New York dispatch. [volume], February 08, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
Few faint pink stripes linger te tell of the de
parting day, as though he called all the powers
©f the air to testify to the rapture that must
follow that “ and then.”
Cressida sighs and yields the point—yields
because obedience to any sort of constituted
authority comes to her both by training and by
nature—sighs because she has an inborn hatred
of deceit; and, gloss it over as they both may,
ahe feels there is something of treachery in this
pnackuowlodged engagement to Miss Smerdon s
handsome f rench teacher; but the conviction is
only strong enongh to make her unhappy; it
aeither stirs her to Irank speech and action, nor
eaves her from the terrible trouble te come..
“ I must go now,” she says with abrupt de
cision, which thia time he does not controvert;
•< I am to see Miss Smerdoa and Miss Julia, and
have a long talk with them to-night.”
“ Which yea will retail to me to-morrow,
Isidore says persuasively. " les, my best be
loved, you must see me to-morrow—you must;
you shall not go uxtil you promise drawing
her to him with a sudden fierceness that thrills
and startles ths shy girl* “Promise, Cressida,
and I will release you 1”
And of course Cressida does premise, and is
set tree, to rush away, blushing, half angry, but
altogether dominated and subdued to his will.
It is not exactly the farewell ho had planned;
tho white arses should have clung around his
neck, the blond head rested on his shoulder,
the sweet brown eves have been upraised to his
in pathetically eloquent appeal against the
cruel fatojihat severed them so soon; but, on the
whole, .he is very well content with things as
they are.
“She is a beauty!” ho says, as no watches
the slender gray-clad figure moving toward the
house. “She will be more beautiful still. Just
Seaven 1 To think of a creature like that lead
ing a life of drudgery as under-governess in a
second-rate subarban school I Thy good for
tune was at baud, Isidore, my friend, when
then oamoet to teach French in the Misses
Smerdon’s finishing college for young ladies I"
He lifts his aoft hat with au elaborate flourish,
•s ho rolls off the title ot the red brick house
With more than a touch of mockery. The soft
light falls upon the bare graceful head, and
Searches out each secret of the handsome face;
and it is a face of many secrets, young as it is;
a contradictory faco too, for, even while the
dark eyes burn with au ardent passion, the
full, woll-chisoled lips under the small pointed
mustache part in a strangely cynical smile.
In the meantime, while Monsieur St. Just is
(trolling homeward through tho scented dusk,
Smoking a cigarette rolled by his own deft and
elicate fingers, and calmly reviewing the as
pect of affairs, Cressida Leigh, with the blushes
{till lingering on her face, and a heart still
hrobbmg with indecorous haste under the
shabby gray bodice, is timidly knocking at the
door of the Misses Smerdon’s special sitting
room.
“ Come in !” says a sharp thin voice; and tho
next moment she stands in the doorway drop
ping her schoolgirl curtsey and waiting her in
structress’ commands.
“ You are very late, Cressida ! At least ten
minutes beyond the appointed time,” Miss
Smerdon says, with a severe look at the big
marble clock on tho oak sideboard; and Creasi
da, guiltily conscious of tho cause ot the delay,
can only hang her bead and inwardly pray that
they will not ask what has kept her.
And they do not. Miss Smerdon scolds me
chanically, because it has been her custom for
more than thirty years to rebuke unpunotuality
ds tlio gravest of Crimea, and habit is strong
with her still; but she is not really angry, being,
tn truth, too much preoccupied for any strong
(motion of the kind.
She and her sister sit at either side of a very
businessdiko writing-table, littered now with
many spoiled sheets of letter-paper and a large
pile of sealed and directed letters. Miss Julia’s
sharp-pointed steel pen goes scratch, scratch,
scratch over the paper still. Cressida, stand
ing like a culprit awaiting sentence, watches its
progress with a kind of fascination and a grow
ing wonder in her large brown eyes. Never
bas she seen Miss J alia so busy.
The sisters are not much alike in features,
dross, or manner; the older is a gaunt, heavily
made woman, with the worn and weary look pe
culiar to those who have spent the best years
of life in the thankless drudgery of teaching.
Her large and ragged features ars lined and
Wrinkled, hdr hair is a dull iron gray, some
thing tho color of her neat merino dress. She
is not in reality much over fifty, though a
Stranger might take her to be between sixty and
eventy.
Miss Julia, on the other hand, battles ener
getically inch by inch with encroaching time,
find will yield no vantage to the enemy. She is
eight or ten years younger than her sister, and
dresses as youthfully as Cressida Leigh. She
is a very small woman, with a neat figure, tiny
hands and feet, and a rather large head, or a
head that looks large, because the thin golden
hair, of which Miss Julia is inordinately proud,
[s frizzed and puffed out till it makes a broad
aureola of glory for the wizen, waxen-tinted lit
tle face.
Miss Julia is wearing a white muslin dress,
through which her thin little shoulders and
meagre arms are only toe plainly to be seen;
she has drawn an azure ribbon through the
gleaming golden “fuzz,’’and bound hot scrap
Of a waist with a sash of the same bright hue.
Altogether, gayly as she loves to dress in a
general way, she has outshone herself to-night,
and.Orsssida stares at her with innocent, dazzled
eyes', and mentally recalls Isidore's lately-ut
tered words. “I think Miss Julia Smerdon im
agines herself in love.”
“Sit down, Cressida,” Misa Smerdon says,
mechanically rapping tho desk with her paper
knife, as she is wont to do when recalling the
wandering attention of one of her school
classes, “Sit down, cnild; there is something X
must tell you to-night, but I hardly know how
to begin.”
She rubs her wrinkled forehead and sighs
wearily, as Cresßida drops into the big chair,
feeling greatly relieved by the words “ some
thing to tell you.” She is not to bo scolded
then, and she can listen with a heart at ease,
i I dare say you think us very old women,
Cressida,” Hiea Smerdoa begins grimly; but
she is not destined to proceed far in her ora
tion, lor, at the vary first words, Miss Julia’s
pen ceases to scratch, and Miss Julia looks up,
with two scarlet spots on her shriveled little
cheeks.
“ I wish yon would not talk in such a ridicu
lous fashion, Harriet 1” she says tartly. “I am
sure Cressida has no such—such improper and
uncivil ideas. Or, if”—with aa airy toss of the
little blue-filleted gelden head—“if you persist in
making yourself eut a veritable antique, I am
sure she remembers there is a century or so be
tween us.”
“ Well, never mind fhe age, Julia,” Miss Smer
don says, a little irritably. “ With or without
a reason, I dare say Cressida, who has spent
her whole life in this school, imagined that we
should keep it on, and she Lind a home in it for
ever.”
“ Then she was a very foolish, ignorant girl,”
interpolates Miss Julia severely, and scratching
away at tho unoffending paper with as much
energy and satisfaction as though it were a cen
sus-taker's face.
But neither of her companions heeds tho in
terruption. Miss Smerdon leans forward on
her elbows, with her big chin pillowed in her
joined palms, and wonders why the young face
she questions with haggard, not unkindly, eyes,
is suffused with that sudden guilty glow.
And Cressida? Cressida’s heart seems to
stand still as she ponders ths abrupt question.
She has not thought that all Iter life was to be
spent in the dall school-house that has been
her only homo. Tor her there is Isidore and
all tho golden hopes and fancies that spangle
round her handsome lover’s name. But that
the Misses Smerdon should ever abandon tho
Beech House College for Young Ladies was a
wild imagining that had never crossed her
mind.
