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2 gentle lady with a sweet, patient face—sweet, yet sad, as of one who saffered in silence. She held uroudly in her arms a little child. She raised her eyes as the colonel entered. “Charlie, come and look at her,” she said. “ I have never seen such a face. Look a! her !* The colonel bent his handsome head. They formed a striking picture, the handsome, prince ly-looking father, the pale, sweet mother, and the little child. “She has a Lennox face,” said Lady Len nox. “ She is not like me—not like the Graemes.” ‘I have always heard,” laughed “Prince Charlie” " that the Lennozes were one of the handsomest families in Scotland.”% “ I think it is true,” said the gentle wife. “Thera is some character in baby’s face,® re marked the colonel. “Look at the sweet little lips—how firmly they are closed ! See how deli cately arched the brows are. The eyes are dark. There is an old Border song of ‘a dark eyed Lennox with a heart of fire.’ ” Lady Lennox looked up at her husband. “Charlie,” she began, half reluctantly, “do you Know why I have sent for you ?” “Certainly, Ailsa—because you wanted to see me,” he replied. “Partly; I also want to talk to you. I thought that on this the day that our little child has been given to us you would not refuse my petition.” “ That I wiil not,” he replied. “Like the king in your favorite history, I would give you tbo half of my kingdom.” She laid her hand on his thick, clusternag curls. “ Aly dear Charlie, I have never doubted your willingness to give. I doubt though whether you have much to give.” The colonel drew back with a heavy look on bis handsome face. “Hush, Ailsa! It is the old question of money and expense. I thought thd*t was never to bo mentioned belwee® us again ?” “Just to-day,® she pleaded—“baby’s birth day— let me speak.” “ You will only anger me. I cannot help it, Ailsa. I shall manage. Heaven made with open hands. I suppose, my darling, you do not know how fatally easy it is to me to give. I detest all narrow ways of counting up shillings —I never could do it, and never shall.” ‘"Then in the end you will have no shillings she said. But the colonel laughed. “ I have no tear. Why, Ailsa, no poor man ever utters the name of ‘Lennox’ save to bless it!” She sighed deeply. “I know it is almost useless to talk to you; but, Charlie, now that we have the little one, will you noc try to alter ? I want you to prom ise to be more economical. Do not give away eo much—do not bet on those terrible horses— do not trust so implicitly in a blind fate ; if you do, rum will follow. Generosity is a duty, but not such lavish generosity as yours. For my Eake, for the little one’s sake, begin now to act differently.” He was touched by her words. Seeing it, she went on. > “Why have people given you the name ©f ‘Prince Charlie?' Not only because of your liberal, royal way of doing things, but because you are as prodigal, as thriftless, as careless, as reckless as the ‘Merrie Monarch’ himself. If you were King of England instead of lord of Erceldean, you would be poor. Now touoh baby’s soft fingers, Charlie; docs not some thing go straight from them to your heart? For her sake be careful and promise me to re form.” » ... He bent down and kissed the rosebud face.. “I will, Ailsa. You know I mean to do right always—l have no thought of doing wrong. Dame Nature is to blame, who gave mo the open hands of a king without tho revenues to fill them. I like bright faces, and if a gift of mine clears a sad face, I am well pleased.® “ Does it never occur to you,” said bis wife, that the faces are saddened expressly for you to brighten them ?” “No—never,” he replied, quickly.' “I do thank Heaven for one thing—l have Unlimited faith in all my kind.” “Then it is useless discussing the matter,® eaid Lady Lennox. “I have not. Say these words after me: ‘For your sake, my little Bea trix, I promise to be more careful—to give loss, to save more, to renounce betting, and devote my time to home.’ ” • He repeated the words, and then kissed his Wife’s hands and the baby’s face. “Ailsa, 1 hope your daughter will bo like yourself.” , The baby was christened soon afterward. A duchess was its godmother. The wholo domain of Erceldean seemed to be illuminated. Tha only one troubled with foreboding, the only one who wept when others laughed, and sighed when others smiled, who foresaw sorrow, was the wife of “Prince Charlie,” tho mother of tho little heiress, Lady Lennox. Timo proved that that she was right. CHAPTER 11. “ NOT THE HEAD, BUT THE HEART, GOES ASTRAY.’’ The sun shone upon few braver, brighter, happier men than Colonel Charles Lennox. He was one of the handsomest officers in her ma jesty’s army—a man of lofty stature and power ful build, with a graceful, easy, dignified car riage ; his features ware bold, frank, and proud ; there was joined in him tho dash of tho soldier with the grace of the cavalier. His face had been originally fair, but the sun had bronzed it; the dark blue eyes that looked out so graciously and so kindly on the world were Keen and bright; the lair, clustering hair and long mus taches bed a glint of sunshine in them. Ho was just twenty when he succeeded to the vast for tune left him by his father. His father, Keith Lennox, of Erceldean, had two sons—Charles, the colonel, who succeeded him, and Fetor, the younger son, who was a graceless neer-do-weil—he hod neither man ners, morals, nor style, Keith Lonnox was ac customed to say. There was no great love be tween tne brothers, although Chariie had a contemptuous kind of pity for the ungainly boy who was so invariably awkward and clumsy. Keith Lennox proposed many things for this hapless son. He offered him a commission in tho army. Peter said he did not want to be shot at; neither did he want to shoot. He offered to have him for tho sea ; the boy replied sulkily that he did not want to be drowned. “ I am sadly afraid,” was the father’s impa tient remark, “ that you will live to be banged.” “I shall not be the first of my name, sir,” re plied Peter. And in despair Koith Lennox al most gave up his son. “Could you give me any idea of what you would like to ba?” he asked, with sarcasm lost upon Poter- “ Yes, si2.- * was the ready response ; “ I should like to be either a smuggler or highway man.” Attar this the lord of Erceldean said no more. “There is a skeleton in every family cup board, Peter,” he said; “you are the skeleton in mine.” Peter solved for himself the difficult problem of bis existence. He ran away from home, leaving a letter addressed to his in which be stated that it was his intention to make a fortune at the gold-diggings; ha was going to sail in the Ormoiia, he said. The fathers first feeling on reading the letter was one of unmitigated relief. But a few weeks after ward, when he read tho story of the wreck of tho Ormoiia, with the loss of all on board, he mourned for his son. There was an end to Pe ter;, he could never annoy, disgrace, nor irri tate* them again. Charles Lennox succeeded to the whole of the Erceldean estates. There had been ample pro vision made for Peter; that now became his brother’s. At twenty-one, Charles Lennox one of tho handsomest and wealthiest men in Scotland. He served m one campaign against the Sikiis in India. It was there that his fair face became bronze A—there that he won his brilliant reputation for fearless courage ; he waa promoted, and every honor was paid to him. Colonel Lennox was comparatively a young man when the necessity of looking after bis estate compelled him to leave the army. He divided his time between London and Erceldean, and married, alter a short courtship, the pretty, portionless, orphan daughter of a Scotch peer, —the Lady Aiwa Graeme—who simply idolized him, and believed him to be one of the noblest men on earth. They wore married ten years before the birth of their little daughter Beatrix Lennox. There were few men so courted or so popular as tho colonel; he was chiefly known by the name of “ Princv Charlie.” It was difficult not to idolize him, since he had ways and fashions more royal even than those of a king. He was kind and warm of heart, impetuous, indiscreet; he was possessed.of little caution or judgment; but he had an immense faith in everything and every one—an immense sympathy for all whom ho came in contact with. Hew many destitute children he placed in schools, how many deso late widows he established in business, how many young simpletons he rescued from folly, could never be told. That was how be began life, but afterward ho degenerated. Ho became the prey of sharpers; he grew reckless and careless ; and then ho fol lowed bad advice, given to him by interested people from an evil motive. He speculated, trfd lost largely : then he was persuaded to gamble, and, betting, ho lost more. No doubt his ad visers knew quite wail wbat they were doing; but it wits a strange fact—every horso that “Prince Charlie” backed never camo to the “post” a winner—all those that he thought would lose won. In vain did Lady Lennox