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]he Wife's ^ccrct, OR A BITTER RECKONING ! By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME CHAPTER III.—(Continued.) Forget her! As Jack turned into the house, after watching the carriage down the drive, his head and heart were on fire with the memory of her last linger ing look, and the blood danced in his fin gers as he recalled the warm, clinging pressure of her hand tt parting. "I think I must be mad when she is near me, for somehow I always manage to believe in the possibility of her love for me when in her presence," he mut tered, remorsefully. "And, if she did love, what then? Could I throw Ethel over? My sweet, pure little Ethel, It would break her heart! 1 must get rid of this folly. I'll finish Ethel's letter at once, and send It off by the morning post. I'll write a long, loving letter to the poor little girl; It will do me as much good to write it as it will her to receive it." This time he commenced with "My dear Ethel," and then, before proceeding further, he made a close examination of the beautifully executed address and crest on the paper. The crest of "Mallyngs"—as the name was originally spelled—a tiger's head and front paws in repose, with the motto. "Let the sleeping lie," particularly in terested him. He had stood for many a minute during the past week in front of one of these emblems of the family circle—fierce, ungovernable—and ponder ed the probable events that had caused it to be bestowed on them as their badge. "I wonder why she never married?" he mused. "I wonder if mine is the true reason, and there really is some poor beggar in the background awaiting her twenty-fifth birthday? I shall have a chance of finding out if I accept her in vitation for the partridge shooting in September, for Lord Summers told me she would be twenty-five in that month. Ought I, in justice to Ethel, to place my self in the way of such temptation? Bosh! 1 must be a weak fool indeed if 1 cannot live in the society of a beautiful woman without making an idiot of my self! Besides if I come and s*e for my', self that she is really 'gone' on some lucky fellow, it will be the most complete cure I could find for my own folly." But Jack knew this to be false rea soning; nevertheless he would not listen to conscience, and, with a gloomy brow and tightly compressed lips, sat glaring moodily at the blank sheet of paper be fore him. I "Will you take your luncheon in here, sir? It will seem less lonely than In the dining room, 1 think." I Jack looked up in surprise at the housekeeper. • "I must have been sitting here nearly three hours. I don't mind where I lunch Mrs. Perkins." "Then I'll put it in here, sir; it's brighter and more cheerful than the din ing room." Mrs. Perkins walked to a sideboard and flicked away an imaginary speck of dusr. "Were you here in Sir Paul's time?" he asked, more because the old Indy wanted toMalk than from any interest he took in the matter. "Bless you, sir, I've been a servant in this house for turned fifty years! I began as under housemaid at sixteen, and here I've been ever since; so I'm what you may call an old servant." "Of course you remember Miss Mail ing's mother? She must have been a beautiful woman." "Sometimes she was and sometimes she wasn't. She was handsome enough naturally; but she had such au awful temper that it unite disfigured her at times. I've known her lo sulk about the house for a month at a time because her brother, the late Sir Paul, had re fused her some trifling thing. We were quite relieved when she got married, and went away on the Continent with her husband. You see she was many years younger than her brothers, Sir Paul and the present baronet, Sir Geof frey, and was a bit spoiled in conse quence—though there is au old saying in the family that a Mailing's daughter is always a fiend, asking your pardon for the word, sir; so it's lucky Miss Pauline is only n Mailing by adoption." "Then you think she has eccaped the failing usual to the ladies of the fam ily?" "1 should not like to give an opinion of my mistress' disposition. It would be very bad taste on my part, sir. Miss Mailing, during the six years she has been mistress here, has been everything ono could desire." "I beg your pardon," he said, politely. "I did not wish to betray you into dis respect for Miss Mailing. My question was the natural outcome of your remark ss to Miss Mailing's being only a