“ Did yon thfnk we should be here always 1”
Miss Smerdon repeats; and the thin shrill voiee
puts tho question not ungently. So Cressida
gathers courage, and says frankly enough:
“Yes; I thought you'would always keep the
school; and then ”
“'Then you were foolish and selfish and short
sighted, as selfish persons always are !’* Mies
Julia interrupts, flinging down the pen and
dr&wing her small person up with much digni
ty. ‘l,ll you had exercised either brain or heart,
Cressida Leigh, you would have foreseen the
contingency of my marriage.”
fIHAPTEB 11.
“ I AM TO MARRY M. ST. JUST.”
“My marriage I” There is something sa
theatrically triumphant in the emphasis with
which the fantastieally-attired, withered little
spinster hurls the Brushing announcement at
Cressida’s astonished head, that a grim smile
creep%,rouad even Miss Smerdoa’s sternly-set
lips, and it speaks well for the heart and brain
Miss Julia disparages that tho girl does not
laugh outright. She does not however, though
she catches her breath and bites her rosy lips
a little sharply, and the eyes that gleam be
neath the long onrled lashes arc suspiciously
bright; but sh® says, vvicla blunt sincerity, at
Which even Miss Julia cannot ba offended:
“ I never thought ot it; but then I am so stu
pid. Dear Misa Julia, ought I to wish you
JOJb?”
“Certainly, since yon are so kind I” says the
bride-elect graciously, but with tremendous
dignity, as ot one whs knows she must not eon
doscond too far; and she pats down her blue
bows byway ot smoothing her ruffled plumage.
“ But in my new sphere yon must not think I
shall forget eld friends; I shall always think
well of you, Cressida—always !”
“It was act your future, but Cressida’s, we
came here te talk about,” Miss Smerdon inter
rupts, with a disapproving look at the frivolous
old face simpering girlishly over its blue rib
bons and be-riaged fingers. “ I am sure I don’t
know what is to became of the child 1”
She rubs her hands in much perplexity, and
Miss Julia goes knelt to her writing. Lite holds
for tho younger Miss Smerdon one supremely
interesting existence, and some thousand oth
ers that do not even trouble her thoughts.
CressiSa clasps her hands with a little cry, and
again tliat tell-tale flush creeps upward te tho
iroots of her pale golden locks.
— “Otme I” she ories quickly. “Do you moan
to’bKag’BS V bool > to 6° frotn Uai '° &1i
once?” ,
“ Yes, it must bo SO. Julia is to bo married
on the first of July to Mr. Osbomo, whose home
is in Australia, and when they go to that home
they take me with them.’’
Miss Smerdon is a h rd, soured woman, and
has never suspected herself of a sympathy be
fore ■ but she turns her head a little on one side,
and ’jerks out the words that turn the friend
less orphan girl cut ot the only home she has
ever known without once looking into the vic
tim’s face.
But Julia is troubled by no compunctions
misgivings; she looks up with a becoming
blush at the mention of Mr. Osborne’s name,
and, turning to the dumbfounded girl, chirps
out a cheery commentary on her sister’s words.
“ Yes, the wedding is to be on the first. Not
much time for a trousseau, is there ? I call it
quite shocking to hurry a poor little woman so
over such an important business ; but what will
you ?”—with a grotesque little parody of a
Parisian shoulder-shrug. “Men are. so impa
tient 1” .
“Well, John Osborne has waited patiently
enough,” the elder sister interrupts, with a dry
significance that wins anything but a grateful
glance from tho younger—for, pose as romantic
ally as she may, Miss Julia knows in her heart
that her little world will hardly be disposed to
look upon her marriage as other than a very
commonplace affair.
The John Osborne of the present is a stout,
grizzled, jovial-looking mau, with a sb ip in g bald
spot on the crown of his head, a smiling, rubi
cund countenance, and comfortable rotundity
of figure; and, though Julia’s eyes can
Sze upon the visions of tho past, and see John
borne as he was twenty years ago—slim and
eager, and sheepishly in love with the doll-liko
little creature—she cannot make others regard
him with her eyes.
But he has come back to her—the impecuni
ous lover of her youth has come to lay his for
tune at her feet. True he has been a littlo long
about it, true he comes now a widower, encum
bered with three sturdy boys and a couple of
half-grown girls. But ho has come; all the dis
agroable accessories sink into the convenient
background of Julia Sm.erdop’s mind, and only
the one great, glorious fact of her conquest re
mains within sight.
All this, and much more, Mias Smerdon tolls
th® astonished Cressida, who is too bewildered
for much speech; and the elder woman seems
te find an intense relief in pouring out her
harassed thoughts to this deeply-interested and
patient listener.
“It was a great surprise to mo, Cressida,”
she says, rubbing her hands with the old per
plexed and irritable action Cressida remembers
so wall. “I was as sure as you that tho school
would be our home, and yours, too, child—so
long as wo could carry it on—of course, I knew
that John Osborne had always admired Julia,
from the time when ho was a hobbledehoy, who
never could be made to stay in old lawyer Os
borne’s office ; but I never dreamed that, after
making a fortune and marrying, and burying a
wife, and bringing up a ianiily, ha would come
from the other side of the world to marry
Julia, alter all. But the things you don’t ex
pect are always the things that happen ; and so
Mr. Osborne drops from the clouds one day and
coolly pops the question.”
“He must have been very fond of her,”
Cressida suggests, as Miss Smerdon pauses,
with the look ot half-comic exasperation she
bas worn in telling the tale of her sister’s woo
ing. Cressida makes tho suggestion timidly,
for the idea that any one-man, woman, or
child—should be “very fond of” frivolous,
affected Julia, is so strange that it seems almost
a mockery.
“ Oh, as to that, he is a faithfulsort of crea
ture I” Miss Smerdon says, with a certain un
eonseious friendly scorn lor the absent lover.
“ Whatever he eared for in his youth ho cares
for now—old places, old things and old people.
The day after the engagement ho said to me
candidly enough : —'
“ 1 1 hope I shall make you two girls happy
at the other side of the world, Harriet’—he calls
us girls still, Cressida ; what oau you expect
from a man like that ?”
Cressida laughs and shakes her bright head
in lieu of an answer. In truth she thinks the
man must be demented who applies that title
either to the lantastio little coquette or the
grim, gaunt woman before her.
But Harriet doos not resent that laugh—her
own eyes twinkle a response, indeed, as she
goes on gravely ■
“Of course I thanked him for his good will
and said I would not saddle him with another
helpless woman; that I could very well keep on
the’ school; but he would not hear a word of
that.
“ • Look here, Harriet!’ he said, coming dose
up to the table where I sat at work and fin
gering his big cable-chain rather nervously.
