Newspaper Page Text
The Minister's Wife
By MRS. HENRY WOOD CHAI*TER VII— (Continued.) Later in the day she seemed a little better ; it was the rallying of the spirit before departure. She knew it was de ceitful strength, but it put hope into the heart of Mr. Baumgarten. "Ryle, if he should live, you will al ways be kind to him?'' "Edith ! Kind to him ! Oh, my wife, my wife," he uttered, with a burst of irrepressible emotion, "you must not go, and leave him and me." She waited until he was calmer ; she was far more collected than he. "You will love him?" she reiterated, faintly; "you will always protect him against the world's unkindness?" "Ay ; that I swear to you," he ardently replied. And Edith Baumgarten breathed a sigh of relief, and quietly lay back upon her pillow. Her .voice, hardly to be heard at all. was growing fainter and fainter. Her husband thought it must bo the faintness attendant on death ; but for a short time •he seemed to sleep. He sat on ; his arm beneath her neck, his other hand held one of her hands. All was still ; so still that the ticking of Edith's watch, lying on the dressing ta ble, was audible. About ten minutes had thus passed when a slight cry from the infant in the next room, followed by the soothing hush of the nurse, fell upon Mr. Baumgarten's ear. "Ityle ! Ryle !" "My dear?" he breathed, vexed that her sleep should have been disturbed. "I hnve been in that dream again— going on my long, long journey," she said in disjointed syllables. "Oh, Ryle, 1 know it now ; it is the journey of death." "My dear wife !" he cried, much dis tressed. "The air is—oh, so sweet—and the light at the far end so bright and lovely—and the flowers—look at the flowers ! they are the flowers of Heaven ! and—and—oh, look ! look-" The tone, growing inaudible, bad taken a glad sound of ecstasy; and with the last word, the spirit passed away. After the funeral of Mrs. Baumgarten the parish flocked to Whitton Cottage to condole with their rector, and to see the baby. He received them with quiet cour tesy, but the most sanguine sympathizers could not detect any encouragement for a renewal of the visit. All that could make life pleasant to Mr. Baumgarten was as yet buried in the grave of Edith Gradually he began to take notice of She child ; at first he had avoided him a'he old servant, Dinah, who had lived With the Danes for years, took charge of him. Mr. Baumgarten would sometimes liave him on his knee now. and soon loved him with an impassioned fondness. II had nothing else to love. Thus the months glided on to winter; the rector fulfilling all his duties as of yore, but leading a very lonely life, CHAPTER VIII. One bright, frosty day In January when the icicles shone in the sun and the blue sky was cloudless, the open carriage of Lady Avon drew up at the rectory gate. After the marriage of Mr. Buum garten Lady Avon had occasionally at tended Little Whitton church as hereto fore, but Lady Grace never. She had al ways excuses ready, and her mother— who had never fathomed, or even suspect ed the true cause of (trace's caprice as to the living—put faith in them. The countess declined to alight, and Mr. Baumgarten went eut to the gate. "Would it be troubling you very «inch, Mr. Baumgarten, to come to Avon House occasionally and i>*sa an honr with me?" began site, as they shook hands. "Certainly not, if you wish it," ha re f lied. "If I can render you any service shall be very happy to come." Lady Avon lowered ber voice and bent toward him. "I am not happy in my tnlnd, Mr. Baumgarten ; not easy. The present world is passing away from me, and I know little of the one I am enter ing. I don't like the rector of Great Whitton; he does not suit me; but with you I feel st home. I shall be obliged to you to come up once or twice a week and pnss a quiet hour with me." "I will do so. But I hope you find nothing more than usual the matter with your health." "Time will prove." replied Lady Avon. •TIow is your little boy?" "He gets on famously ; he is a brave little fellow," returned Mr. Baumgarten, his eyes brightening. "Would you like to see bim? 1 will have him brought out." "I should like to see him, yes; but I will come in." Me helped ber from the low carriage, and gave her bis arm up the path, and the most comfortable chair by the parlor fire. The child was brought in by Dinah ■—a pretty babe in a white frock and black ribbons, tlie latter worn in memory of his mother. Lady Avon took him on her knee. "He will resemble you." she said, scan Ding his face ; "he has your eyes