remonstrate. “My dear wife,” he would answer, in his ge nial, happy fashion, “I have so much money that I can never spend’it all.” He lent, he gave, he lost, until the day camo that his bankers with a grave face told him that his account was so far overdrawn that gome arrangement must bo made. The handsome colonel was electrified. At first he declared that the firm wore mad; and then he grew indignant. An interview with his solicitors brought him to his senses, and he saw that there wis .no resource save to mortgage Erceldean. “Prince Charlie” lost more and more. The London house was given up, a farm was sold, the mortgage was in creased. Lady Lennox startled her husband one day by tolling him that if he should die Unexpectedly ho had not a shilling to leave her. |f» “ Oh, Ailsa, that cannot be true!” he cried. V You have dreamed it!” She proved it to him, and he looked at her in half comic despair.. “If I had had your head for figures, I shoulc have been a richer man,” he said; but his wifi ‘a hex gentle vpice rejoined— t, “It is not the head, but ths heart, Charlie, is that goes astray in your case.” :O Still the fright was not. much of a check on him; the mortgage was increased. So it hap- 1. pened that when Beatrix was born there was it no heritage left for her. He never realized it. To himself he was always Colonel Lennox of y Hroeldean, lord of one ot the fairest estates in Scotland. What did it matter to him that it d was mortgaged to its full value, and that at any time, if the mortgage money was called in, he 1- would be a ruined man ? He was not of a na .a tore to remember such things; he had a happy faculty of thrusting all dark thoughts from his e mind. . o Hp had promised to amend now that his lit tU heiress was born; but it was too late to do so; he should have reformed years before. He )- had nothing now to keep. ,o Ho struggled on until Beatrix reached her i- fourth year. She had all a child’s passionate a adoration for the handsome, generous father who kissed her and loaded her with toys. She loved him, with an affection passing the lovo of children fix their parents, until her fourth o year, and then a terrible accident happened. On. sunny morning in August the colonel a kissed his wif. and child for the last time. Seme one had begged him to try a new horse I which it was feared was vicious; with his usual , good natur. he had consented. When Lady 8 Lennox, looking into his handsome face, asked him whither he going, ho answered laughingly g and evasively. Had they known the truth, o neither wife nor child would have parted with him. -r “You will oomo to dinner, Charlie?” said Istdy Lennox. “Bo not ride too quickly or r , too tar; the day is warm.” r ’ The colonel laughed. “Haney such advice as that to a mean who j has ridden forty miles in the heat of an In dian sun 1* ho cried. “I will bo baok for din f nor, Aitaa—indeed, if you fool dull or lonely,'l r will not go at all.” How fervently she wished afterward that she _ had eaid she was unwilling to' let him depart.! Bh. would have given twenty years of hor life . for that one half hour back again. She an , swored with a smile that she could never be 0 dull where Beatrix was; and thou he kissed her I ikoe and her hands in his courtly, gallant fash a ian, tailing her that she was fairer m his eyes than she had been when ho married her. She 3 was glad in the after years to remember how she had returned hia caress, loving him in her heart, and thinking to herself that thero was j no oue in the wide world so handsome, so kind, or so good. Then ha.went to the little Beatrix, a lovely laughing child with a sweet imperious face. , “Good morning. Bee,” he said—“papa is go ’ ing out.” ’ “Don’t go,” she lisped—“else fake mo with r you.” _ They told her long afterward how ho took j her in hie arms and tossed her up to the ceil- • ing, much to Lady Lennox’s alarm—how be . kissed her, end spoke of ■ the Beatrix who had t lived before. “Shallyou always lovo papa, Bee ?’’ he asked; , and she liked -to hear bow she had answered, “ Yes—bettor than all the world." f . Than, with a smile on his face and sunshine . in hia frank, kindly eyes, he turned to leave , them, singing “The Blue Bells of Scotland” as ho went away. Four hours afterward thoy f carried him home to Erceldean—dead I t . L CHAPTER 111. > . “ THE OLD OBANHE AT STBATHNABN.* Beatrix Lennox, child as she was at that time, remembered the untold horror of the day on " which her father was brought home dead. She ■ remembered the slanting sunshine as it toll 1 noon the grass, the-silent hours while her ’ father was away, and hor mother, Lady Lennox, ‘ lay-reading on tho couch. How suddenly tho calmness and the sweet sunshine seemed to ter -1 mlnata as over the green sward came the tramp 1 of men 1 She remembered the terrible cry of her mother when she heard wbat tho men bad ' to say—“ The Colonel H dead!” and the bittie, ‘ lisping child, hardly knowing the meaning of , the words, repeated them—“ The Colonel is dead." 1 She saw hor mother fling up her arms, and ‘ then fall with her face to the ground. She had 1 a memory that was like a dream of seeing the 1 silent figure carried into tho library and laid upon the table, while the blinds were quickly 1 drawn—of seein>» the fair, clustering hair wot and tangled—of seeing the handsome face, ’ which she had kissed so short a time before, all white and bruised. » ‘ “Papa!” she cried, in an agony ot terror. 1 Loving bands snatched her away, ana Beatrix ; “ Lennox never looked upon her father’s face ! again. ’ 1 After that came a long interval, which seemed : 1 to her all gloom. Tho rooms were darkened ’ with drawn blinds; the only sound heard was • that of weeping and wailing for the kindly, gen erous master laid low. It was a long, dark, dreary interval, during which the child never I saw her mother's face, and her father’s house was given up to the rule of strange men. When ’ she did se. her mother’s face, it waa with dilii- . eulty that she recognized it, so white, so drawn, J so tag;; ar a was it, all her beautiful hair brushed ; aside, and a widow’s cap on her head. “ Mam ma,'’ who had been so smiling and so sweet, . was always crying now. Beatrix remembered, • too, one little circumstance that impressed hor. I ’ She had been playing with her mother’s purso, i i and a small silver coin fell from it. • • “Take care of money, Bee,” said Lady Lon- i ’ r nox. “ Remember that all your life—take care : I , of money.” . Sho looked up into her mother’s face. i “Did papa like money ?” she asked; and the i . answer, given with bitter tears, was: “No, not half enough.” , “Take euro of money’’—the words haunted tho child’s brain. She had never heard money i L mentioned before. ; Thon came a long interval. She had a dim i . remembrance of dark-brewed men raging and i . storming in Erceldean Castle, of looking at a ' 1 tall angry man who stood in the picture-gallery r raving against her dead father—calling him . “prodigal” and “spendthrift”—ot a servant : i trying to quiet him, saying— ; , “Hush! The child is listening.” > “The child had better be dead than a beg » gar,” he answered. 3 “Hera is my lady coming,” said tho servant. , “And‘ my lady ’had better bo dead too,” de- clared the man savagely. Beatrix went up to her mother. • “ Mamma, am I a beggar ?” she cried. Sho remembered how Lady Lennox raised . her in her arms, and then, tailing upon her knees, cried to Heaven: i “Vias thereover anyone so desolate or so t sad ?” She remembered a hundred similar scenes— [ how her mother camo to her one morning . dressed in deep mouumng, hor pale race looking quite colorless and contrasting oddly with her . black robes. “Beatrix,” she said, “come with mo, child, i and say good-by to your home.” t She carried her daughter into every room, i and she wont passionate tears as they stood to gether on the green lawn outside the castle. , “Beatrix,” said Lady Lennox, “you are a ! little child, but you are old enough to remern- > ber what lam going to say to you.” j “I remember,” returned the child wonder f ingly. “Look at that beautiful castle; it should be f yours. You were born heiress of Erceldean, a yet you have not a penny in tho world. Bea . trix, only Heaven knows what lies before us— . what is to bo our fate; but promise me always i to remember'th at this is your home—always co i > remembdr that you were born a lady.” “J. am a lady,” said tho child proudly—“not s a beggar, as that man called me, but a lady.” s “Promise mo too, my darling, that, if in the 3 years to oomo you should be fortunate or pros t porous, you will, it you can, buy back the old r home ot tho Lennoxes.” s "1 will, mamma,” said the child. a “Remember another thing, my darling. They . used to call you ‘ Prince Charlie’s ’ daughter in i the days when feasting and revelry wastad your a farther's substance, when men 'flattered him i and borrowed from him and led him to ruin.” 1 “poor papa!” said the child, with fast-drop , ping tears. , “Dear, noble, generous papa!” cried Ladv 1 Lennox. “Oh, my