• We’ll have no more of that, if you please; my
home is going to bo yours for the rest of your
life, and, to sot your mind at ease, I will tell
you tho real state ot the case. I won’t deny to
you,’ he went on, growing suddenly rod in the
face and turning the contents of my work-basket
over in the most reckless fashion—‘ I won’t de
ny that Lwas just a littlo disappointed in Julia
when we first mot. Of course time had stood
etill with her in my thoughts and 1 wanted the
bloom and freshness of twenty years back. In
fact, I was unjust enough to think her a little
old-maidish and affected, poor soul; but that
was my fault, of course, and lias nothing to do
with the present matter,’ ho added, w.th a sud
den, florca look, as though he defied mo to con
tradict him, which I had not the slightest
idea of doing. Seeing this, be finished more
mildly and in a very feeling manner. . “ ‘ What
I mean to say is, tho marriage will a good thing
for us all—for me and my children, who are all
at sixes and sevens, with no mistress at the head
of a big house; for you two, who may have some
peace -and comfort at tho end of your days, if
you did not get it at the beginning—l could not
find it in my heart and conscience to go back to
Australia and leave you two girls toiling for
your daily bread I’ ”
“ What a good, kind man!” Cressida cries,
with a little thrill ot unselfish enthusiasm. “ I
am sure you will be glad to go. Miss Smerdon 1
I am sure you will be happy in Mr. Osborne’s
home I”
“ Thai’s as may be, child,” is the doubtful an
swer. “It lam not, it will be from no lack of
kindness on his part, for, if ever a good man
lived, he is one. However, the offer is one I
cannot afford to refuse, tor I am getting an old
woman and the new-fashioned teaching is just
a little beyond me, and when I cease to
teach, I may as well cease to live, lor there will
be little enough for me to live on; but, Cressida,
have yon thought how all these changes will af
fect you ?”
Cressida does not answer immediately. Slow
ly but surely she is realizing, with a sickening
sort of chill, that the gates of tho past—tho
gates that shut in her innocent untroubled
childhood—are closing forever behind her; that
she is standing, breathless and trembling, upon
the threshold ot a new, strange world.
Beech House is to close, the Misses Smerdon
are to pass away to another hemisphere, and bo
known of her no more. It has been no very
pleasant home; but it is the only one she has
ever known. They have not been kind or ten
der guardians; but they have grimly parodied
all the sweat and sacred ties of life to tho or
phan girl, and she dings to them now with a
passion that surprises herself!
Whether she stands literally alone in tho
world or has semeelaim on some one’s lore and
protection Cressida Leigh does not know, and
the Misses Smerdon are as ignorant as she.
Thirteen years ago, her young mother had come
to Beech House college as a lady boarder, bring
ing the little girl of three as a pupil into the
school. But her stay was not a long one. Tho
hand of death was on the fair girlish brow of
the young widow, whose soft pathetic eyes
touched Harriet Smerdon’s heart with an un
wonted pity; and in less than a year she had
guietly passed away from a world that had been
too hard for her.
“ You will keep my littlo Cressida,” she had
said with her last faint breath. “ There are a
few hundreds—that will pay yon till she can
teach in her turn—my poor baby I—it is all I
ean do for her.
It was not a charge Misa Smerdon cared much
for; but she was a kind-hearted woman in the
main, and she could not look into the eyes over
which ths film of death was glazing and refuse
that earnest prayer. Moreover, as Miss Julia sug
gested, the immediate hundreds would come in
useful in the hand-to-mouth e-xistence of a small
struggling school. And so Eosamond Leigh
passed away almost contentedly, leaving her
child in the safe shelter of those grimly-folded
arms; and the little Cressida became a part and
parcel of Beech House Academy, and grew up
therein, knowing nothing and less than nothing
of the world that lay beyond its walls.
It has been a dull gray life, brightened only
by a sunny nature and the flower-like fancies of
healthy youth; but, now that it is all te end, is
grows suddenly pathetically dear—Cressida for
gets that she herself has in a measure broken
from it, forgets Isidore St. Just and his lately
declared passion—forgets all but the sharp pain
that sets her pretty lip quivering, and makes
the slow, heavy tears roll down her pale cheeks
and fall drop by drop on to her clasped hands.
“Don’t, child!" Miss Smerdon cries, in
tones of sharp remonstrance; and she rises
and paees a dimly-lighted room in a Napoleonic
attitude of agitation, her largo head bent for
ward, her arms cressed behind her back. The
sight of that woebegone white face stabs her like
a knife-thrust, and tho slander, dejected figure
introduces a new element ef doubt and discard
into her well-matured plans. If you cry e»—if
you take the matter Eke that I will not go 1”
Her energy at en«a ealms and frightens Cres
sida. She rouses herself with a vigorous effort,
and smiles bravely through her tears.
“It was only fern minute. I was a great
eaward,” she says apologetically. “You have
made all your arrangements, then ?”
“All but those that eoneorn you,” is the
gloomy answer. “Julia talks of putting, your
name down at a governess agency, or recom
mending you tea private family; but —
Tho color Mashes again over Cressida’s pale
face, and she says rapidly:
“ Don’t let my future trouble yen ”
“ Don’t talk preposterous nonsense 1” is the
tart answer, while Miss Smerdon rubs her
hands more vigerouely than ever, and flicks a
stray teardrop from her stubby gray lashes.
“You might as well toll me not to breathe,
child I When we are away, and the house shut
up No, I can’t do it!” she adds, rising sad
stamping her foot with sudden tteterminafion.
'lie desertion would be too base and cruel 1
Yenr mother would asms back and haunt me !”
Cressida stare* at the excited woman with
eyes of wildest wonder. Is it really Miss Smer
don, her hard unsympathetic task-raistress,
who is thus oddly moved? Are those tears that
glitter in the heavy lusvreus eyes ? Is it a sob
that shakes the sharp ifietatonad'voice ? Cras
sida’s breath comes faster. Iter heart is strange
ly thrilled and tonehed; she tools as though a
vail had dropped suddenly frosh her eyes, and
she saw the woman to whom sho has rendered
hitherto a loveless obedience in a wholly differ
ent light. If the scliooblife could but come
over again she would only be too glad to please
this Miss Smerdon, Cressida thinks; but the
school-days are passed and done with now.
“ Ok, you may well look puzzled child 1” Miss
NEW YORK DISPATCH, FEBRUARY 8, 1885.
Smerdon’a voice is sharpened by the painful
agaitation ot her thoughts, for nature is unkind
hi every way to the poor schoolmistress in
whose aspect even sentiment grows shrewish.
“I never seemed to care for you--I dare say
you hated the cross old woman who worked
and worried your life out.”
“No, no !” Cressida interrupts remorsefully;
but Miss Smerdon nods her old head.
“Little blame to you if you did, child; but I
tried to do my duty, and keep my promise to
your poor young mother, though I did it in a
grudging fashion, I admit.”
And now the large hand tightens with sud
den energy bu the girl’s slender shoulder, the
rugged face grows almost noble in its look of
renunciation and resolve.
“No—Julia and her husband must go without
me; I will not leave you friendless and alone.
All Cressida’s frank and generous nature
thrills in quick responsive answer to the
generoua words; her fear of the woman and
her promise ot secrecy are alike forgotten as
she Hings her warm young arms round the
withered neck and sobs out the confession that
will set Harriet Smerdon’a mind at rest.
“ I am not alone, not friendless; I am to
marry Monsieur Isidore St. Just I”
*» . .. —
CHAPTER 111.
“the pooh wot.p has no champion.”
Ths words ars far from having tho reassur
ing effect that Cresida Leigh expected. Miss
Smerdon repeats them in anything but a de
lighted tone, and unclasps the clinging arms
energetically, so that she may more easily sur
vey the brightly blushing face. What she reads
there seems to startle her still more. It Cresi
da bad been six instead of sixteen, she could
not be more utterly surprised than she is by
the idea that she should have taken to herself a
lover, and be calmly looking forward to her
married life. . .