Mail ing by adoption." "To be sure, sir; and that takes me back to what I was saying. Miss Paul ine's mother was away on the Continent with her husband directly after they were married, and roamed about for years from ono country to another with him; she never came home again, poor dear! She died when Miss Pauline was fifteen years eld; and then Sir Paul was anxious to have the child with him in England, as he had made her his heiress, in consequence of the other brother, Geoffrey, having married without his consent. But Major Lufton would not part with his daughter, and refused even to let her come on a visit; so we none of us ever saw Miss Pauline until she came here, a grown woman, to take her place as mistress of Mallingford." "I suppose you knew her at once by her likeness to her mother?" "Strange to sny, we didn't, sir! To be sure she was very ill, for her father had been dead six months before she heard a word about being heiress to this prop erty, and all that time, to keep herself from starving, had been teaching iu some Spanish convent. But even as she re covered her looks we watched in vain for aomething in the voice or the expression of the face that should remind us of her mother. There are the same beautiful hair and eyes, and there the likeness ends." it to as to of a it "Do you say she never knew about her heiress-ship until after her father's death ?" "Yes, sir. She says he would not tell her because he was afraid she might be tempted to leave him. I believe they were in dreadful straits sometimes." "It must have been a wonderful change for her when she came here." "It was indeed, sir—so great that she can never to this day bear to recall that dreadful time, and refuses to talk about it to any one. CHAPTER IV. Ethel Mallet knelt on a chair, her bonny face pressing closely against the window pane. The room being on the second floor, it was only by so doing that she could see the steps that led up to the front door. It was a quarter past eight, and she was watching anxiously, as she had done for several mornings past, for the coming of the postman. She ieft her position presently, and bustled about, putting little finishing touches to the breakfast table. "It is hard on poor dear dad to have to put up with petty inconveniences," she said, affectionately, as she laid the morning newspaper next the roses, and looked to see if she could do anything further to beautify the unlovely lodging house brenkfust table. "I know the sight of a stain on the tablecloth takes away hiB appetite. With the very next few shillings I make by my copying I'll buy a couple of tablecloths, and then we cun have nu extra one without asking Mrs. Philpott for it and risking black looks for the reBt of the week. Oh, here you are, papa! I thought you were going to be late—nnd it is your Kensington day, too. Ah, there's the postman! I wonder if he has a letter for me? Isn't it strange that Jack has written only once in a whole week?" "Young fellow r s always find plenty of occupation in the country; you must not worry about it, my child." This remark was rather uncalled for, as Ethel, the wholo week through, had scrupulously avoided mentioning the subject of Jack's neglect. "The country round Mallingford is particularly attractive, and I can quite understand that Jack is feasting his soul on its beauties." "Oh, papa, do you know' Mallingford? You never said so before!"—and Ethel was just about to launch out into a string of questions when her thoughts were diverted by the appearance of the servant with the fish for breakfast, and a letter. "For me, and from Jack!" she ex claimed, breathlessly; but she did not attempt to read it until she had attended to every little want of her father's, and seen him comfortably settled for his morning glance over the leaders iu the newspapers. Then she took up the letter and be gan rending it. As she read, the sweet anticipation of pleasure faded slowly from her face, and she laid the epistle down, looking perplexed and troubled. She went on pretending to eat, filled her father's cup when he pushed it toward her, nnd resolutely kept silence until he had laid down his newspaper and caught her wistful look. "Well, what are you waiting to say?" he asked. "I don't know; Jack has written a nice, long letter, and yet I am disap pointed. I'm never satisfi He tells me here that In and a line or two lower that Miss Mailing, of w ho a glowing description in has left for London. 