little daughter, ho has left i me almost penniless; yet I declare to you that I s would rather bo his widow left poor and ob s score, than the widow of a king. But -you do not understand me.” t “Yes, I do, mamma. I understand you loved b papa. So did I.” t “ Yes, I loved him,” was the passionate cry. s “My heart is buried with bim— l loved him. s Beatrix,” she continued, as she steadied her ; voice, “ tho same people who flattered your fa ; thee and called you ‘Prince Charlie’s’ daughter 1 will say hard things of him now that he is j fioad*” b “Hard things?” said tho child. “What are - hard things?” v “ Thoy will say that he was a spendthrift jnd ■, a prodigal. Oh, little Beatrix, they roinod him! He did not ruin himself; thoy begged and bor e rowed, they led him astray. What will you do ; when they toil you those things ?” “ I will kill them 1” cried the child, stamping 1 her little toot. d “ My darling, you cannot do that—people are I, not so easily killed. Say to all of them, ‘My - father was far above you' all. Ha was a king ; among men;’ for he was, Beatrix—he was noble t and groat.” a “Then why did they ruin him?” asked tho .1 child, with more than child-like wisdom. “ Because be gave away bis substance reck lessly. He never refused aid when it was asked i- of him; he never refused help even when it im y povenshod himself; his hand and his heart were alike open. Ho gave and he lost; ho tried to o make it up by speculation, and then he lost a more.” ,t Beatrix never forgot the memory of that scene—the old Gastie of Erceldean standing in I. tho sunlight, the background formed by the I; purple hills and the dark, picturesque, masses w of wood, the glowing sun, tho rippling foliago, 1, the blooming flowers, the palo, patrician motb o er, with her passionate words and passionate it tears. n “Say it, child, to comfort me,” she cried sud i- donly to Beatrix. “Say, ‘My father was a king d among men.’ ” io Beatrix repeated the words. t. “Look your last, my darling, on your old j. homo; the star of your race has sot in darkness and in gloom. Bear with you until you die the n picture of Erceldean beioro the hands ot tbo spoilers touoh it. My last words as I look at it Id are that 1 bless the memory of the man 1 te loved.” Then came a journey over tho bills. Beatrix NEW YORK DISPATCH, MAY 5, 1878 asked her mother whither they were going. Lady Lennox said: “You have never hoard of tho place, child; we aro going to the old Grange at Stratbnarn, an old house left to me, years ago, and an in come of a hundred a year with it. I smiled at tho time I heard of tho legacy; now I thank Heaven for it.” “Thon we are rich 1” cried the child. .“No, not rich, my darling,” said Lady Len nox; “ bift wo shall be happy—you and I—be cause wo'love each other so well.” Strathnarn was reached at last. The Grange was a large rambling building, pleasantly sit uated. The house stood on the summit of a richly-wooded hill, and a beautiful lake, called Loch Narn, lay at its feot. No scenery could have been richer or more picturesque, no land scape more lovely. The Grange itself waa a dreary habitation. In that great lonely house there were no carpets, no pictures—nothing but old oaken furniture quite out of date, long dark passages, and gloomy rooms. “Mamma,” cried tho child, clinging in terror to Lady Lennox, “is this home?” Lady Lennox raised her fair sad face and pointed to the blue smiling heavens.- - “No, my darling,” she replied; “our homo is with your father—there; we shall have no other. We have lost all, Beatrix—even hope.” And those words the child did not forget till long afterward. They were sadder till tho next day, when they had more leisure to look around them. Noth ing drearier than the old Grange could be imag ined. There was no other house in sight—the nearest town, Ersedalo, was some miles away; there was not oven a shepherd’s hut or a lodge or a human habitation or any kind. Tho most profound silence reigned around the place ; it was not broken even by the tinkling of a sheep bell. There was one servant, Margaret by name, a staid, warm-hearted Scotch-woman, who had long beon accustomed to the Grange. She had lived there alone since her late mistress’s death, looking after the gloomy house as woll as she could. She gazed pitifully at the beauti ful child with the bright face. “ It will be a queersome place for her to grow up io, my lady,” she said ; “wo never seo the light ot a human face here from ona year to another. Perhaps it will be only for a time that you will stay here ?”■ “It Willie for life,” replied Lady Lennox sadly—“for life ; but, if Heaven is good to us, that life will not last long.” “ Do not say that, my lady ; happy days may yot be in store for you. I will wait on you faitti fully and servo you well; but, lot me do the best I can, it will still be a sad life.” And Lady Lennox found it even worso than she had expected and feared. Just at first there was a glimmor of hope) that something would happen—some source of relief Would bo found ; that glimmer of hope died, and the full sense of desolation came home to her at last. The only thing that saved her from desoair was her little daughter ; to teach her, to brighten tho little life, to make herself a child for the child’s sake, was the only thing that kept her from tho very madness of despair. As tbo mournful years passed without change, without event, she busied herself thus, only waking at intervals to tho consciousness that ber daugh ter was rapidly becoming a beautiful girl, while she hersslf seemed to grow more helpless and feeble every day. CHAPTER IV. “A CtllL OF BABB AND DAZZLINd LOVELINESS.” A broad, picturesque lake was Look Narn, surrounded by mountains that were reflected in its Clear waters. The water was especially beau tiful, for it seemed to bo ever changing. In the early dawn, when tho sun was beginning to shine, it looked like a mass of molten gold; later on, when tho sun set in the crimson west, tho water was rod, with strange gleams of gold en light in it. Thero wasperhapsno fairer lake in all bonnie Scotland than Loch Narn. Tall trees grew on tbo borders of the lake, and where tho cliffs sloped down there was a large natural cavern, which at times was filled with water. From that fact it was imagined that there was some connection between the loch and the sea. When the tide was the cavern was filled with deep, clear water, which decreased as the tide went out. There ,was»a profusion ol heather in full purple bloom. Tho hills quite surrounded, the lake they formed a chain about it; between two of them lay a small dark glade. Passing through it, one came to tho old Grange of Strathnarn. From the summit of tho purple hills one could see tho distant ocean, the great spreading moors, the distant mountains, the thick woods, dark and silent save for the song of tho birds and whirr of their wings, the black, still tarns. It was a spot of perfect beauty and perfect solitude. At rare intervals an eagle might be seen spreading its wings in the cool breeze that blew from the northern seas. No human habitation save the Grange of Strathnarn was near. Tho town ot Ersedale was more than five miles from tho loch, the beauty of which was anything but ex tensively known. No vignettes of it adorned the guide-books to the Highlands. The whole locality was a beautiful, picturesque solitude. Yet even this solitude had its oueen—a fair and lovely queen, who worshiped the beauty of her domain—a queen who seemed to be content to live and die without passing its boundary. It was a brilliant mottling. A rich, amber light lay on the loch, a soft, golden haze had overspread the hills, the long line of distant sea shone white in ths sun, the bees were hum ming over the purple heather and the golden gorse, the lovely water lilies glistened white in the sun; all the ambient air was rilled with per fume, the first soil freshness of morning smiled over the land. A little boat was fastened to the trunk of a tree that grew close to the water’s edge. lu tho fragrant silence of the Summer morn ing there came a faint sound of melody. It was a woman’s voice, clear, full of music”, with an undertone of passion, as though an imprisoned soul found its vent in song. From tho dark giade betweon the hills the voice came street and thrilling. The singer emerged from the darkness of the mountain gorge into the lull light of tho sun. She looked like the queen of mountain and lake. It was “Prince Charlie’s” daughter—the chilu who bad been named after the Beatrix Lennox who bad won a king’s heart—the child who had grown so strangely still while her widowed mother’s passionate words were spoken as they left Eroeldeau—the little Beatrix whom bright, generous, faulty “Prince Charlie” had bald in ins.arms and had remambered even in dying— Beatrix Lennox, a child no longer, but a girl in the lull superb promise of magnificent woman hood—a girl of rare and dazzling loveliness. She was a tall slender girl—slender, yet graceful and dignified—of perfect symmetry, nod full of health; tho rounded