•‘Julia is too old, decidedly,” she says, irri
tably. “I do not counsel any one to wait too
long; but you Why, child, you are not out
of your short frocks yet 1”
And she glances at the short gray skirt be
neath which the pretty feet are all too plainly
shown: then, as Cressida flushes a little indig
nantly, her thoughts fly off at a fresh angle.
“Isidoro St. Just, too I” she repeats, as
though there lay some cause of offense in tho
syllables of the pretty un-English name. '‘l’ve
no great opinion of Frenchmen, and I’ve no
great opinion—■—■ What did ho moan by filling
your little fool’s head with his ridiculous ro
mance ?”
Cressida Leigh is loyal above all things, and
Miss Smerdon is wounding her loyalty now.
Mere personal abuse she has borne, and will
bear patiently enough; but there must be no
fault tonnd with her lover.
“ Yon must not say that, Miss Smerdon,” she
says, bravely, and her look is so composed and
womanly that all in a moment the thought of
love and marriage in connection with little
Cressida grows lees and less absurd in Harriet
Smerdon’s eyes—becomes, indeed, a possible,
though st irtling solution of her difficulty. And,
while she turns it over and ponders it, Cressida
stands before her with linked hands and proud
ly lifted head, speaking still in her lover’s de
fense.
“ Mr. St. Just has done nothing wrong; he
found me very lonely, very friendless, as he
thought—and as I thought till to-night,” she
adds, with a shy side-look that brings a re
morseful pang to Harriet Smerdon’s heart.-
“ He pitied my loneliness; ho was very, very
kind to me.”
1 dare say; men usually are kind to faces
like yours, Miss Smerdon comments, in a judi
ciously inaudible grunt. Aloud she says, with
sudden determination:
“ Well, never mind the preliminaries, child;
the long and tho short ot the matter is, you and
my French master have fallen in love with'
one another. Isn’t that it?”
She takes the little nod and rosy glow lor a
sufflcient answer, and goes 3n, crossly:
“Of course 1 I wish old Dupont had had Hie
decency to keep his rheumatism at bay. No
body ever fell in love with him, and, to do him
justice, I never heard of his trying to turn a
school-girl’s head.”
“Miss Smerdon i” Cressida interrupts, such
burning indignation in her look and tone that,
cross and troubled as she is, the schoolmistress
cannot keep back a faint smile.
“ Oh, yes, I know I” she continues grimly.
i“ Poor old Dupont took snuff, wore a scratch
wig, upd had not half a dozen teeth in his old
jaws; but he was the soul of honor. And his
handsome, fascinating deputy . Well, never
mind; I am not going to say any more now.
Monsieur St. Just wants to marry you soon ?”
A very faint hesitating “ Yes ” drops timidly
from Cressida’s red lips.
“ What means has he—what position to offer
yon ?”
.Cressida rounds her bronze-brown eyes in
simple wonder. If Miss Smerdon knows noth
ing of her French master s ways and means,
her own ignorance upon the point is by many
degrees blanker still. He is kind and hansdome,
and he loves her. These salient tacts are all
she knows or cares to know of the man into
whose charge she is about to commit her life.
“1 do not know,” she says, in a ehildishly
apologetio tone—for shea reads in the other’s
face that she has in some way acted foolishly.
“He did not say anything about—abont that
sort of thing, and of course I did not ask him.”
“But I will,” Mies Smerdon says, drawing
her desk before her as she speaks; bnt Cressida,
with a flash of remembrance that pales her
lately-blushing face, lays one slim hand upon
the thin arm clad in the merino sioeve.
“Pray do not do that,” she cries quickly; “ho
will be so vexed ! He told me . ’
“To keep this affair a secret—not to trust
ms ?” Harriet Smerdon finishes, with a flush
of righteous indignation. “Thon ths mors
reason that I should call him to account. No,
child ” —raising her hand with tbs old impera
tive gesture that Cressida Leigh has ail her life
unquestioningly obeyed—“ you are only wast
ing breath—l am your guardian, your mother’s
representative, and I shall act for you here,
whether you like it or not. If Isidore St. Just
is an honorable man and a gentleman, ho can
marry you when John marries Julia, in my
presence and in tho faco of the world; if ho is
not—well, tho sooner you are quit of him the
better.”
“Bnt, Miss Smerdon,” Cressida interrupts
tremblingly.
“ But—yon go to bed, child,” is the prompt
answer—“ go to bed, and leave me to manage
my own business in my own way.”
She is so much the imperative awe-inspiring
schoolmistress of the old days that Cressida,
who, despite her avowed lore and projected
marriage, is at heart a timid schoolgirl still,
dares not even venture a remonstrance. She
creeps away, feeling very small and snubbed,
despite the novel grandeur of her engagement,
to the little white couch that stands lonely new
in one corner oi tho big deserted dormitory;
and, making up her mind to a night ei wakeful
agony, quietly cries herself to sleop almost as
soon as her golden head touches the pillow.
And, in the meantime, with infinite pains and
labor, Mies Smerdon composes the letter that is
to bring Monsieur St. Just to the point. When
it is written, she reads and re-reads it with a
very dissatisfied look.
“ I have been plain enough, at least—that is
one comfort,” and she folds the paper with an
impatient sigb. “ I ought to bo glad—l shall
be glad it all turns ont well. Her mother eould
ask no more than that I should leave her in
her husband’s charge; bnt-I wish it had been
an Englishman—soma one I knew and canid
trust. But there—there,” pushing her chair
back with vicious energy, as theugh it were a
disagreeable thought, “ it's no good wishing. I
wonder what he will say to my letter ?”
What Monsieur St. Just does say, when, over
his matntinal coffee he peruses the earefuliy
concooted epistle, would assuredly shock and
startle the modest spinster ears that are wholly
unaccustomed to ths more jarring and disso
nant ehords ot maseulins speech.
The Frenchman’s handsome face grows al
most black with passion, eertain delieately
markod veins on his brow and temple swell
ominously, fine lines round the ourved Ups and
cruel-looking eyes develop themselves with
curious distinctness, changing tho whole char
acter of the face as completely as though a
mask had suddenly dropped, and revealing
something that augurs ill ior'ths future of any
one who might chance to lie at Monsieur St.
Just’s mercy.
“Little fool—littlo wreteh 1” says Cressida’s
lover, pacing his snug bachelor apartment in a
fury, and cruelly kicking from his path the
pretty black-and-white kitten that, a minute or
so back, was purring luxuriously on his knee,
that seeks now to show its gratitude by rub
bing its sleek head against his ankle. “ Littio
idiot! Ceuld she not obey ma even for an
hour ? My faith, she shall pay mo lor this some
day t”
There is a savage menace in tho words that
are ground out through tho short, gleaming
white teeth; but Monsieur St. Just’s fury seems
to exhaust itself in the rapid walk and in tho
running fire ot maledictory French and En
glish that accompanies it.
When he conies again to the table, throws
himself back in his loneging-chair, and rells a
cigarette with delicate, untremhling fingers,
his face, though a shade paler, is composed
and tranquil} flier® is even an odd, triumphant
smile flickering in his dark eyes and curving
the corners of the faH, mobile Kps, whose elo
quent play tho small, pointed mustache doss
not serve to hide.