1 row minded, but I can't that it's more her nbse that makes him lonely, know Jack to Vie one of orable men iu the world! a few hard names, dad, ashamed of myself." But Mr. Mallet did nothing of the sort. "1 think it extremely bad taste on Jack's part to fill his letters to you with descriptions of another woman's beau ty." "Now, there you are wrong! It's just that that satisfies me as to Jack's good faith. If there was one scrap of unfair ness to me in his admiration for Miss Mailing he would not write so openly about it. It was only my nonsense about being jealous, you know." "Y'ou are a veritable little bee, suck ing the honey and leaving the poison I'll not say one word against your hero, my dear. But 1 don't like to hear of any slight being put upon you. You know 1 don't think him worthy of my little girl." "You conceited old dad," Ethel said with a smile, "to think your girl bettei than any one else's! Why, Jack is much too good for me! Even you admit lie's clever." "Granted. But who is he? He has a straight nose and a good pair of shoul ders; but what was his grandfather? Have you ever asked him?" "Papa! What an extraordinary ques tion that would be for me to ask him! 1 dare say his grandfather was as good a man ns mine." "My dear, your grandfather was one of the oldest commoners in England. The Mailings of Mallingford hold themselves among the best people in Exbridgeshire." Ethel looked at her fetter a» if she feared his reason had given way. "1 dare say you are very asti.Va.hed. You have always known me as a vtsTd working drawing master, and of course concluded I had never been anytitlug else. My dear, that Mallingford Park, of which*Jack writes so enthusiastically, is mine by all just laws of succession. But my elder brother, the late owner, cut me off with a shilling because I annoyed him about a trilling matter, and left the whole property to my niece, your cousin, Pauline Lufton." "And I am eighteen, and this is the first word 1 have ever heard of it!" "Yes, and most likely the last, for it Is a subject 1 don't care to talk about. I don't think 1 should have spoken of it now if 1 had not felt extremely annoyed with Jack for his uugentleman-like neg "'s V< ry h n s »ly. (low i he us 111 lie gave S lull his first n >te. know Pm imr hell fan iii£ nee linn ine As if 1 ili 1 not the most 1 oil Plea so ca 1! me mul mak Q me lect during the past week. You are as well born as this cousin of yours of whom he raves, and I will not allow him to slight you in any way." "Daddy, will you let me manage this matter myself? Y'ou have so surprised me by what you have just said that I am almost bewildered, and can hardly think of anything else. But I am sure that I am too self-conceited to let Jack really slight me. If I thought he want ed me to give him his freedom I would do it at once. I think it would almost break my heart, but I would do it. I would not bestow myself where I was lightly thought of." "Heaven bless my child! I can trnst you to support the family reputation for self-respect; and, Ethel, if you aro writing to Jack to-day, don't touch on that subject. 1 have reasonus for not wishing him to know anything about th* matter until I tell him myself." Ethel looked disappointed. She hand ed her father his hat and gloves, and kissed her hand to him from th#» window as he turned the corner of the street, and then went back to her letter. She read it through more than once, her face wearing a thoughtful expression. Then she sat down with loosely clasped hands, thinking over the letter even when she had returned it to her pocket. "I am sure of it—he loves this Miss Mailing! Papa did not call her by that name. I forget now what lie called her; but it was not Mailing. I thought my dislike to parting with Jack was all nonsensical fancy at the time; but I know now it was a real forewarning of this sorrow. He will never come back just the same as he went, even if lie gets over this fancy for her. Jack dear old Jack—why—why did you speak of your love for me until you were quite —quite certain you could never care for any one else? Oh, Jack, I can't let you go, dear!" With a heart-broken little cry she threw herself upon the cushion. CHAPTER V. Babette's arms and back ached almost beyond endurance, yet the brush con tinued to play over Pauline Mailing's hair as it hung in luxuriant profusion (town her back. Pauline was deep in thought, for the Duke of Bennoir