well-shaped arms were strong and muscular. Fresh air, plenty of exorcise, and early hours had given to this daughter of a noble race health and strength that were beauty and fortune in them selves. Bright, brave, frank, and free, of royal grace and bearing, every movement instinct with harmony, Beatrix Lonnox walked with dig nity over the heather, singing as she went a martial ballad—one of the old stirring'Border lays, telling of a minstrel who had fought like a boro for his country and then laid down iiis lifeiin defence of his lady’s honor—a ballad that told of “Stuart and Graeme, And Donald Ab-aiu.” with other heroes whose names have never died. The girl walked to tbo boat, and, unlastoning it, jumped into it, then taking the sculls in liar hands, she rowed rabidly across the blue waters of the loch. A face wholly bewitching, wholly fair was Beatrix Lennox’s —fair, patient, proud, with dark eves full of vailed passion and fire, lustrous eyes with strange sweet depths and long silken lashos and straight, clear, frank brows—eyes so dark that they contrasted beau tifully with the delicate fairness of tho face and the sunlit lustre of her hair. Sue was sim ply, nay, poorly dressed ; but hbr tartan plaid had some strange witchery in its folds, for never were royal robes worn with greater grace. Ou ber head the girl wore a picturesque little cap. She rowed swiftly across the lake, watching tho hght-i'eatbered spray as it fell from the sculls ; thou, when the other side of tho loch was gained, she secured the boat, took from it a volume that she had brought with her, and sat dswn on the slope of the heathery hill. She laughed with a child’s careless grace and sim plicity. “Now I am just as much alone as though I lived on an uninhabited island,” she said. “ 1 am Madam Alexander Selkirk, only that soli tude is my choice.” She opened her book and began to read ; the bees were humming over the heather, bright winged butterflies rested on the golden gorss, tbe/sun shone upon the open pages. Sho closed the'book suddenly—it was “The Lady of the Lake.” “ Why need I read poetry,” thought Beatrix Lennox, “ when lam m the midst of a living poem? What printed words could tell a story one half so beautiful as that which I see ? Ah, if any one in tho world wants perfect happi ness, they should spend a morning alone on Loch Narn!” She had none of a girl’s natural longing for companionship. She never once said to herself that the spot would be douoly fair if there was but soma one with her to admire it. She was supremely content to be alone. It was strangle to seo how nothing feared her—even the wild birds whirled round her. She was indeed queen of that vast unbroken solitude. She threw aside her book; with the sun shining on the waters of the lake, on the broad stretch of purple heather, on the golden gorse, on the distant hills, how could she road? “Prince Charlie’s” daughter had a poet’s soul. Keenly alive to all beauty, loving it with passionate love, she inherited the bright, quick fancy, the brilliant, vivid, poetic imagination of her dead father. She looked around her, and then with a sigh of perfect content sank back upon the heather. “ My mother talkS of drawing-rooms and bou doirs—l am sure that no room made by man could bo one-halt so beautiful as this spot made by Heaven. Who would exchange the purple heather for a carpet, or this grand chain of hills for the walls of a room that shuts out the blue sky and the frosh air 1 Sometimes 1 wish that these bills would close up together, so that we could never cross them or leave their midst.” She turned her iace to where the long line of distant sea lay white in the sun. “What is the world like that lies outside of here ?” she thought. “ £ hate it 1 I havo never seen it, but I hate it 1 I hate the cruel, heart loss world which helped to kill my father!” Fire flashed in the depths of her eyes, her face Hushed, her hands were clenched. ;. “I bate it I” she repeated. “ I would fain do fierce battle with it 1 I detest it! I will nover ; enter or love it, or make one of it. Give me the , mountains, the lakes, the blue sky, the fresh free air, tho flowers that smile without betray t ing, the birds m whose sweet voices lingers and k lurks no poison; give me the heather, the gold of the gorse, the stillness of tho black tarns, the music of the woods—anything, rather than I- men and the world that they havo made.” i- Tho sound of a bell tinkling across the lake aroused her. Sho sprang up with a smile from a the heather. “A morning gone,” she said, “ and gone in a dreams ! I wonder whether people live best in 1 dreams or in realities ?” Sho laughed to herself. 1 “I talk of people,” went on Beatrix Lonnox, - “and I know—let me see how many—l can 1 count them almost on the fingers of one hand, e I know my mother; I know Margaret Maophor ; son, our maid; I know tho Reverend Doctor ; Stewart, ot Ersedale, and John March, the butcher, who comes to the Grange once each r week and brings with him a red-haired boy; I know old widow Campbell, and I know myself. 1 Stay,” she added, with a grave look—“ do I re ally know myself? I am Beatrix Lennox, 1 3 ■ ‘Prince Charlie’s ’ daughter; I havp someof the’ i best blood of Scotland in my veins, true Scotch ’’ firo in my heart. lam come of a race that dies, I but never yields—that is the motto of the house of Lennox; my mother it was embroidered r on every banner that waved in Scotland, ‘ Lon . nox dies, but never yields.’ I could die more - easily than I could yield.” > «She raised her proud head, and it was written ; in every line ot ber face—undying pride.- 3 ' “Do I know myself?” sho continued musing t ly. “Am I good or bad, as tho world goes? t Wbat would worldly men and women call me—~ ■ —good or bad, I wonder? lam proud and pas sionate., Margaret says I have all the Lennox i spirit and independence. Is it being indepoad- I t» hate the world, to Hate all falseness, all I meanness, all cringing, all fawning, all lies? I i would not do a mean action to save myself 1 from death. Is that independence? Or does . Margaret think lam not good because I like to be aione? My mother says the. men who ruin r ed my father deserted him in his ruin. I pre- > for other friends. I love tho flowers—they > give mo their beauty, their perfume, and ask ; nothing in return—thoy do not poison mo if I kiss their sweet, soft loaves., I like the birds ; for my friends—there is not one false note in all tho songs they sing. Still Margaret says I should love all men. I should be sorry indeed ' to love men. Men slew King Charles; men slew . the fairest queen of Scotland; meu killod Marie i Antoinette; mon laughed while the fairest and noblest women in, France laid their heads on i the block. One little bird does not sing for joy ■, when another dies—oh, no! I cannot help it— ; Itdo not like men; and.l hate the world they 3 have made!’” I She looked up with a frank, bright smile. “My list of acquaintances is not so great as j I thought,” she said. “I find that, after all, I i do not really know myself. W I have an idea that a lam either very good or very bad—l am quite r undecided as to which it is.” 3 The bell rang again. Beatrix sculled herself t across'the lake, secured the boat, and hastened t quickly through the dark hill-gorge. Before . -her lay the Grange. Tho dark eyes looked lov -3 ingly at the strange picturesque pile. Ono 1 part of it lay quite in ruins, a crumbling mass of stones covered with ivy. Gillyflowers grew from tbo cracks in the wall, the stones were all covered with moss; yet for all that a certain air of grandeur lingered about the place, it look , ed ilka the ruined house of a goodly race; no plebeian, ns parvenu could havo lived there. I The old stone gateway was half hidden by great i clusters of scarlet creepers. The very sigut of . the ruined house seemed to warm the girl’s 1 heart as she looked. . The leaves of the scarlet > creeper fell on her in a shower as she passed ; through the ruined gateway. In the courtyard lay a broken sun-dial, and a fountain, long dry, . stood in the centre. The ruin and desolation > did not aflect her; sho murmured some words I as she passed by tho broken sun-dial, and turn- > ed to look at it, and then a low voice called: I “Beatrix.” ” , A warm flush—evidently one of pleasure—' i camo over tho girl’s face. “A’aa, mamma,” sho replied; but in tho ton-e i could bo easily detected lovo, respect, obe i dience, devotion, sympathy. She passed quick ly through the dark ontranca-hall, and entered the only habitable room on that side of the ■ house. ! These sat Lidy Lennox, who looked up as she entered. “ I grew lonely without you, Beatrix. It is not dinner-time yet, but I rang the belL The whole .house seems to grow so dark while you are away.” “I wish you would come out with me, mam ma; you would forget all about your sorrows I before yon had been one hour among the heath er. "Troubles fade m the light of tbo sun.” “ The sunshine does not affect granite rocks,” sighed Lady Lennox; “ and my sorrows are so durable