“ Oh, but she is subtle and skillful, this gaunt
school-mistress !” he says, sipping nis eold cof
fee with cbaptopertioitate rdilisb, and coaxing
back the offended kitten to her parch. “ Bha
guards her lamb well; she will bfad tho wolf
down nnder pains and penalties; she will chain
him with a lock and key—a tamed animal on th®
domestic hearth rug ! How elever she is, and
how prudent I What wott ean hop® to bailie
her—the astute demoiselle Smerdon ?”
Then h® calmly surveys th® dhrk beauty ot
his iace in the little mirror that bangs between
the windows. >
■‘The poor wolf!” ho says, pursuing some
loop-line ot his previous tram of thought, as ho
tarns from tho glssa with unabated compla
eeiicr, “ All the world opposes itself to him—
all tbo world upsets hia Mills predatory plans.
Who can complain, then, if the poor ill-used
pud suspected animal assitma for the none* the
lion 3 hide, and make his euemtes tito dupes of
their own ignoble cunning 1 Th® lamb has so
many defenders, tiio poor woK find® no cham
pion save himself.”
It is not a reassuring soliloquy; but Monsieur
St Just’s appearance is anything but woif-Tiko
when, a little later, he outers the dffijjify
iurnisliad drawing-room wherein the two Misses
Smerdon and Mr. Osborne are assembled to
receive him. It is a formidable phalanx, but it
abashes him not one whit; he has made up his
mind what part he will play, and is perfectly
indifferent as to the nuihenco he plays to; they
ate certain not to appreciate the’fine finish of
his art, tie thinkb, with a contemptuous shoul
dei-ehiug, as he surveys the toe-anxious faces
before him.
So he salntos the aasambled court with a
smile, the frank graciousness of which is all
embracing, and a bow so gracelnl and unem
barraaod that John Osborne, who is constitu
tionally awkward and Philistine to the back
bone, half-admires. half-resonts it as something
that goes beyond the probabilities of nature.
“ Oh, Jehu, isn't lie handsome ?” Miss Julia
whispers, clasping her little hands and rolling
her pale blue eyes in a girlish ecstasy.
“Nothing to make yourself a fool about, Ju !”
is tho gruff answer. “Good-looking enough,
but too much like a play-actor for my taste. He
walks in as though the curtain had just rolled
up; and, for my part, I feel as though I ought
to applaud him before he begins. 1 ’
Miss Julia colors and tosses iter yellow head,
indignant alike at th® depreciatory criticism of
the man she aitlcbfeTy admires and the uncivil
retnari; to herself. Fortunately, however, there
fttshes across her mind a suggestion so flatter
ing to her vanity that her good temper and com
placency are restored as by magic.
“ John is jealous,” sbo thinks, with a thrill
of triumph—“jealous of that handsome Tsidprel
Foor fellow I Well, I can’t be cross, and I can't
snub him, though he doos show his feelings in
such a terribly brusque fashion 1”
And she sighs to think John never will be
what she considers a lover, a being all smiles
and sighs and daintiest compliments—but
smiles over the comforting reflection that, nn
romantio as he is, he has at least come from the
other end of the world to endow her with some
thing more substantial—a husband and a home!
“ No; I don’t like his face,” John grumbles on
sotto voce, inpoc§utly unconscious of tho sus
picion that flits through his companion’s head.
“For all his straight features, curls, and black
eyes, I don’t like him; and, if Harriet’s of my
mind, she will put him through his facings
pretty sharply. However, he’s here to speak
for himself, and it is only fair to listen to what
he has to say.”
Miss Julia nods her bead, and John prepares
himself with outward stolidity but attentive
interest to listen.
What Monsieur St. Just has to say is so grace
fully worded, so frank and straightforward,
that both the women are won over at once, and
•even the male listener is forced to grunt a re
luctant and audible approbation that brings a
quick gleam of what cannot be amusement, but
oddly suggests that inopportune sentiment, to
Isidore’s brilliant eyes.
He is indebted to madams forever, he says,
bis soil rich voice thrilling witli the fervor of his
words. She has given him the opportunity for
which he longed, with an eagerness unexam
pled and indescribable. And he bows, and
makes a movement as though he would kiss tho
thin, shriveled hand that plays nervously with
a gilt paper-knife—a demenstration that so
alarms Miss Smerdon that she instantly places
the menaced member out of danger’s reach be
hind her.
Isidore draws back with undiminished grace,
and proceeds lluou’Jy with his speech. Con
sulting his own indmatiohs, he would rather
have bitton than kissed the hand that had writ
ten that odious letter; but he thought the exi
gencies of tlie scene required the salute, and
was ready to sacrifice himself as ever to his art.
“ You really love Cressida Leigh, and wish to
marry her !” Miss Smerdon asks sharply.
The Frenchman’s eyes roll upward in an elo
quent ecstasy, and he answers with admirable
promptitude: e
“ It ie the dream of my life, madarae, the pas
sion that alone excuses my speaking to the
young person before I had consulted you.”
Julia Smerdon listens with a pang of envy.
With what an ideal lover fate has endowed that
chit of a Cressida? she thinks; when would her
stolid British John achieve such a bow or turn
such a phrase as that?
But Harriet, though a littlo relieved, is by no
means so unqualified in her admiration.
“ He is dreadfully theatrical; but I suppose
that’s owing to his nationality, and he cannet
help it,” ie her mental comment; then she says
aloud, with a touch of th® old scholastic severi
ty: “It was very wrong and very nngentleman
ly—but wo will not say any moreot that.”
“ I thank you, madame,” the young man mur
murs penitently, and, if the light that gleams
between the thick hlack lashes is rather mock
ing than remorseful, ft is effectually hidden in a
gracefully submissive bow.
“ Then I suppose you will have no objection
to marry her when my sister marries Mr. Os
borne—that is to say, in three weeks from the
present time ?”
She studies th® dark handsome lacs closely,
but can read there only undisguised joy, and,
seeing that, she draws a quick breath of relief.
“ Very well, Monsieur St. Just,” she says, ex
tending a large lean hand, which he squeezes
and bows over, but does not this time offer to
kiss. “I apologize for any rudeness, and thank
you for the straightforward answers that have
rdted a weight from my mind. Ona question
more, and I will call Cressida. Are you at pres
ent able to support a wife ?”
Monsieur St. Just’s frank smile and shoulder
shrug are as candidly conciliatory as they are
modest.
“ Mademoiselle Cressida has not been reared
in luxury,” he says pleasantly. “I shall not
shrine her like a princess, but I shall keep her
from want. I have excellent connections, and
as many lessons as I choose to give. Ca sujfii,
u’est-oe pas, madame ?”
“ Certainly,” says Miss Smerdon; and tho last
cloud clears from her wrinkled brow with the
words. “ And now, Monsieur St. Just, 1 have a
piece of news for yon. When Mrs. Leigh, Cres
sida's mother, died, she lott in my hands seven
hundred pounds, which sum was to be spent on
the child’s board and education. I did so
spend it; and she would, of course, be penniless
now, butthat Mr. Osborne
“ The long and short of it is,” John interrupts
gruffly, “that, having brought up the child
from a baby, Miss Smerdon has grown attached
to her, and, as she may never see her again, she
makes her a parting present of her mother’s
little fortune—that's all. And, that being un
derstood, there’s no need to make any mor®
luss abont it.”