had just sent her the exquisite bunch of roses she held in her hand, with the lit tle note lying open on the table, and she was making up her mind as to whether she should accept or reject the offer she knew he would make when lie called by and by. "Did I look really well last night, Babette?" she asked. "Mademoiselle is irresistible when she chooses," murmured the French woman. M iss Mailing again relapsed into deep thought. "If I could only be sure of the past remaining the past, if I were only cer tain that ugly facts would not turn up unexpectedly to face me, I would marry this poor creature with a title—I would, if only to save me from myself. Surely, after six years of safety and prosperity, I am never going to he such an utter idiot as to risk loss of everything, because this poor painter is good looking and charm ingly candid. I hate myself for my weakness. Only ten days ago I began this flirtation for my own amusement j and to annoy that big-eyed, pale-faced child, to give her a few unhappy hours ns a set-off against the perpetual anxiety i her mere existence causes me, nnd, before I am certain thnt either of these purposes is accomplished, I wake up to the humil iating knowledge that I am caught iu my own trap, that for the first time iu my life I have fallen in love!" She burst into scornful laughter, so startling Babette that the ivory-backed brush flew out of lier hand, and she stood with round eyes and open mouth egarding her mistress' face in the glass. "What is the matter with you? Why are you staring at me like that?" By an effort Babette recovered her usual subdued, respectful expression. I feared mademoiselle was not well," she 111 i rm ur Ml a poh geticall V. N« nsens »! Go m with your b rusli ing a ni <ln m t taki notice of what doea not c< iieern > oil." Sli o is a Vf ry cat !" Baht tte said con fiiU nti illy. o the hi usli, as she piel ed it ni). I shouh like t ) know what wi eked ness s 111! IS pi i niiig IOW." Pi rhiips it is no to he wondori d at. an "r nil," P inline mused "He usually is so din nt fn in the in en one liects —s i ! ouest y simph . so br: ght and true, so sensitively honorable. 1 believe he would marry that chit in spite of me if the release did not come from lier. It shall! If I cannot have him, she never shall ! On that one point my mind is fully made up!" it (To ha continued.) A Niiiht of It. "Popley's got an awful big family. It must be awful to feed all of them." "1 guess so. 1 realized last night what it meant to have about a hundred mouths to feed." "Goodness! did you have to -enter tain that many people?" "No mosquitoes." — Philadelphia Press. of In Important, if True. "Have you ever attempted to play 'Hamlet?'" asked the manager. "No, sir. 1 do not consider myself 1 fitted by nature to impersonate the melancholy Dane." "Then you are indeed, as you have said, an exceptional actor. I will give j you a job."—Chicago Tribune. The New Girl. Dolly was out for a walk and met an old friend of lier father. "And how old are you, little one?" asked tlie old gentleman. But Dolly was indignant. "I'm hardly old at ail; I'm nearly new." she answered, tossing her head, j —Chicago Journal. - Highest Office. The Foreigner—The presidency, I be lieve, is the highest office within the gift of the American people, is It not? The Native—No; the highest office Is the weather signal station on Bike's peak. Sure Sign. Edyth—I think Stella is beginnin, to get uneasy about the future. May me—Because why? Edyth—She has begun to spiusters us maiden ladies. I speak of A REHEARSAL WITH IRVING. A Member of His Lyceum Company Tells of Hts Great Kindness. Writing of Irving, while she was a member of the London Lyceum com pany, Gertrude Norman, iu the Thea ter Magazine, says: "Sir Henry always impressed one, despite his capabilities for long hours ^ and days of vigorous work, as being a fragile and delicate man, one who had suffered great physical pain in the earnest battle of life. When he appeared In the early morning to his already gathered company, coming quietly and unobtrusively around the corner of some jutting wing, the most prosaic of us all felt a change and stimulus In the atmosphere. It was as if some grave and gentle sage or philosopher had come to speak to his waiting followers. "Immediately one was aware that here was a man of the profoundesl intellectual attainments, containing in that lofty brain so many brilliant qual ities and gifts