that they might have been carved in granite, Beatrix. I wish, my darling, that I could be a brighter companion-for you.” Tbo girl looked up with bright, .flashing eyes. “When have you heard me complain, mam ma?” she asked. “1 am happy enough.” “It is such a dreary life tor you,” the mother said, looking at the magnificent face and figure. “It is a delightful life,” declared Beatrix Len nox. “I only wish, my darling mother, that you were one-half as happy as I am. I love this life—its liberty, its freedom from evory tning human. Tnere is no gossip of such a kind as you tell me fills the world—no idle chat ter. I call this life, mother; Hying in cities filled with men I should call death.” Lady Lennox looked anxiously at her daugh ter. She caressed the lustrous hair, she kissed the fair, proud face. “Beatrix,” she said, gently, “sometimes, do you know, 1 fear that I have done wrong as re gards yourself?” “ How, mamma?” was the startled question. “ My darling, when 1 lert Erceldean, my heart was broken. I detested the world and every thing in it. I was wretched, and I said hard things ot my kind. I thought cruelly of every man and woman created.” “Thoy deserved it,” said Beatrix. “In your sorrow and your desolation they never camo near you.” “No, but I was too hasty. It is but natural that people should love best those who stand in tho sunshine and shun those who aro iu tho shade?’ “Natural!” cried Beatrix, indignantly; “then, mamma, pardon me if I despise such natures.” “I have learned to make allovances, to grow tolerant, since then,” said the gentle lady; “and 1 am afraid, Beatrix, terribly afraid, that I have taught you to dislike instead of lovo your fellow creatures.” She looked up with the frank smile which made her so irresistible. “What I have heard of my fellow-creatures has not disposed me to love them, mamma. I have road of more cruelty than mercy, of more dishonor than honor, of more falsehood than truth. You told me to search history for he roes, and 1 did so.” “ Weil?” said Lady Lennox, anxiously. “It was nos well, mamma. History showed me always tbo same story—tho strong triumph ing over the weak, might over right. It showed me men greedy for fame, for gold, for blood— , men cutting down each other with sharp swords and sharper tongues—mon mad with pillage and plunder—men whoso hands were red with innocent biood. Ob, mother mine, if you wisn to make any one love men, close the pages ■ of history 1” “But, Beatrix, there is also the record of many noble deeds, ot many brave actions.” “ They are dotted about like bright stars on a dark night. Mamma, I never lovo the quiet ness and the solitude oi Loch Narn so well as when 1 have been studying history.” “ But, Beatrix,” said Lady Lennox, now really alarmed, “if you go ou la this way you will be i a misanthrope.” Beatrix gave vent to the sweet dauntless . sunny laughter that had never been curbed. “Is that so very terrible?” she asked. “Yes, “very terrible. You must not forget , that the great command is for us to love one another. Now, Beatrix, what does that strange ; look mean ?” > “I was only thinking, mamma, what a sad thing it is, as the command is so stringent, ; that we are not better worth loving.” i “Beatrix, my darling, you must not talk so ■ —you must not even think so; it is unnatural. . Youth is tho time tor hope an j trust, for faith and love. Tell me, have you found no hero in [ the pages of history ?” L “Yes,” she replied—“l like Richard of the lion heart; 1 like Bayard and some of the Cru saders; 1 like Savonarola, who saved beautiful 3 Florence; I like Hobart Bruce, and many others. - I like the king of the Round Table—King Arthur , —the best.” I “ Ho is an imaginary king,” commented Lady i Lennox. “I was afraid,” said Beatrix, “that he was : too good to bo real. Seriously, mamma, I do ; not deny that there are good mon, groat men, r and heroes. When I meet them, I shall lilZe , th enK” “Human nature must always be faulty,” re i marked Lady Lennox, growing rather alarmed at the result of ber own teaching. “I wish, r my darling, you could go away from here, and t acquire juater views of men.” j “I never wish to leave here,” was tho reply. 3 “It seams to ma, mamma, that I have found 3 the true philosopher’s stone. lam content.” 1 “It may seem a wrong thing to say, Beatrix, i yot I should be better pleased if you were less content. I should like you to long more for the ; world. It would ba more natural at your ago.” ’ ‘And I,” declared Beatrix, “rejoice that I , can find a world here. Margaret’s long face 3 means that dinner is growing cold, mamma. r Now lam going to wait on you and attend to 3 you; we have ail kinds of delicacies. 1 should > like to see what you call a dinner a la Husse ; i but 1 think I should not enjoy it so much as i this.” 3 Lady Lennox sighed as she looked round her and thought of the reolierche repasts, tho grand - banquets, the costly wines and rare fruits that i she had been accustomed to. She was grow a ing tired of salmon and wild duck. But Bea o trix made no demur; the simple homely meal s cooked in homely fashion was a banquet to her. o She waited upon her mother, devoting herself t to her and cheering her with her chatter. Ladv e Lennox forgot her trouble, and said to herself that after ail in the love of her beautiful daugh f ter sho was richer than most people. f CHAPTER V. “ AT WAB WITH ALL THE REST OF THE WORLD.” ‘•Beatrix,” said Lady Lennox a few days later ir on. “your dross is very much worn—von must have another.” o “ Why must I, mamma ?” r “My dear child, 1 do no like to see you so e badly dressed. You must indeed have another, a but how we,are to buy one I d.o not know.” “You have no money, mamma,” she said 1 calmly, as though that were quite an unimport -1 ant every-day kind of matter. , “No, none—that is, only just enough to car- i ry me on until quarter-day. Ido not see where the dress is to come from, but you cannot wear a that tartan plaid any more.” > i “I know whore there are several dresses/' said Beatrix; “ Margaret and I found them last i week, but she told me not to tell you, lest the i sight of them should distress you by bringing . back old memories. You know the round tur , ret ? There was once upon a time a large bed i room in it. In this bed-room stood an old-fash . • ioned oaken wardrobe that years ago was - thrown upon its face. No one ever cared to r raise it; but I was looking among the debris for j books, and I saw it lying there, and lifted it, i and ther.e were such lovely stranga-looking ma [ terials in it. Margaret says they are old-fash . iqned brocades,, cloth of silver and cloth of • gold. If you wish me to have a dress, let it be ( [ one of these.” > ’ Lady Lennox looked up with.sudden anima i tion.*“ , “Why, Beatrix, that must be my aunt’s ward ) robed 1 was told that she had left it to me, but L I never thought of it. My aunt was a courtly - dame, and her dresses,'although old-fashioned, ) would be valuable.” “You shall soon see them,” said Beatrix, l hastening from the room. She returned quickly, her arms laden with treasures—silks, satins, laces, brocades. • “See, mamma,” she cried, “here is finery - esKiughJ But how damp it is 1 Would any one believe that we had lived twelve years in this ©ld Grange without finding these ?” Lady Lennox turned over the costly heap. I She selected one of the dresses—a brocade on blue ground with white flowers embroidered on ’ it. “Beatrix,” she said, “I should like to see y©u in this—just onco’fo see you dressed in & way becoming to ■* ‘Prince Charlie’s’ daugh ter.” Beatrix took the dress from her mother’s hands and .quitted the room with it. She was absent some little time; when she returned, Lady Lennox uttered a cry of admiration that • was also pain. - Never had she beheld so lovely a “MargareVsays I am a court lady, mamma,” said Beatrix, blushing at her own loveliness. » The train of rich brocade swept the ground; the I shapely white neck and shoulders, the lovely arms, the column-like throat, the lustrous hair, ' all seemed to have acquired -fresh loveliness. . Beatrix made a magnificent curtsey. “My darling,” said Lady Lennox, “ now you look like ‘Prince Charlie’s’ daughter.” “Sol did before, m’amma,” she replied, not i liking to see her mother’s quivering lips and tearful eyes. “Dress matters but little, after. ; all.” i “ You ought to be always well dressed, Bea trix,” said Lady Lennox, “ you are so beautiful. ; Now we will take some ol the’most sober-look- L ing of those dresses and make them fit. for > modern wear.” “ 1 may say addio, then, to my tartan plaid,” i remarked Beatrix. “ Ah, mamma, believe me, if I were ever to be crowned a queen—if I were • to be one of the greatest ladies in Europe— there never would be nor could be a dress that • I should love as much as Ido this tartan plaid. I have grown up in it,” she added, with that ir resistible love of the comic which had at times distinguished her father. So from that day the marvelous beauty of ’ Beatrix Lennox was enhanced by the superb i dresses of a