No casual looker-on wonld have credited tho
brusque, red-fcced man with th® delicate gene
M-osity that really moved him; whereas the fine
mask ot Isidore suggests very little ot the sel
fish elation ho feele. He is quite enough enam
ored of Cressida’s delicate girlish beauty to
take her without a dower; but the “few hun
dreds” of which he now hears for th® first time
are an inestimable addition to her charms; and,
even while in a lew graceful and well-chosen
words he thanks monsieur and madame for
their generosity, ha is thinking how gayly he
and his little English wife will dissipate those
same hundreds in th® joyous honeymoon days
to come.
And then Cressida is duly summoned, and
comes down with paler t’neeks than Isidoro
likes to see, and lovely startled eyes that seem
to dread everything they look unon. She even
shrinks from Isidore’s embraeo, when at last
the lovers are left alone; and when in ardent
and affectionate terms, he unfolds his plans to
her, sh® states at him for a moment in dazed
wonder, and then breaks into a sudden diacon
corting passion of childish tears.
“ Ob, not so soon. Monsieur — Isidore, I
mean!” she cries. “ They cannot mean that I
should do such a dreadful—l mean such a
no La ran thing in such a hurry.”
For a moment Isidoro’s handsome face grows
almost ugly as he stands looking at the down
bent golden head; but tho sneer that distorts it
passe* in a second; the girl does not lift her
head, she only listens, and tho voice that pleads
and argues is dangerous in its persuarivo
sweetness.
Clearly and eloquently ho places th® future
before her —shows her hew utterly afone in tho
world she will ba wheq the Misses Smerdoa
have left England for their antipodean home;
then, as a contrast, how ho will lore and cher
ish and worship her; how she will grow in
beauty and happiness, and make the very joy of
hie exiled life.
Th® girl cannot resist such tender flattery,
and little by little she yields, until at last, with
a quick blush, a frightened upward glanee and
a long drawn breath that Is a half sob, half
sigh, she falters forth th® “ Yes” for which her
ardent lever pleads—the “Yes” that seals her
doom.
“ Heaven bless yqq, ehild!” Miss Smerdon
«ays a little later, claspipg th® girl to hes with
real emotion. “You Have mad® mo almost
kappy I”
And, after that, Cressids can say nothing of
her own foolish, childish fears.
tTb -
A LOmSTsfoRY.
Thrilling Jncidant in tha Pinerißs of
Nortdisrn Michigan.
(Fram the Chicago TrSrane.')
“For a young man I have don® pretty hard
scrapping in the Ebekies and mintaff regions ot
New Mexico and Arizona, but a lew days ago I
had tho worst scare in my life in tho lumber
districts of Northern Michigan.
The speaker was a young man of eomo twen
ty-seven years, dressed in rough-and-ready
style »ud wearing a irizsy tow beard. He shift
ed the position of his broad shoulders as he
lounged back in an easy chair in tire Sherman
House office, puffed his cigar vigorously, and
then continued:
. “It was on® of those bitter cold days ws’ve
just been having, and I had got up at three
o'eloek fo rouse tha mon and get the sprinkler
out. The sir seemed full of blue steel, and cut
to ray marrow like a razor. Ou® of the team
sters got seared out and played off sick, so I
had to taka his place. When wa had got a good
lead I took the reins and sat down on tha butts
ef tha logs, Isaviag the two loggers on behind.
Of eou-rsa abont twenty feet of th® load hung off
th® last bob. Th® road was a sheet of iee, for
the sprinkler san over it every morning, and
tho horses wore eharp-shod, so we slid along
smoothly till wa got to tha slidoj-a pretty eteap
htoia® ending in a tarn which wae mighty
sharp fora road Cisty feat wide. As soon as wo
started down my h'air began to stand on end,
for th® horses galloped like fury to keep ahead
of: ho bobs, which were swinginj ah over the
road.
‘ I got so paralyzed and nervous that when wo
approached the tarn I rained in to® suddenly.
I felt ttjp front bobs jump one way and the baric
bobs th® other. Th® hind ends ef the Icigs
whistled through tho air Hke willow switches,
and I heard the loggers yell: ‘For God's sake,
.’ The next thing was a loud snap !
snap I snap I—like three tremendous paper-
crackers— os the big log-chains broke like so
manv cotton threads. Did you ever use a switch
sting? Whirl it round and round your head,
yon know, till a sudden twist sends the apple
off the and and spinning into the air.
“ Well, that is the wav I felt, and that is just
what I thought of sa I was shot off into the air,
over, and over, and over, till I struok in a enow
drift some 100 or mere feet from the road. When
I struggled back through the snow I found th®
horses trying to kick loose from the tow bits of
harness that dangled about them, tha bob*
tangle-d around the trunk of a small pine
tree, and tho logs scattered to tha four
winds. One logger crawled back to tha road
with a fractured leg, and the other soon follow
ed with a dislocated shoulder. One had struck
a tree and the second had landed against a
stump.
They afterward told mo in camp that these
things wet® not at all unusual, and, as I had
soaio pretty heavy bruises myself, I concluded
that Twas not mad® to boss a lumber camp. So
I was driven to town the next day to telegraph
the management that the head teamster was fill
ing my place, and that I was on my way to
Chicago; and you bet your life I am glad I did
it.” _
FLOWERS IH THE WWW.
B Y R. M.
For tho firet time since its completion, Harry
Walden and his young bride went over their
now house together, one lovely morning early
in June. And a charming nice now house it
was—with the prettiest, neatest, best arranged
kitchen a young housekeeper like Amy could
desire; with tho cosiest dining-room, the bright
est and most tasteful parlor, the airest and
pleasantest of sleeping-apartments.
And when they had been all over tho house
together, they came back once more to tho neat,
cool, airy sitting-room, with its pretty carpet of
green and oak, its delicate satin-papered walls
hung here and there with choice engravings; its
simple cottage furniture, where Amy’s pleased
glance fell upon pretty cane chairs of her own
favorite pattern, a beautiful littla escritoire for
her books and papers, her tiny work-tabic
standing between tho windows, and the low
priedieu-claair for her own especial use, drawn
up besida it; and then her smiling eyes turned
to tho windows themselves, which were open,
with their snowy linen blinds half raised, and
letting in the soil Juno sunlight, and the lovely
June air, fragrant with tho odor of flowers ip
the window.
Harry’s hand—the careful hand of a young
and loving husband had had tho arrangement
of everything in and about this pretty little
household; and with a happy heart he watched
his wife’s pleased eyes, glancing so bright, so
satisfied, from one thing to another about her.
“ Yon like it all, Amy?” he said, with a smile.
“Like it?” said Amy. “Oh, yes, Harry I
How pretty, how tasteful everything is 1 This
room that I shall sit in has everything so con
venient and pleasant—and the flowers in the
window, how beautiful they are 1 and so
fragrant—so full of bloom t”
Smiling, he led her to th® window to inhale
their psrramo.
“Yes,” said Harry, “I knew your love o?
flowers; and I had so much pleasure in arrang
ing them ! They make the room so pleasant,
do they not ?”
“ Yes, pleasant and homelike. Ah, how de
licious I” smiled the young wife, lingering to
breathe their odars again and again.
“ And not only are they pleasant to us, Amy,”
Said the young husband, “ but the sight of
ewers blooming in a wiadow is sweet to many
and ynp tiy a pSof pftsser-hy who seas such
filings rarely. I thought of it while I was plac
ing them there.”