exactly, deep and dark"—and she had nearly add ed "beautiful." The child put his hand upon her ermine boa. • "My pretty boy !" she exclaimed, fond ly. "What Is his name?" "Cyras. I know it would have pleased Edith to have him named after her fath er." "Ah ! Poor Edith !" sighed Lady Avon, as she gave the child back to Dinah, and arose. "Not the least distressing feature of that loss was its suddenness. I wished I could have come over to Bay farewell." Mr. Baumgarten sighed iu answer, as be again gave his arm to Lady Avon. "By the way," she said, as he was settling her In the carriage. "I must congratulate you upon getting into the rectory. You paid the cost of the repairs yourself, 1 believe." "Yes. I had some money left me un expectedly, and used it for the purpose." "Well, I am glad you're In it. Good day." Mr. Baumgarten paid his first visit to Avon House on the following day. Lady Grace was alone in the room when he entered. Her countenance flushed crlm ion, and then grew deadly pale. Mr. Baumgarten took her hand, almost In compassion ; he thought she must be ill. Do of to her ing no, ing be a of ed as 1 to he be I ' ill. "What has been the matter?" he in quired. "The matter ! Nothing," and she grew crimson again. "Is your visit to mamma? Do you wish to see her?" i "I am here by appointment with Lady | Avon. The countess came into the room, and Grace found that his visits were to bo frequent. From that day they saw a great deal of each other. Lady Grace strove to arm herself against him ; she called up pride, anger and many other adjuncts, false as they were vain, for the heart is ever true j to itself, and will be heard. It ended in her struggling no longer ; in her giving herself up. once more, to the bliss of lov ing him unchecked. Did he give himself up to the same, by way of reciprocity? Not of loving her; no, it had not come to it ; but he did yield to the charm of liking her, of find ing pleasure in her society, of wishing to be more frequently at Avon House. The lion, and Rev. Wilfred Elliotsen, claiming a dead earl for a father and a live earl for a brother, was not, of course, light whose beams could be hid under a bushel, more particularly as the live earl was in the cabinet. It therefore sur prised no one that when the excellent old Bishop of Barkaway was gathered to his fathers and a lucky canon, who hold one of the best livings in the kingdom, was promoted to his miter, Mr. Elliotsen should step into the canon's shoes, rich living and all. This left Great Whitton vacant. As luck, or the opposite, chanc ed to have ft, Lord Avon was on a few days' visit to his mother when Mr. El liotsen received liis appointment. "Don't put such another as Elliotsen into Great Whitton, Henry," observed the ountess to her son, "or wo shall have the parish in rebellion." "He has not succeeded in pleasing his flock »yet, then?" remarked his lordship. "Give it to Mr. Baumgarten. He is a deserving man, I lenry ; he will restore peace to the parish, and as a preacher few excel him." Lord Avon laughed a little as he sat down to face the sofa. "Why, mother, Baumgarten is the very man 1 hail in my own mind. I thought by your preamble you must have fixed on some one else. I would rather he had it than any other person in the world. I can tell you that the smart the last con tretemps brought me lingers yet. I yet It be Baumgarten; we owe him a recom pense. And that very day the earl, afraid, pos sibly, of fresh interference, personally of fered Great Whitton to Mr. Baumgar ten, and shook hands on its acceptance. That same evening Mr. Baumgarten presented himself at Avon House. Grace Carmel was standing amid the rose trees ; she liked to linger in the oi»cn air at the dusk hour, to watch the stars come out, and to think of him. But that she wore a white dress, he might not have distin guished her in the fading twilight. lie left the open path to join her. "It is a late visit, Lady Grace, which I must apologize for; 1 was called out to a sick friend as I waj starting, and de tained an hour," he said ; "but I 'could not resist coining to soy a word of grati tude to Lord Avon." "Your visit wil! not accomplish its ob ject, Mr. Baumgarten, for my brother is gone. He left before dolnner upon some matter of urgent business In town. Mam ma says she is very gUd that you will be nearer to us." "Perhaps I hare to thank you for this, as much as Ivord Aron," he said. "No ; no, Indeed ; it was mamma who spoke to Henry; or he to her; they ar ranged it between them. I —I "What?" ho whispered. "I