past generation. She looked so . bright, so flower-like, that Lady Lennox be came more wretched than ever. “Prince . Charlie’s” daughter ought not to waste her hie in this desert. Time had passed very slowly with Lady Len nox. As she said herself, she had been almost mad with wounded pride and wounded love. Of the many whom her generous, careless, reck less husband had befriended, there was not one who camo near her in the hour of her distress and desolation. Those to whom he had lent and those to whom he had given money pru dently held aloof lest the same should do ex pected of them. No wonder that she spoke bitterly and angrily—that she lost faith in her i kind. She had a bitter lesson to learn, and she was long m learning it. She wrote many letters to those who had called themselves “Prince Charlie’s” friends. She received few replies. > Most of those contained homilies to the effect i tnat she might have always a expected . what had happened. In the hour of her deso lation and despair there was not one hand ■ stretched out to help her—not one kindly voice bade her God-speed—not one heart warmed to her and her fatherless child. No wonder that she grew hard and bitter—that she said cruel things of her fellow-creatures; and her little daughter Beatrix, catching her spirit, went still furtner. The child had some strange 'at ‘the idea th world had killed her lather—that the cruelty of man had slain him—an idea that Lady Lennox could never quite drive from her mind. There were days and nights after Lady Lennox reach ed the Grange when, if she could not have re vealed the bitterness and sorrow of her heart to Beatrix, she must have died. So the child had grown up with strange notions. It seemed to her that her mother and herself were against > tiie world; that, the world had robbod hor xaoher of his money, had slain him in the prime of his . life, had turned her mother and herself from the home they loved and made them wretched. > In the depths of her little passionate heart she hated it and the men of whom it was largely composed. Time passed on, and no help came to Lady Lennox. She wrote to those who had been, she believed, her husband’s truest friends; they all said the same thing—how sorry they were that at present they couid.do nothing to help her, that really Colonel Lennox had been very rock i less, and that, if in tho time to come they couid be of any assistance, how pleased they should be. “ 1 should like to frame these letters,” she said to herself, with a bitter smile, “and put under them ‘Human Gratitude.’” She wrote to the duchess who had been proud enough to be the godmother of the supposed fceiress£of Erceldean. The duchess answered kindly. She was really sorry for the troubles of Lady”Lennox, but life and everything apper taining to it were very uncertain. Later on, when Beatrix was growing older, ' and the mother’s longing to send her daughter to a good school increased, Lady Lennox wrote . to the duchess again, but by that time all mem ory of “Prince Charlie” had grown dim—he had been dead some years—and it was too ab surd, the duchess said, that the maintenance of the child should fall upon her. She had no chil dren of her own, and she did not see why she was to bo troubled with other people’s. This time she did not condescend to reply to tho let- > tor herself; it was her companion who answered it, saying that the duchess had so many claims upon her time and attention that she must de cline doing anything for Miss Lennox. With the lapse of years Lady Lennox grew hopeless; she had lost her faith in friendship ; she had nothing left to live for except her daughter; and the beauty, the talent, the grace and genius of that beloved daughter were all so many additional sources of trouble • to her. It seemed so cruel that her gifted girl should grow up in obscurity—should live unknown, un loved—she whose rare beauty would have lighted up and graced a palace. “I can boar it as regards myself,” she would cry, with passionate tears, “ but I cannot bear . it as regards her, my darling child.” She would have cheerfully laid down her life to have seen her daughter- restored to some tning like her right position in society. She ’ thought of every possible plan, but she could see no way of helping herself, and the conviction that her daughter’s fate, like her own, was set i tied, preyed upon her mind and made her more miserable day after day. She had another source of anxiety—she was alarmed to see the deep hold that her sayings and opinions had taken of the mind of her child. She had spoken recklessly, carelessly, bitterly, never dreaming that her words would boar such abundant fruit. She was frightened at the re sult of her own training. Beatrix seemed to imagine that she and her mother, shut up in • the old Grange at Strathnarn, were at war with all thereat of the world ; and the mother began to wonder how she should undo what she had i done. Yet, in spite of her anxiety, there were times when she could have laughed at the hor- > ror in which Beatrix held the world of men. To do aw r ay with it, she advised her to read history, . biography, anything that should exalt her opin ion of men in general. Beatrix Lennox had never wasted a thought on love or lovers. °lf any one had suggested marriage to her, she would have recoiled in horror. She was as un like other girls as a gorgeous passion-flower is unlike a wild hyacinth. i Lady Lennox was very unhappy about her. , V7as it always to be the same? sho asked ber- > self. Would they ever bo situated as they were ? Beatrix was seventeen now, and more lovely ■ than she remembered to have seen any one. 1 Sho had all the fatal Lennox beauty. Was she to live at Strathnarn until the bright eyes grow l dim and tho lustrous hair gray? “Heaven forbid 1 Anything would be better than that,” said Lady Lennox. Time had to prove to her what “anything” was like. (To b* Continual!) : HO PAY, NO BOARD. i How the Hotelkeepers Propose to Abol ish Dead Beats. I (From the Philadelphia Record.) A tall, fine-looking man, of military bearing and address, and attired in a stylish-fitting suit of broadcloth, entered ono of Philadelphia’s ’ leading hotels last night, and in a scrawling I chirography entered tne name of “F. W. Faw s cett, Topeka, Kansas,” upon tho register, • When tho clerk had glanced at the signature ■ he retreated behind the cashier’s desk and 1 scanned a sheet of paper which ho took from a • pile, glancing once or twice toward the stran t ger. r “Has your baggage arrived?” the clerk in ' quired. “No, it has not.” “In that case,” said tho clerk, “we shall re quire payment in advance.” The stranger flashed up, and with some as perity wanted to know whether this was the ” general custom of the house. Tho clerk replied r that it was, and thereupon tho stranger, with a t muttered ejaculation in an undertone, turned on his heel and abruptly left the hotel. I “That man is one of the most accomplished hotel dead-beats in the county,” remarked the clerk, as ho gazed after the retreating form. “See here,” and he handed over to the scribe the shoot of paper which ho held in his hand. It was headed, “Hotelkeepers’ Association of Chicago. Dead-beats.” At the head of the various columns wore “Reports from,” “Name Registered,” “Amount of Baggage,” “Age, Size and Complexion,” •‘Remarks.” Tho spaces were filled in with a complete descrip tion of the retreating individual. “This association is the best thing out for us,” the clerk continued, “and although it only came into existence with the new year, nearly every hotelkeeper in tho United States is num bered among its members. When a proprietor is victimized, be fills ono of these blanks out in full and forwards it te the central office in Chi cago, whence it is in turn telegraphed all over the country. Then when the beat or beats— for their name is legion—puts in an appearance at another place where he is sanguine of ob taining a day or a week’s good living on the cheap, the proprietor is on his guard, and can demand cash in advance or no asoommodation. By this system we expect to shortly consign tho beats to oblivion. At any rate, depend on it, there will be fewer victimized seaside ho telkeepers this season than has ever been known before.” HOW -SAI TOLD A STORY. BY J. C. W. Sam, you see, was one of those big, good natured, easy-going men, a man that ail liked, and rich or poor alike had a pleasant word for, him, and when ha saw any one steering for him his face would light up, and a broad happy smilo would beam all over it, and the cheery welcome he gave you would well repay the “ How de do, Sam ” you gave him. Sam was a character in his way,* one of the geniuses who serve to make life happier, and tho honest joy in his heart was infectious. You left him attar half an hour’s talk, ‘thinking how much better the world would be it there were more such men as Sam. Row he did love a joke, and when you met him and he gave you one of his little stories, tor he was full of them, it was better than the minstrels ; even the people