Tenderly Amy kissed the kind hand that held
her own. “Dear Harry,” she said, lovingly,
“you think of every one 1”
“.Ind I thought, Amy,” he continued, “it
would be so pleasant, that whenever, as you sit
in this room, you see littla children, or poor
people, such as may often pass, going by and
leaking up at tha flowers in the window, you
would cut off tor them sotno of th® blossoms
they may covet. So tliat perhaps our flowers
may make some other hearts as happv as ours.”
Treasuring in her loving heart tho' words of
her kind and thoughtful husband, Amy turned
with him at last from the window. She re
membered them the next day, when Harry was
gon® away to business, and she came into the
sitting room to water her plants. Standing be
hind their blossoming screen, she showered the
bright drops upon them till their leaves hung
wet and glistening; and while she watched the
colored rays of light glancing through the
dripping water, a party ot merry school chil
dren earns running gayly by.
“ What pretty flowers 1” said one of them, a
gay little girl of ten, who made Amy think of
her favorite little sister Sarah, whom sha had
left behind when she cam® from tho country.
And tha children half-stojiped, looking
partly at the flowers, and partly at Amy’s pretty
face behind their thick clustering leaves.
Smilingly, Amv clipped off a knot ot gay blos
soms and scattered them suddenly among
the childish group. There was an eager
scrambling, a merry laugh, in which Amy’s was
not the least merry or sweet—a chorus of
thanks, and the children with their fragrant
treasures divided among them ran on to school.
Later a littla pale, ragged boy came by selling
luoifer-matches.
“Do you want any matches, please, ma’am ?”
ho asked, looking at Amy through tho window
where she sat sewing.
Amy’s purse cam® out—a tiny piece of silver
was drawn from it, and aha placed it on the sill
outside, while the boy drew from his basket
half-a-dozen boxes of his wares, and passed
them up to her. As he took the silver and put
it in his pocket, a littlo knot of mignonette
and heliotrope fell into his basket. “For mo,
ma’am ?" he said, looking up wondaringly.
“Yes,” was Amy’s pleasant answer; and the
surprised look, the smile, and the grateful
“ thank you, ma’am,” did her very heart good.
And after this, many a little cluster of blos
soms was bestowed by Amy’s kindly fingers;
now on a lame child who camo limping by on
arutohes; nowon a poor woman, going along
with her baby, that crowed and clapped its lit
tle pale hands at the sight of the btootning
treasures; and again, when a wan-looking
milliner’s girt, half-pausing at tha window,
looked with longing eyes at the flowers upon
the sill—flowers that she neve® hoped to raise
in the dreary back atti® where she lodged; that
sha never beheld in the half twilight of the sun
less, silent work-room, where day alter day, she
was drudging her life away for a mean pittance
to buy her scanty portion of daily bread.
The poor httto milliner carried her precious
flowers with her as she went to her day’sdabor,
and dreamed over them all day long of green
country lanes, and broad blue skies, and free
sunshin® tliat sha might only see in dreams;
and tha baby played with its nosegay with the
delight with which a petted child of fortune
would have welcomed its gilded and costly
toys; tho little lame child forget that he was
lame, while sitting down on a doerstoce he
leaned his head upon his hand, and with curi
os* eyes studied the mysteries at every silken
loaf and bud, thinking how wonderful they
wore, and remembering something ba had heard
of a kind hand that made flowers alike for the
poor and tho rich.
And thus, while Amy scattered flowers, she
was also sowing seed. Among her childish
“ pensioners,” as Assy half playfully, half
affectionately called thorn, there was one who
Sassed hor window nearly every day; a pretty,
slioato, almost frail-looking child of soma
eleven er twelve years of ago—a child for whose
daily approach Amy gradually found herself
watohing with interest. She was poorly, plainly
dressed, yet elean and tidy-looking; the faded
hues and worn texture of her garments being
only equalled by lhair fresh and spotless look.
Every day sh® came by tho window; and every
day aha received from Amy's gentle fingers a
knot ef fragrant blossoms.
Amy only smiled as sh® gave them; and this
smile, with tho littia girl’s grateful look, and
lew-speken, earnest thanks, wars all that passed
between them on these occasions There was
not a day in which this child failed to pass tho
windaws, not one day; lot the sun shine or tho
rain fall, she came regularly, and naver failed
to receive her aocnstomad gift of flowers.
Amy often mentioned this ehild in her even
ing ooaversation with Harry, se that he cam® at
last te make a point of asking each evening if
she had been during ths day to receive hor
flowers.
“Do you not know her name, Amy ?” ho
asked thoughtfully, once.
No, Amy did not. “It is odd—but I never
thought of asking her,” she said. “ I suppose
it is because there are so many others who
come in the same way, and I should never
think of asking so many their names, you know.
But I mean to ask her to-morrow, Harry. Per
haps we may be of us® to hsr, er to tha fafflily,
if they need help.”
Another morning saw tho pale littlo girl com
ing along earlier than usual—paler than ever
before, and her largo bln® eyes heavy and dim
with tears. Harry had not yet gone to business;
Amy was sewing a button on his wrist-band as
h® sat by her at the work-table, and neither of
them knew tho child was so near, till there was
a gsntie knock at the siseet door, and Amy, an
swering its summons, beheld the little girl
stondipg there.
“ Why, poer ehild I what is tho matter ?” she
said, kindly, taking on® of th® tiny hands in her
•wn, and leading her gently into th® doorway—
“ what is th® matter ?"
Th® child's faea flushed painfully, and Amy’s
tender words brought a burst of sorrowful
tears.
“ Oh, ma’am, ha s dead 1” said tha child.
“My dear littlo girl,” said Amy, “who is
dead '?■
“ Oh, ma’am, my brother,” replied the ehild,
“my aear brother Charley I Hun that tha flow
era were always for! Oh, ho loved them so
mueh— and ha won’t need tiiam any more
now E’
The tears were streaming ever tha ehild’s iaoo
like rain, and Amy’s own eyes were overflowing
as Che lifted them to those of her husband, who
had earae out to the doer.
“ ob, Harry—Harry 1" sha said, tremulously.
“ Harry, hear her I”
“ My dear,” he said gently, “ bring hor in.”
holding a hand of tho child, they led
her into tho sitting-room.
Thera, with tha rapid tears rendering her
words broken and paintai, she told the simple
story that needed little tima te tell. It was
her brother Charley, who had been ill for so
long, and had died that morntag, and sha had
eome to lei tha lady wha had bean so kind to
liMU know about it.
“My child,” said Harry gently, “ where do
you live ? We will go homo with you.”
And soon the husband and wife were on their
way to the dwelling of the child, It was not far
distant; they had only the length of a few streets
to walk, and in a humble tenement, the home of
respectable and honest poverty, they found
what they were socking. A plainly, poorly fur
nished, yet clean and tidy room, with a pale and
sorrowing mother weeping for the treasure she
had lost; and lying upon a narrow couch in the
corner, that ere long he would exchange for one
yet narrower, the rigid form of the young roan
—the child’s dead brother—the widow’s only
son.
The sheet that covered him was folded aside,
discovering a pale and wasted but beautiful and
serene face, bearing the traces of a long illness,
patiently borne; the heavy, gold-hinged lids
were closed calmly over the full eyes—the fair
hair smoothed away from the pleasant brow
that seemed yet te wear the smile it had known
in life. It was already arranged for its last rest
ing-place. The thin, white hands were crossed
upon the breast, and one of them held a littlo
bunch of fading flowers—Amy’s flowers. Their
perfume lingered yet around the dead. He had
died with them in his hand, with the request
that they might go with him to his grave—with
the blessing of tiro dying breathing over the last
of “ The in the Window”
HUMORoF TH® IIOUR *
BY Tail DETROIT fHEB PBE33 FIEND.