thnt there was little doubt that whatever branch of art, literature, science or politics he had chosen for his medium of expression, in any one of them he muet have poig nantly succeeded. When at rehearsal he was alert, tense, all-seeing and com prehensive, but in private life usually grave, dreamy, absent-minded. But he could be, as many have attested, the most animated and genial of talkers, the best and wittiest of story tellers, Nevertheless, one could never In hit presence lose sight of the fact that his art was to him an all-absorbing monu mental and worshiped passion. The many unforgetable productions which evolved from under his master hand were rehearsed by himself and Miss Terry with the utmost ardent love. The rehearsals attendant on these lasted many weeks, but the enor dous Interest attached to them was so enthralling that one never grew weary, even though one often found the day nnd night had passed and dawn was flooding the London sky and streets. "Irving was benignly gentle, espe cially to the younger folk; he seemed to comprehend sympathetically the great awe in which we all held him. Occasionally lie was a trifle shy, as if not quite suie what to say to us. To all he continually showed the sweetest tact and consideration, ever striving to And as topics of conversa tion the subjects most interesting to his colleague, friend or visitor. "His sense of humor was both sly and delicious, and his criticisms of faults In one's work were so delicately made that one felt more as If receiv ing a compliment than a correction. Each and all worked for him with love, not fear, so it is little to be won dered that he attained harmonious re I have seen him go over a ! BU j^ s ' , „ _ tin y scene or an inflection from eight een to twenty times, never losing his patience nor that wonderful sense of courtesy which haloes the whole man. "There are many stories told of Sir Henry's little eccentricities, and all are too well known to bear repetition here, but one quaint little habit I do not recall having seen mentioned In print—that of his wearing different liats at rehearsal. By these hats we couid usually tell the mood of our great chie. and the length of the re hearsal before us. , "When he appeared in a smart, tall, silk hat, we knew it meant a brief hour or so's work. If he wore a high, stiff hat, such as Mr. Daly used to wear, it meant several hours of earn , , , „ , , . est labor, but: If he appeared or called j for a battered shapeless, soft and very ; old brown hat we knew that .t meant j an intense and arduous day. If tliia last adornment were flung off alto were gether, then we knew irrevocably it was a sign of ail day and almost ail the night within the walls of the the ater." ' BEAUTY OF ROYAL BULLOCKS. In India Animal* Arc Reverenced, Not Used ns lleiiHt.N of llurden. Edmund Russell, who writes enter tainingly of "The Sacred Animals of India" in Everybody's, thus describes tlie bullocks that draw state carriages; "Even a foreigner can almost feel this affection for the royal bullocks that draw the gold and silver carriages of state, can respond to the sweetness In their forest-glances which Invite caress of white velvet flanks and ad miration of gold-tipped horns nnd gold shod feet. The jeweled harness with trailing cloths stiff with precious ban dlwork completes the richness of carved metal, inlaid teak and ivory, nnd wind-swept curtains from which 1 glnnce dawn-flashing, dawn-reflecting eyes, their pupils black bees caught in white jade lotus-prisons. The cart may be red lacquer, with peacocks j glided on the poles and Burma rubles seeded In its diapers. Wreathed with scarlet flowers, the cattle look indeed of celestial origin and like no animals we know. "There is an old legend that the Dra per, r Hoomayon, when taking his fa vorite begum to drive, used to act as charioteer In a carriage drawn by beautiful white oxen. Most of the or-| j thodox wealthy natives still prefer this curtained vehicle with great carved hubs and rough-hewn spokes, and all royal ladles, excepting, perhaps, the ranis of Gondal and Cooch-Behar who are thoroughly Europeanized, still see the world through gold nets fringed ■with pearls. In Kashmir It Is the shawl-bearing goat that plays the role of sacred cow. The Kashmiris told me that Adam came to their Vale, after being driven out of paradise, to buy shawls for Eve." I If a man owns street-railway stock he never recommends walking as