standing by nearly canght the jolly spirit from his laugh, and they would move away smiling, and won dering to themselves why they smiled. But in his homo was where ho did shine. After working hard all day, he would sit down after supper, light his pipe, and surrounded by his birds and dogs, for he was a great lover of those animals, with his wife sitting near sew ing, he gave himself up to solid enjoyment, and when a visitor dropped in to spend the evening Sam was content, he wanted nothing more, and the man who would not find himself well entertained would be hard indeed to be suited- Sam’s wife, “ the widow” he called her, was a good-hearted soul, rather nervous, with admi ration for Sam nearly equal to worship, who thought him the greatest man on earth, but who would chafe sometimes at his*slowness, for she was very quick, and liked to see people get through anything, not to take thoir own time as Sam did., and it is to this fact oi the differ ence in their temperament that we are going to relate how Sam told a story. Dropping in one evening we found Sam busily engaged in explaining to his wite.the merits of a beautiful Irish Thrush ha had just received from “Home.” Feeling at home at once from his hearty welcome wo.entered into the spirit oi the hour, and Sam joked, and roared, and the very furniture-m the room appeared to feel jolly too. Suddenly during a lull in the talk, Sam looked up and said : “Oh ho, I had almost forgotten ! did I ever tell you the story of widow Flynn’s pig.” “Yes, but tell it to us again, Sam,” said his wife. “ I will, if ho would care to listen to it.” We assured him wo would bo only too happy. “Well,” says Sam, “to make a long story short, the story happened in Ireland,” and hero ha laid back m tho chair, and took a long pull at his pipe. “Go on, Sam,” says the wife, “hurry up, don’t be so long.” “Easy, easy, ma’am, I believe we have time enough,” says Sam. “Yes, I know, but begin.” “Well, all right,” says Sam, “here goes the Widdy Flynn lived opposite to Paddy Lynch.” “ Tho Lynches from Downpatrick,” says the wife.” “Easy, mother,” says Sam. “Never mind, the Widdy Flynn had no children, the Lynchbs bad nine, and thus made the widdy hopping, so what does sho do, but goes and buys an 11- ligant pig, and said that should be her chil dren.” “Didn’t tho pig go over into the Lynches yard,” says the wife. “ Ma’am,” says Sam, “am I telling this story, or are you ? if you are, go on.” “ No, n®, Sam, go on, go on, I was only say ing the pig—” “Well, if you will tell tho story, go on,” says Sam, sitting back in his chair. “I won’t say another word, Sam, so go ahead.” “All right, then, I proceed. Tho pig one day crossed over into Lynches yard, and—” “Yes,” says tho wife, “ and at© tho baby.” Sam looked at her in disgust, and loaned back and groaned. “I forgot, Sam,” she said, “but nevermind and go on.” “D.ivi another word do I say,” says Sam, “go on you and finish tho story. I’m done.” “Toll us the rest,” said we to Sam, for this was as good as tho story. “All right,” says Sam. “Another word ma’am, and 1 go to bed.” “I’m dumb,” says she. “What to do Mrs. Lynch didn’t know,” says Sam, “ and bow to tell Pat when ho camo homo was a puzzler; gsitting down to make M up her mind, who walks in but Pat. “ ‘ Where’s the baby ?’ says he, tho first thing. “ ‘Pat,’ says sho, making an effort and telling the truth, ‘the widdy’B pig ate tho baby.’ “‘What!’swears Pat. ‘the wlddy’s pig ate our child ? Give mo an ax.’ (Hero Sam’s wife began to get fidgetty, and was opening her mouth, when a look from Sam chocked her, and she subsided). ‘Give me an ax,’ says Pat. “ ‘ Oh, don’t spill human blood,’ cried Mrs. Lynch. ‘Pat—Pat—aiay; don’t harm the widdy for the pig. Sure we can have more.’ “ ‘ Give me an ax !’ says Pat, boiling with rage. “‘Pat—arrah Pat, what would yo*do? Oh, be aisy!’ “ ‘ Aisy!’ says Pat. ‘Stand back.’ “Hero Sam got up ,to tho table to describe tho scene, and his wife, now unable to control herself, got up also. Sam raised his arm, so did the wife; he opened his mouth slowly, but be fore he could get a word out, his wife yelled at tho top of hor voice. “Pat, said, ‘I don’t care anything for the child, but I won’t keep a home just to feed pigs,’ and then she dropped into her chair exhausted. To describe Sam’s look as sho spoko would be vain, but as she dropped into her chair so did he into his. For a moment he could not speak, but slowly regaining himself, and looking full at hor, he said: i “ Old lady, maybe I told that story, maybe you did; but I’ll be blosved if you didn’t finish me as well as it.” SOUNDS OFTHE NIGHT. ONE OB THE INTERESTING MYS TERIES OE NATURE. The great audibility of sounds during tho night is a phenomenon of considerable interest, and one whicn had been observed even by tho ancients, in crowded cities, or in thoir vicin ity, the effect was generally ascribed to the rest of animated beings, while in localities where such an explanation was inapplicable, it was supposed to arise from a favorable direction of the prevailing wind. Baron Humboldt was particularly struck with the phenomenon when he first heard the rushing of the great catar acts of the Orinoco in tho plain which sur rounds the mission of tho Apures. These sounds he regarded as three times louder dur ing the night than during the day. Some au thors ascribed this fact to the cessation of tho humming of insects, the singing of birds, and the action of the wind on the leaves of the trees; but M. Humboldt justly maintains that this cannot be the cause of it in the Orinoco, where the buzz of insects is much louder in the' night than in the day, and where the breeze never rises till after sunset. Hence he was led to ascribe the phenomenon to the perfect trans parency and uniform density of the air, which can exist only at night, after the heat of the ground has been uniformly diffused through the atmosphere. When the rays of the sun have been beating on tho ground during the day, currents of hot air of different temperatures, and consequently of different densities, are constantly ascending from the ground, and mixing with the cold air above. The air thus ceases to be a homogen eous medium, and every person must have ob served the effects of it upon objeo&s seen through it, which are very indistinctly visible, and have a tremulous motion, as if they were “dancing in the air.” Tho very samo effect is perceived when wo look at objects through spir its and water that are not perfectly mixed ; or when we view distant objects over a red-hot poker or over a flame. As sound moves with different velocities through media of different densities, the wave which produces the sound will be partly re flected in passing from one medium to the other, and the direction of the transmitted wave changed ; and hence in passing through such media, different portions of tho wave will reach the ear at different times, and thus destroy the sharpness and distinctness of the sound. This may be proved by many striking facts. If we put a bell in a recoiver containing a mixture of hydrogen’gas and atmospheric air, the sound of the boll can scarcely be heard. During a shower of rain or of snow, noises are greatly deadened, and when sound is transmit ted along an iron wire or in an iron pipe of suf ficient length, we actually h3ar two sounds—one transmitted more rapidly through the solid, and the other more slowly through the air. The same property is well illustrated by an elegant and easily-repeated experiment of Chladni’s. When sparkling champagne is poured into a tall glass till it is half full, the glass loses its power or ringing by a stroke upon its edge, and emits only a disagreeable and puffy sound. This effect will continue while the wine is tilled with bubbles of air, or as long as the efferves cence lasts; but when the effervescence begins Ito subside, the sound becomes clearer and ■ clearer, and the glass rings as usual when tho air-babbles have vanished. If we reproduce ft l .© efiervosceneo by stirring tlie champagne with a piece of bread, tho glass wiH again cease to ring. The same experiment will succeed with other effervescing fluids. pleasantTwhims. “MAD MUMMERIES, MY MASTERS. ” (JVom the Norristown, Pa., Herald.) Ten millions of hairpins are manufac tured in this country annually, and yet they ara not sufficient to prevent a hair from getting in. to the butter now and then. Fame is tardy in reaching some men, but if tho man is deserving, it is bound to strike him sooner or later. A Berks county editor has had a blue and red canal boat named alter him. The Louisville Journal says “mumble thepeg” is correct, not “mumbletypeg.” Now that this momentous question is decided, busi ness should improve in the South. Edison’s phonograph can whistle, sing, howl and jaw, but it can’t throw a stone at a yowling cat on the back fence, or kick a chromo agent off the front stoop. There is stih lots ol room for improvement. A young man in Marietta, Ga., insists on marrying tho girl who tried to poison him. That is a decidedly mean way of seeking re venge. Sho doesn’t deserve such a severe pun ishment, Several years in tho State prison would be sufficient. A scientific journal in New York says that in drowning the easiest way ta die would bo to suck water into the lungs by a poweriul inspiration as soon as one went beneath tho surface. Three or four dozen persons hava clipped this article and sent it to George Fran cis Train, but we don’t suppose he will take tho hint. P. T. Barnum says: “ I will toll you, as a showman, you can’t make animals drink whisky—they know bettor.” The showman is mistaken. We once heard a woman sail out o£ a second-story window to an object that for nearly an hour had Deen trying in vain to un lock the front door, “Drunk again, you old hog, are you?” And if a hog isn’t an animal, what is it ? Angier Chaco, the Fall River defaulter, when in the Senate, in 1863, sat next seat but one to Lucius W. Bond, of Worcester, who is now in State prison.