 9,000,000 years to come. Croll's theory rests-on hypotheses and assumptions. He takes the winds and ocean currents for stable quantities. But the Gulf < Stream?fifty miles wide, 1,000 feet deep, and which moves four miles an hour?and the trade winds need to be accounted for. The southeast trade winds predominate. Why? Because the southern hemisphere is cooler. But why is it cooler? The extent and depth of southern oceans add power to the winds in that hemisphere. While the trade winds are steady but not strong, they are sometimes interrupted by, terrible monsoons. Not all cold seas are favorable to glaciation; those in the far North lack moisture. The weak point in Mr. Croll's theory is his failure to satisfactorily account for absorption, retention and distribution of heat received from the sun. Why do clouds prevent frost? Why does heat pass into glass easily (as into a green house) and not so easily escape ? The equator is not so hot, nor the arctic region so cold as they ought to be according to the heat received from the sun. The difference between the equator and the coldest point on parallel 67 (where the mean temperature in January is 56 degrees below zero,) which ought to be 172 degrees, is but about 75 degrees. We do not know what caused the glaciers, but glacialists are more concerned with the facts of glaciation.?Prof. Wright of Harvard. The Origin of Petroleum.? Professor Mefdeloefn supports the theory that petroleum is of mineral origin, and that its production is going on and may continue almost indefinitely. He has succeeded in making it artificially by a similar process to that which he believes is going on in the earth, and experts finds it impossible to distinguish be tweeu ine inuunu huh me ninuufactured article. His hypothesis is that water finds its way below the crust of the earth and then melts with carbides of metals, particularly of iron, in a glowing state. The water is decomposed into its constituent gases; the oxygen unites with the iron, while the hydrogen tak^s up the carbon, and ascends to a higher region where part of it is condensed into mineral oil, and part remains as natural gas, to escape where it can find an outlet, or to remain at a great pressure until a borehole is put down to provide it a passage to the surface. Oil-bearing strata occurs in the vicinity of mountain ranges, and its supposed that the upheaval of the hills has dislocated the strata below sufficiently to give the water access to depths from which it is ordinarily shut out. If the centre of the earth contains large amounts of metallic carbides, we have in prospect a store of fuel against the days when our coal will be exhausted.? 0/7, Paint and Drug lieporter. Live in the Best Boom.?Let us take the airiest, choicest and sunniest room in the house for our living room?the work-shop where brain and body are built up and rewarded ; and there let us have a baywindow, no matter how plain in structure, through which the good' twin angels?sunlight and pure aircan freelv enter. This window shall be the poem of the house. It shall give freedom and scope to sunsets, the tender green and changing tints of spring, the glow of summer, the pomp of autumn, the white of winter, storm and sunshine, glimmer and gloom?all these we can enjoy as we sit in our sheltered room, as the changing years roll on .?Chicago Tribune. BST A very judicious mother, who had brought up a large family of children, all of whom are now responsible and useful member of society, remarked that it was her practice to obey her children for the first year of their life, but ever after 3he expected them to obey her.?/. V. C. Abbott. ^