an exercise. RAIN BOWVILLE. Started out one summer day For Rainbowville not far away. Fine location, we were told, Where you just picked up your gold; Never saying, "if you please;" Always living at your ease, Just beyond the maple hill Fortune smiled, in Rainbowville. Past the fieIds> where ripeuing grala Glistened with the recent rain; Following still the prismed light Till it faded from our sight; VVhere the willow bough inclines, VVhere the poison ivy twines; through the orchard, past the mill We kept oa toward Rainbowville Weary, footsore, cold and wet, Hunger, mingling with regret, Bade us turn to childish rest— Next day we'd renew the quest. And we did. Ambition fond Ever lures to the beyond. Years have passed, and we are still On our way to Rainbowville. —Washington Star. 1 Mus oi he fire. H MUST confess I stood at the door with some trepidation. I had not seen Yluriel for a year; she had been abroad. Once, Indeed, 1 had heard from her wtien there came a gift a week after Christmas with her card: "Please accept—even though I am a little late''—if Muriel had only been speaking of—ah! Muriel!—Mu riel! A year! Perhaps she was engaged. It was not a pleasant thought, for af ter all I fear I love Muriel. Still, ev ery one did. But we were only good comrades, a stage reached after many interesting periods. First a flirtation, then acquaintance, something stronger on my side, then easy Intimacy, friendship, and Anally good comrades—-comrades as far as she was concerned; lover on my part, but she did not know. It would have been so useless. I a scribbler, she— ah! who would give the girl lie loves economy for luxury, but perhaps I hoped. Perhaps I should write a ( A w LEANING OVER MY SHOULDER. novel, the great pliantasmic novel— and perhaps platonies would prove the entrance way to love. Perhaps—perhaps! And that was why I stood there in trepidation—-a year is a long time. In the hall I sat by the Are. The snapping flames builded a palace of dreams—the Riviera with blue skies, . the green of the grass, the gold of the j Buushine< the 8ong tlie birds> tbe ; Boft stri ngs of a mandolin, our villa! j Am , Ml ir'le,, daiutVt fri , K , le> innocent, brllliaut , a rose> soft perfumed, splen nilml, that 1 should see you again, and tb a t you would be just the same dear °'A Jarvis! ' did, God's handiwork, leaning over my shoulder reading the great novel; sure ly a palace of dreams—Tantalus of the Fire. She put her slim hand In mine. "Jarvis, it's good to see you." In friendship she let her hand rest there in welcoming. It was hard, but we were—friends, and so 1 said; "It's good to see you, too." And we sat down. "Muriel," I said, reproachfully, "you never wrote me." "But, Jarvis, dear, we're such good friends. I knew that you wouldn't And she smiled. That smile was worth all the letters in the world, ex cept, perhaps, the one that contained | "Yes." "I am still the same Jarvis—-dear, I hope; old, I hope not. And are you j still the same Muriel?" | "Yes," she said, very softly, "except that I am the happiest girl In the world. Oh! Jarvis, you shall know first of all—I'm engaged!" "Engaged?" I asked, quietly, so quietly that I wonder now. The Tantalus of the Fire smiled as I leaned forward, grasping the vanish ing Muriel. A log snapped, the blaze died away. Something In me snapped, ^ too—tho fire of my life went out. "Yes," she said, very slowly, "he has come—the knight of my heart. Oh! Jarvis, wish me happiness," she beg ged a i 1U0 st sadly. ( "Happiness!" I said. "I wish you t be grea t es t happiness In the world, We have been 8Ucb friends> 8Uch com . rad that x lad , have entrance to the land of the Heart's Desire, to keep you, to guard you, to save you from sadness and sorrow." "Jarvis, dear," she was almost whis pering, "you are a friend—and now that I am to be married I shall need friends." I I started. 