did not speak to him," she contin ued, filling up the pause of hesitation "That is all I was going to say." But Mr. Baumgarten did not fail to de tect how agitated she was. Her trembling hands were busy with the rose trees though alle could scarcely distinguish buds from leaves. Mr. Baumgarten took one hand, and placing it within his own arm, bent down his face until it was on a level with hers. "Grace," he whispered "have we misunderstood each other?" She could uot speak, but her lij>s turn od white with her emotion. It was the hour of bliss she had so long dreamed of "Grace," he continued, in a tone of im passioned tenderness, "have we loved eacl other through the past, and did I mistake my feelings? Oh, Grace, my best-beloved, forgive me ! Forgive my folly and m blindness !" With a plaintive cry of satisfied yearn ing, such as may escape from one who suddenly finds a long-sought-for rest la place, Grace Carmel turned to his eta brace, lie held her to him; he covered tier face with impassioned kisses, as he had once covered Edith Dane's ; he whis pered all that man can whisper of poetry and tenderness. She was silent from xeess of bliss, but she felt that she could have lain where she was forever. "You do not s[>eak," he jealously said ; "you do not tell me that you forgive the past. Grace, say but one word ; say you love me !" 'Far deeper than another ever did." she murmured. "Oh, Ryle ! I will be more to you than she can have been !" "Grace, pardon my folly," he implored. "I am doing wrong ; I have forgotten my self strangely. Forgive, forgive me ! It is madness to aspire to you. I have no right to seek to drag you down from your rank to my level." But she clung to him still. "Your own wife, your own dear wife," she whispered. "Ryle, Ryle ; only love me forever." Never had Lady Avon seen or suspect ed aught of the ease regarding her daugh ter and Mr. Baumgarten. The revelation came upon her with a blow. It was Graoe who, calling up her courage, imparted it. Lady Avon went into a storm of anger; and then, finding her commands and reproaches produced no impression upon Grace for good, wrote iu haste for Lord Avon. An awful thing had happened, and he must come without a moment's delay, was what she curtly wrote ; and the word "awful," be it understood, was in those days used only in its extreme sense, not, as at present, in ridiculous lightness. Lord Avon obeyed. put and the ing in er it "Ah," he remarked, as he aat listening to his mother's tale. "I can now under stand that past capricious trick Grace played. She must even then have been in love with Baumgarten." Lady Avon sat in bitter mortification. "What is to be done?" she asked. "The best plan, so far as I can see, will be to put a good face upon it, and let her have him." I "Do you approve of him for your broth er-in-law, pray?" I "No, not altogether. My sister and ' your daughter ought to have made a very But you know what different match, Grace is, mother; and circumstances alter i cases." | it was the plan pursued. It was the j a it I It ; lie to ob is be who ar de took own on the of im m who la eta he from ; the you did." be my It no from own a her went wrote he was word those not, Lord only pleasant plan, as Lord Avon bad put it, that could bo pursued. For Lady Grace held to her own will, and opposi tion would only have created scandal. CHAPTER IN. It was a long, red brick house, large and handsome, as many of these country rectories are ; and on the spacious front lawn, one glorious morning at the end of Jane, might be seen the Rev. Ryle Baum garten, bis wife and children. Lady Grace sat on a bench under the shade of the lime trees ; the rector stood by, talk ing with her. Two little boys were run ning about chasing a yellow butterfly. fhi j j I I Wc ! hey were dressed alike, after the fashion the day, in brown holland blouses, ! white socks, shoes and broad-brimmed straw hats. They were wonderfully alike, these two little half-brothers, each possessing his ! father's face in miniature ; the same pale, j healthy complexion, the fine, clear-cut j features, the dark eyes so deeply set with in their long lashes, and the wavy brown hair, soft as silk. But in disposition they were quite different. Cyras was bold, self willed, masterful, Charles gentle, pliant and timid. Cyras was tall and strong, and forward beyond liis years; the young- i er one was yielding, childish and back ward. Already Cyras constituted himself ; ills brother's protector, and Charles in ! his hands was a tender reed. The affec- j tion