— Graphic. How often have wo warned Senators against the danger ous practice of sitting next seat but ono to men who will some day get into prison 1 Good ad vice is thrown away on somo persons. A dozen tramps, we are informed, held an impromptu convention at tho lower end ol the town, on Sunday afternoon, and passed a series of resolutions, among which was one de nouncing the present style of costly funerals, and another protesting against the fashion that compels gentlemen to wear pigeon-tail coats and kid sieves at evening parties. A third reso lution spoke in pretty strong language against the reprehensible practice oi leaving cross dogs unchained m country towns. Some of our readers may remember Mrs. Mary Til-wbat’s-her-name, of Now Jersey—a well-meaning woman, but rather eccentric in the matter of frocks—who visited our town some two Summers ago. Her dual garmonturo led to tho suspicion that she got up very early in the morning, and, in the dark, had donned her husband’s pantaloons in mistake for her own dress. Well, this woman was riding m a railroad car tho other day, and a train boy came along and dropped a fashion magazine into her lap. Every page contained pictures of polonaises, and priucesao overskirts, andj'uffled trains on bouretto dresses, and silk ves'ts with double rows of pipings, and gros grain silk pull-backs and tilings, and Mrs. Til-what’s-her nanie glanced at tho book hastily, and dropped it as if it were a viper. When the boy returned, she looked daggers and other sharp things at him, and, shaking her parasol menacingly, fiercely exclaimed : “You, boy! if you let drop anymore such trash into my lap, I’ll run you through tho lungs with this umbrilier!” Tho next time the boy came around, he didn't even let a gum-drop into her lap—though ho might have handed her a gentleman’s fashion plate without giving offense. PREMONITORY DREAMS. A Couple of Strange Instances. Ono Winter evening about fifty years ago, a post-chaise, with a single gentleman inside it, drove up to tho little inn on the Fentland jFrith, in the north of Scotland, whero passengers who were going to cross to the Orkneys usually spent tuo night. Tho gentleman, whom wa will call Mr. Mac T., was the owner of a largo estate, and an old house which had belonged to his family for hundreds of years, in the Main land, or chief of the Orkney Islands, and waa now about to visit his property. It was a blus tering, stormy night, but that only made mora pleasant the cigar and the glass of whiskey, and the crackling wood fire by which Mac T. sat chatting with the landlord, who was an old friend both of bis father and himself, and who was proud of entertaining tho “young laird/ as he called him. with his wildest tales of ad venture on the sea. They did not, however, sit late, for the Orkney packet sailed very early in the morning, and Mac T. soon found himself in bis cosy well-appointed little bedroom. Tho wind was chanting a grand Berserker melody, and the sea was roaring a deep bass accompani ment. Mac T. loved those sounds, for they bad often been the lullaby of hia childhood, and soon fall asleep. For some hours ho slept without an imago or a thought reaching his mind; but at length, when the morning was glimmering gray in tha East, a strange dream camo to trouble him. He dreamt that he was in tho ancient banquet ing hall of his old house in the Mainland, sit ting at the head of a very long table. The ban queting hall was now in reality almost a ruin, but in his dream, Mac T. saw it hung with ta pestry and blpvZing with a hundred lights. Tho table was well filled on both sides, and ho thought ho glanced curiously down its length to see who his guests were. As ha looked ho shuddered in his dream. Those who sat al table with him were all his dead ancestors for many generations b ack. Ho knew their faces and dresses weil from their portraits in tho picture gallery. Next to him sat his own fath er, who bad died about a year before. And at the bottom of the table sat a fair-haired man in a of skins, who was a Norse chieftain, the founder oi tho family. It seemed to hi.a 1 that he sat for some minutes as if spell-bound, while the spectres murmured together in low, hollow tones. At length they all rose, and slowly, one by one, in turn, left the hall. But before they went, each ono paused at the door, ' and turning, raised his band in a warning atti tude, fixed his eyes on Mac T., and said m a deep voice, the word “Beware.” “The packet starts in twenty minutos, sir,” cried a loud voice at the door, rousing Mac T. ' suddenly from sleep. Confused at first, yet soon remembering where be was, bo sprang out of bed and began hurriedly to drees himself. Being a bad sailor, his first glancowas naturally enough at the sea, close to which tne inn stood. The wind had risen in tho night. Tho waves thundered on the shore, and the little Orkney pa cleet was tossing up and down like a limpet shell. As be gazed, bis strango dream rose up with sudden distinctness before Mac T.’s mind. Ha was infected with a good deal of thorough Scotch superstition. Beside ha did not much like the look of tho soa, and so ho resolved not to go till to-morrow. That day the Orkney packet was lost with every man on hoard, and Mac T. and his little wile, who was left at home with the babies, had to thank that warning dream for his life. The otner instance wo havo to tell is quite as singular. Many years ago tho Bev. Mr. N. held a small living in the wildest part of West Som erset. The parish church stood on a bieak hill side, and Mr. N., who was a bachelor, lodged in • the farm-house closo to it. Among bis small flock there was no one in whom tho clergyman took mor© interest than m Mary, tho pretty daughter of tho farmer, his landlord. When Mary was about twenty, Mr. N. was much troubled by finding that sho had formed an at tachment with Jack Townsend, the cleverest workman and tho most worthless fellow ou tho farm. Ono Autumn night the clergyman dreamed that Mary stood at his bedside and cried out m an imploring voice, “Come out on to the hill side.” The impression left on his mind on waking was so distinct that, if he had not known the door was locked, so that no one could enter the room, he would have thought Mary must in reality havo been there. Feeling however sure that it was only a dream, he com posed himself once more to sleep. But scarce ly had be closed his eyes when Mary was again there, calling to him to come out on to tho hill side. Seven several times bo tried to sleep, and seven times the phantom came back, always with the same cry. At length, mastered by an almost irresistible impulse, ho rose, dressed himself, and went oat on the hili. He walked soma distance, but could see nothing except the heather bells waving in tho moonlight; could hear nothing but a distant sheep bell tinkling softly, and the stream warbling below in the valley. He was just going back, when suddenly a’ shrill cry reached him, seeming to come from a neigh boring combe. Hurrying in that direction, ha saw at the bottom of the combe two figures, those o? a man and a woman, apparently strug gling with each other. As he drew near, the man ran away and tho woman fell to tho ground. When be came up he found that it was Mary. Sho had only fainted, and be soon brought her to herself. Then by degrees she confessed to him that her lover had persuaded her to meet him that night in the combe, bringing with her a small sum of money which sho had saved from early childhood by laying by little gifts of friends and relations, and which according to the custom common among her class in that day, she had kept in an old stocking instead of in the bank. Townsend bad promised to elope with her, and marry her, and as she loved him, and her father would not allow the match, sho had consented to go. But when he met her, Townsend, instead of going away with hor, had tried to robj her of her money. She had resisted, and struggled with him, and just then the clergyman had come up and the vil lain had run away. After that night Mr. N. was a believer m the piOYidehtial nature oi dreamsc