1 "You are the only real man friend I have. Tbe others—ah! they will desert then. But you won't?" she end ed, half positive, half questioning. "Muriel," I said, just a bit brokenly, try as I would not to, "all my life I shall be your friend, ever at your ser vice to do what you will. Your mar riage will make no difference in our friendship," I finished, quite gravely. "Will it?" I asked in trembling tones. "No, indeed," she said honestly, "Jack's a dear. I have told him about you; he wants to know you; he's up stairs; shall I bring him down?" "No," I said, "if you don't mind we'll postpone that. I'm just In town for an hour, and I must rush In a moment to catch my train; It goes at live." "Oh! I'm sorry; can't you stay with us for a time at least; you can chum with Jack." "I fear not." I could not explain. I wanted only to sob. She talked about Jack as a woman can talk only about the man she loves. To be that man—but I scarcely heard. "I'm sure you'll lise him," she con cluded. "l'es," said I, but though he were the prince of men I could not. "When I'm married," she said, tim idly almost, "you must come and spend a month with us." "Yes," said I. How could I? How could I not? Then suddenly the clock began to chime—one, two, three, four, five. ''Oh! you've missed your train," she said. "There was no train," I said—heav en forgive me. "Then you don't want to meet him?" she asked, all sad. "I could not yet. Good-by!" I said quickly, and I took her hand and kiss ed it gently, very, very gently. She drew back half frightened, "Oh! Jarvis, how could you?" "How could I not?" I said brokenly; "but, Muriel, dear, I shall be your friend always—always. I pledge you JLlodspeed for your future. You shall be my guardian angel, ever guiding me in spirit, and I—for you—will ever do all that one man may do for the wom an he loves beyond all the great prizes of the earth—the woman he loves, but may not have. Forget me, forget that 1 loved you, because it Is my sorrow deep down in my heart that I was not strong enough to be strong." "Forget you!" she said, and there were tears in her eyes. "Forget my Jarvis, my best friend, tbe best friend a woman ever had, faithful, honest, strong, true, always unselfish— forget my Jarvis!" and she leaned forward and kissed me on tue forehead. Ah! the touch of her lips, that subtle aroma of a good woman, dainty, frag ile, innocent, a rose, soft perfumed— Ah! Tantalus! As I walked away I looked back and saw the tears sparkling in her eyes. And the memory of her was so strong upon me that I bowed my head and sobbed and sobbed. ****••• The great novel is still unwritten, though my hair is streaked with gray, Muriel is still dainty, fragile, innocent, and Jack is a splendid man. I see them both a good deal, and Muriel still calls me dear Jarvis. I have given up smoking and I have not been to the theater for many a day, but at least little Muriel and lit tle Jarvis have all manner of wonder ful toys and love their Uncle Jarvis. They climb on my knee and ask me to tell them of my wonderful palace across the sea. And I tell them of the Riviera with blue skies, blue seas, the green grass, tlie gold of the sunshine, the song of the birds, the soft tremolo of a mandolin, my villa witli a lady— dainty, fragile, Innocent, brilliant, a rose, soft perfumed, splendid, leaning over my shoulder reading Uncle Jarvis' great novel. Ah! the Tantalus of the Fire.— R. C. M., In Illustrated Bits. "And Don't Go Near the Water." There lives in Washington a physi cian who has a ten-year-old son, a boy of great spirit, but with no over abundance of strength. Not long ago the boy secured his father's permission to join a camping party organiz-ad by boys In the neighborhood; but in the parting Instructions there was one re striction. "Now, my boy," said the father, "I don't wish you to go out in our cousin Bob's canoe. He and those other lads are quite used to the water, but you are not; and you haven't as yet learn ed to sit still anywhere. Y'ou'll bo with them but a short time, and with the other amusements you'll have, you can afford to let the canoe alone this visit, so that your mother wil^not be worrying all the white you're away." The boy promptly gave the des* red promise. On his return he was most enthusiastic with regard to the pleas ures he had enjoyed. "Didn't mind not canoeing a bit, father," said he. "The only time they used the canoe, anyway, was the last day, to go over to the other shore. But I remembered my promise, und I wasn't going to break It at the last minute. So I swam across." Her Opinion of Him. "Yaas," said Choliy, "I was Intro duced to Miss Peppry lawst evening, and I fawncy she confused me with some one else. She seemed puzzled." "Yes," replied Miss Sharpe, "she told me afterward that you did im press her like the average puzzle. "So simple when you know It " Catholic Standard and Times. Cemetery for Doga. London has a cemetery for dogi which has been In existence for more than twenty years and has several hundred graves.