between them was great, rather un usually so. I a Borne people had prophesied that Lady Grace would repent her imprudent mar " , , . „ a nage. They proved to be wrong. Grace was intensely happy in it. She had brought with her only five hundred a year to augment Mr. Baumgarten's means; , it was all she would enjoy until Lord j Avon's death. She made a fairly kind stepmother to the little Cyras, but she g had not the same affection for him as or Charles. Her baby, now in Jaquet s - . • , ', arms, was a fair girl, the little Gertrude. A large, low, open carriage, driven by liveried postilion, was stopping at the gate. Mr. Baumgarten hastened to assist Lady Avon from it, and give her his arm. j She walked slowly to the bench'where her j daughter was sitting. She wfts jitst the same invalid as ever, had been so a t its» years ; but she did not seem to gro^ much worse. The boys ran up to her. "1116 boys are like their father, Grace," she observed, looking down at the ifafant ; but Gertrude is like you." i "Yes," assented Grace, with a daugh. "Well," mamma, that is Just as it jSliould be, isn't it?" "I suppose it is, my dear. Which of you little boys will go for a drive with me? It must be you, Cyras, 1 think, as it is your birthday." "Oh, yes, yes !" cried the boy, eagerly ; "I will go. Jaquet, fetch my best hat." "Me, too," added little Charley. "No, I can't manage both of you," said Lady Avon. "You shall go another day, Charley ; perhaps to-morrow." "My hat, Jaquet!" again said Cyras, impatiently, for the girl had not stirred. Lady Grace looked at her. "Do you hear?" she said, in her haugh ty way. "Master Cyras told you to fetch kU hat. Bring his little cape as well." Now this was just what Jaquet hated. For Cyras to order her about imperious ly, and for her lady to confirm It. "Ryle," said Lady Avon to her son-in , law, when Jaquet had gone for the things, "can you not do something or other to put down that fairr , She spoke of a pleasure fair which was held »very midsummer on Whitton Com mon, and lasted for a week. [ The rector Bhook his head in answer, "Why, no; how could I, Lady Avon?" "You have great influence in the parish, Every one looks up to you." "But 1 hnve none over the fair. No one has. It possesses 'vested interests,' 1 you know," added Mr. Baumgarten, laugh ing, "and they are too strong to be in terfered with. I try to induce my people to keep away from it, that is all 1 can do." (To be continued.) Strantre Talk. "Wliat was that sound I heard?" ask ed one express wagou driver of tiu other. "I guess it was my wheel spoke," an swered his funny friend. "Well, it wasn't with the tongue of the wagon," retorted the first, "and bcsldes the wheels are quiet because they're cuu. all tlred." nre quiet -Baltimore Ameri One Year After. The summer girl and the summer young man met again. "Darling," he cried, advancing with open arms, "do you recognize me Throwing herself upon his manly bosom, site said : "Well, dear, your face looks familiar, hut I cau't recall your name." And thus the summer engagement was reuewed for the season. The Dreadful Farmers. City Girl (who has been to the oouu try)—Don't you know, 1 think the* farmers put preservatives in their prod nets, l saw one scattering some ehern leal mixture on ground he was pre paring for green corn. Later 1 saw him salting ills cattle. I don't think we get any pure food anywhere nowadays. —Kansas City Times. ite M««ie Good. "Give me plenty of rope.' said the poor but honest youth, "and I'll get there." And he did. Ten years later he had acquired a fortune from the manufacture of «am pnign cigars. He gives double who gives unasked.— From the Arabian. THE TEMPEST. fhi sky is black with the flying rain, And the sea is wild and white ; God pity the ships that toss and strain j On the furious waves to-night. j Come, sit by my side, little blue-eyed maid, I Where the hearth fire blazes warm, I Wc will pile on the fuel and draw the shade ! To shut out the night and the storm. You shell sing me a song of the southern land, Where the orange and citron grow, Where the blue sea washes a sunny atrand Ant', the tempests never blow. You snail sing me of love and of lutes that s ! gh In the amorous light of the moon, When die llowwr-decked barks drift idly by On the shimmering lagoon. My thoughts are as black as the rock swept sky And ns wild as the leaping sea, Come, sing to me, put my despair to flight With an exquisite melody. Till I shall forget all the past and its pain, Little maid with the eyes of blue, Forget the black night and tho sea and the rain. Remembering only you. ■—Boston Transcript. Their Honeymoon.! ! ! j j i ; T T was a perfect night. The silver ! moonlight flooded all the familiar j landscape, bathing It In mystic depths of unfathomable brightness I a nd transfiguring all things into a falry . H ke beauty. A beautiful night— , , _ , , _ , , a night of stars and fleecy cloudlets, ° J ' sweet odors from a thousand pungent leaves warrant flowers , distilled by the s^-ent dews, j Olive and Janet had gone upstairs to their little roorj, and now sat upon the g oor beside the low window looking ou j. j ntQ ^e moon ijgbt. On such a night s . f, .. . sleep was out of the question for an ^ ' . , hour at least, and so they sat, slowly unfastening their hair and gradually preparing for bed. j / murmur of familiar voices on the j gjvfle porch below sounded In their ears 1T1< j bushed them to silence. They together on the window-sill and j| steaed ; of as ; well The sisters knew the voices the dear voices of father and Jmw LW QUIET HAPnNESS BY HEB HUSBAND'» sin*. »ether. They had come out Into the , perch before going to bed, and were on the time-worn bench to look , at ^ calm clear , ,, , , ... rbe slsters <» uld '"«S 1 "« J uf * they were Bitting, though they could [ set see them, the dear eld mother with her wrinkled hand on her husband's knee, and his broad, homely hand cov „-lag !t> they had aeeB them ^ often '»Darby and Joan," Janet called them No . . . 1 ** in can tiu an of k , £> e work wlth what llttle 1 TOuld hel P i^ould make It pretty hard. Guess we hadn't better, father. "Mother," they could hear the old «3 an say, and there was a little trem ble In bi» voice, "it'» most fifty years »ince we were married—do you mind? Next week a Wedneeday'll make it fifty years. Mebby we'd oughter have » golden wedding to kind o' celebrate —wli«t think, mother?" " 'Twould be nice, father," they 'nuld hear her answer, "but I guess tre hadn't better think of It; 'twould he an awful sight o' bother, an' what with Olive teachln' an' Janet to do all have 'em now There was a little silence and then the old man spoke again : "Hauner," said he. "we didn't never have a weddin' Journey nor a honey moon. Almost seem's if we ought to You know how 'twas— we was poor an' couldn't even afford to go out to Uncle Eben's for a little trip, hut settled right down to housekeepln' 'an' hard work at once, without a bit i o' play spell. In all these years we ain't been nowhere to speak of except to the Centennial, and we didn't neither of ns enjoy that, what with the rush and the crowd an' confusion. Seem's if 'twould be nice to go 'way somewhere now on our wedding Jour ney—seem's if 'twould make us feel ' the* 1 : roun g - galn 8cmie how. pre- ' saw we " 'Twould be nice, father," they *ould hear the gentle voice murmur, ; "but gue»« we hadn't better think of It. Mebby the children would think 'twas kind of childish." "Mebby they would, mother," the old the mail answered quietly, and then there get iras silence. After a little they went j into the house and the girls heard them ' lock the door and wind the clock, and a then all was still. Something glistened «am- tn Olive's great dark eye»- and the tooouligbt touched to crystal clearness * « drop upon Janet's fair cheek. The two girls crept Into bed and lay talk ing fore busy house. on visit kind work. of the work. day, came the and day in on at their their but to the lous the a lng, the she a It to at a It. ing In low voices for a long time be fore they went to sleep. For the next few days there were busy preparations In the old farm house. Mysterious doings were going on all over the house. Mother was hustled off somewhere every day to visit some friend or neighbor In the vicinity, who gladly welcomed the dear, kind soul and her perpetual knitting work. Father and "the boys," stalwart men of twenty-five and thirty, were busy in the field and orchard doing up the fall work. Janet worked away happily all day, and when at four o'clock Olive came home from the little red-painted district school house, she donned a big apron, put oai her thimble and went resolutely tc work In her own room up stairs. Evidently something was In the air. Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear, with that indescribable crispness and sparkle In the air that makes October a royal month. Olive had asked the trustee for the day and he had granted it willingly ; Janet looking like an apple blossom in her pink calico gown and snowy white apron, flitting about the house on light feet, seeming to be everywhere at once. John and David wore wrestling with their Sunday neckties and polishing their boots to the very highest possible slilue. The old folks looked on wistfully, but silently, wondering what all the commotion was about. Out In the woodshed father confided to mother this piece of news: "Guess the children must be goin' over to Mil lerville to the county fair. But It docs seem kind o' cur'ous they 'don't speak about It." "That's so," mother had made re sponse; "but mebby they think we're gettin' too old to be took into their af fairs," and she sighed n little tremu lous sigh that told plainer than words the sadness that she felt. Almost slmul atieously Olive's clear contralto and John's deep bass came ringing down the stairs. "Mother please come up here a few minutes !' and. "Here, father, i want you upstairs a little while." Wondering a little, but never guess lng, they went upstairs together, and in the hall parted. What mother saw as she entered her daughter's room was a shining, silvery mass of something lying on the neat white bed. a soft and silky pile of material which gradual / took form and shape until she saw i beautiful gown, whose delicate laces In neck and sleeves combined with the soft gray tint, made it look bridelike It deed. "Oh, girls!" was all she could say, as Janet put her Into a chair and began to take down her little coll of white hair. "Dressing the bride" occupied, per haps, an hour, and when at last the toilet was announced complete the faded blue eyes behind the gold-bowed glasses saw in the large old-fashioned mirror a sweet and dainty picture—a beautiful-faced old lady with delicate heliotrope nestling among the laces at her throat, and a tiny spray In her hair. A faint, pink flush of excitement had come to the withered cheeks, which made the old face a sweet his tory of what it had been in Us youth ful prime. Olive and Janet kissed her triumphantly. "Mother, you don't realize how sweet and young you look ! You have worn blnck so long!" And, "Oh, mother we're going to have a wedding in this house to-day, and you are to be the bride." "Ffity years ago to-day," the old bride softly murmured, looking down at the thin circlet of gold that she had worn so long, and In her heart a sod den longing sprang up, newly kindled, a quick »nd strong desire for him who had been her husband all these years. She looked wistfully toward the door and took a faltering step towards it, but just then It opened, and John and David entered escorting between them proudly the hero of the day at tired In a flue new suit of broadcloth with a festive little posy In hts button hole and a face beaming with reuewed youth and gladness. The children were forgotten In the quick impulsive embrace thut followed and the long kiss of love and honor and fidelity that had crowned that half century of wedded life. That was a day never to be forgot ten in all the country round. Everybody was there. Not only the old who had grown old with the happy bride and groom, but the middle-aged and strong. A great table had been spread out of doors under the drooping elms that had been slender treelets on that wedding day fifty years ago. Th« minister who had married them wa» long since dead, but his son middle-aged dominie, had been pro cured for the occasion and performed the marriage ceremony with grace and dignity. Olive and John acted as bridesmaid and groomsman, looking very happy at the complete success of their Innocent conspiracy. Congratulations and gifts were many Th« bridegroom seemed scarcely to need the support of his handsomely engraved gold-headed cane, he felt bo young, despite his seventy-two years, and stepped blithely and briskly about among his guests with his slim little wife upon his arm, smiling and happy. When the dinner was at last OTer, David pressed something Into his fath er's hand—two tickets for the Western city In which his married son lived. "Your trunk is packed and ready and the train leaves at four o'clock, ed father," he said with characteristic straightforwardness. "All you've got to do now Is to take your wedding Journey and enjoy a six weeks' honeymoon at Sam's." The other children gathered around and laughed gleefully at the bewilder joy of the newly wedded pair. "It's what I wanted to do ever since Sam went West," the old man said quaveringly, and the tears stood In his eyes. The mother only turned and leaned her head upon the shoulder of her tall Olive—and Olive kissed her. There were misty eyes all round and smiling faces as the carriage drove c*f, amid a generous shower of rice and an old shoe thrown by some one for good luck. And as the guests dispersed after examining to their curiosity's content the array of substantial the young folks at the farm house con gratulated themselves and each other upon the wonderful success of their scheme. And as the train sped westward over the shining rails, the little old brill«» sat In quiet happiness at her husband'll side and looked at the flying landscape. There was a sweet peace on the dear,, wrinkled face, and a light of newer,, deeper tenderness In the blue eyes bo hind the glasses. People noticed how lover-llke th« old man's attentions to the slim, little old lady by his side, and some even wondered if tills were not possibly the happy ending of some life-long ro mance. But no one heard him as the bridegroom leaned and said. In a low voice, "It's been a grand day, Hannah —a day full o' all kinds o' nice sur nrises. but they ain't nothing makes me fool better than to know that after all * ain't too old for the children." And the bride made soft response, That's so. father." Then there was a long and blessed Hence as they journey on 'ogether "In that new world which Is the old," th« orld for love.—Portland Transcript NOT SO SCARED AS HE SEEMED. rniy Officer EITechuilly Iîeî)nke» a Smart ( iviiiiuii. A smart young drummer was drlv lg his hired team along a dilllcult bit f Wyoming road when he overtook rather dignified old gentleman who ,-as walking iu the direction in which he was driving, says Lippincott's. Have a lift?" Inquired "our Mr. Simpson, genially. Thank you, sir," and the old gen leman took a seat In the buggy beside the drummer. The team happened to be a pair ot half-broken bronchos—a fact upon which the drummer enlarged gleefully is he slackened the lines and gave the horses their heads a trifle. They were off at a jump, and as the buggy swung violently around a curve, the old gen tleman wms all but thrown out—to the great amusement of the smart young drummer. When this occurred a sec ond time the old gentleman said po litely : If it Is all the same to you. sir, I should be obliged If you would drive a little more slowly." Oh, If you are afraid," sneered th« young man unpleasantly, "perhaps you had better do the driving." The old gentleman looked at him for a moment with a look lu his eyes which the drummer never forgot Perhaps you are right, sir," he said, with the utmost politeness, as he took the lines. Then he reached for tb« whip in the whip socket, and, leaning over th« dashboard, he lashed first ou« broncho and then the other. "Are you afraid, sir?" be demanded, turning upon the drummer; but before the terrified drummer could reply he threw both lines out of the buggy, and the runaway horses, with the lines dragging, tore around the curves at a pace at which "our Mr. Simpson" nev er had ridden. Both men were thrown out and the buggy splintered. The old gentleman, the first to arise from the wreck, stood over the prostrate drummer as he re turned to consciousness, and again de manded : "Are you afraid, sir?" The smart youug man learned ulti mately that his passenger was Major Wolton, whose reckless courage Is a byword throughout Wyoming. The Snnblrd. Very curious are the nests of the sun bird, scarcely larger than a butterfly. It chooses some exposed spot, probably close to the public road, and proceed* to build on an overhanging twig. The finishing touches being put to the small abode, it is left, according to one au thority, severely alone until spiders have woven their webs over and around It Another naturalist says that the birds themselves turn ragmen and, col lecting any rubbish they can find in the way of moss, faded leaves, ends of cot ton and other such trifles, stick them on the outside of the nest by means of pieces of purloined webs. In either cas« the result is the same, and they make their future home a thoroughly disreputable object Then, and not till then, does the little hen sunblrd lay her two greenish white eggs, which she hatches under the shelter of a small porch which has been constructed over the nest shielding her from sun and rain. Not tn the Carrion lam. Mr. Jecklyns had Just received from his youngest son, who was in his first year at college, a telegram to this ef fect : "Dear Father. I am about to take up a new study. Please send m« $25, to pay for the outfit" He answered It at once In this wisei "Dear John. What Is the study?" To the query came thin rejoinder i "Dear Father. It is golf."