THE LIMIT.
“My dear,” she Baid, as she laid ths paper
down, “ I eee that some ot the Chicago fire en
gines could scarcely be moved on account of
the snow.”
“ Well ?”
“ Well, why don’t they put ths engines on
runners when there is snow ?”
“They would then be too low to take water
from the hydrants.” ,
“ Yes; but why not lower the hydrants 1"
He set his jaws, and refused to bo turther in
terviewd.
THE PIPE WAS “ BUSTED.”
“ Say," ha called, as ha entered a plumber’s
shop, “there’s something the matter at our
house.”
“ Well, what is it ?”
“Our frozen water-pipe has all froze up.’’
“Yes.”
“ And the hired girl says sha didn't do it, and
ma says she didn’t do it, and pa says he’ll put a
bullet into some plumber before night.”
" And you want nip to come up?”
“ I guess we do. The hired girl she’s quit,
aad all the ceilings are leaking down, and ma
and pa are talking about a divorce.”
“ Well, I’ll go up.”
“Well, you’d better wait till pa goes down
town and ma gets off to the roller rink, and then
you come around to the back door and knock
three times and I’ll let you in.”
SERIOUS TROUBLE AHEAD.
“I tell you,” eaid one man with a great deal
of extra beat, “ he is a man who will take any
advantage of yon 1 I wouldn't trust him to car
ry a pint of molasses half a block for me,”
“And the most disagreeable person I ever
met,” added a second. “l£ J bad his personal
I afipiild pray to be mt with a sand-club
and sTiovM flatter iSl*’.
“ Oh, he.!! go down, and tUjft’f you forget it 1”
put in the third. “ I've heard hints already of
his being financially emhafra'ssed, and I expect
to live to see the day when he’ll saw wood for
mo at fifty cents per cord 1”
The fourth and filth men walked away togeth
er, and the fourth whispered:
“ Too bad—too bad. 1 ought to have known
how it would operate.”
“Why, what has the man done?” asked the
other.
“ Done! Why, he’s gone and bought a
pacing horse which can clean ’em all out! D’ye
suppose a man who is beaten on the snow is
ever going to forgive ths party who does it I"
THAT’S THE BEST WAY.
He had an old horse hitched to a country
“ pung,” and there was snow on his hat, and a
snowball in each ear as he reined the animal
up alongside the curb aad sboutod tea police
man:
“Is this the nineteenth century?”
“ Feels like it,” said the officer.
“ And is a free-born American citizen to have
his life put in peril to gratify the humor of a
meb of boys U’
“ What has happened ?”
“This I” he yelled, as he picked the snowball
out of his. left ear, “ and this I’ he yelled still
louder as he took the one out of his right. “ I’ve
had to run a gauntlet for three miles I I’ve bin
popped and slugged and paralyzed and pulver
ized ! This ’ere hose'has been poppad and
pelted and pounded 'till he can’t rest ? I de
mand that protection guaranteed to every citi
zen by the great American Constitution I”
“You shall have it, sir. Just consider the
mantle of protection thrown around you and
your hess.”
The old man drove off, growling and mutter
ing, but ho hadn’t progressed a block before a
snowball carried his hat away, and another
lifted the old horse off his feat.
“That’, too much, that is I" said the driver
as ha rolled off his pung sideways. “If they
haven’t got any better mantle than this in De
troit I must talie keer o’ my own liberties 1”
And ho rushed to the sidewalk, grabbed a boy
who was going home with a quart of molasses
and tanned his jacket in the good old-fashioned
effective style.
HE WON’T ELOPE.
He looked all around to see if anybody was
within hearing, and then dropped his voice to a
whisper and said:
“ Boss, I reckon you kin giv me a leetla in
formashun. What does a pusson do when he
elopes ?”
“ Why, an elopement is when a man and wo
man or boy and girl run away together.”
“ Whar’ do dey go to ?”
“ Oh, anywhere they decide upon.”
“ Who pays do expenses 1"
“ The man, of course. ’
“ How long am dey gone ?”
“Sometimes a week—sometimes forever.”
“ Who pays de expenses back?”
“ The man.”
“ What becomes of de woman’s husband ?”
“Well, he generally arms himself with a
shot-gun, and if ho overhauls the couple, he
shoots seven kinds of daylight through the man
and forgives his wife and takes her home.”
“ Fo’ de Lawd I Shoots right at ye ? ’
« Yea.”
“ Fills ye right full o’ shot ?”
“ Yea.”
“ Doan’ gin ye no time to run or repent, an’
can’t be bought elf wid a silver watch and two
dollars?”
“No, sir."
Now I Say !”
“ Well.”
“ I isn’t gwine I I’ze changed my mind 1
Good day 1”
FROZEN EARS VS. CHILBLAINS.
He came in the other morning from one of the
townships te see the County Treasurer on busi
ness; but lie had scarcely entered the City Hall,
when a policeman gave him a sharp looking
over and said :
“ Young man, you had better take cars ef
your oars.”
“ What’s the matter with them oars ?”
“ Frozen, or very close to it.”
“ Gosh 1 you don’t say!”
“ How do they feel ?”
“They hain’t no foelin’ at all. I’ve bin
thinkin’ for the last half hour that them ears
was actin’ sorter queer, but I didn't tumble to
no freezin’. What shall Ido ?”
“ Rub ’em in snow.”
“ And then ?”
“ Wait tor developments. They’ll soon begin
to itch and burn. This will ba followed by a
fieelina; process and in a month from now yen'll
ook like a man with lobsters tied on for ears.
It will be at least six months before your
original beauty is restored.”
“It will 1 Why, gosh-all-fired, I'm to ba mar
ried in April I”
“But you won’t bo. No girl will marry a
man with pasted ears.”
The young man went out and rubbed away
at each ear with a bushel of snow. When lie
re-entered the hall he looked as solemn as
death, and walking up to the officer he said :
“I’ve bin tbnkln’ it over as I rubbed away,
and it the gal objects to my ears I’vo got an
offset. She’s usin’ a bull quart of koresene
every week en her chilblains. When a gal can’t
spark ever twenty minutes at a time without
trotting off to the kitchen to rub her heels with
the nutmeg-grater, she shouldn’t screech very
loud agin frozen ears 1 Bet you two to one the
bridle tower comes off en tinje 1”
A YOUKG~HU®ANirB
Hew He was Welcomed Hera® from the
Honeymoon.
{Frora, the Philadelphia Times.)
"A welcome heme? Well, yes—rather,”
said a newly-marriod man who was receiving
tho congratulations of his bachelor comrades
yesterday at one of the fashionable clubs.
“ Yes,” ho continued, m a contemplative tone,
“a warmer welooma than I anticipated. I
never knew before whst a married man has to
endare. Bo yoa know that when a fellow gets
married ha becomes the victim of an army of
agents, canvassers and all such cheeky cattle,
and they never let up till the honeymoon te
over?
“Fanny and I got baek from thp wedding
tour Friday night. We drove straight home
counfing on a quiet evening together, for tho
eards, you know, don’t announoa us ‘at homo,
until Monday. As I entered the vestibule, I
stumbled over a pile of pamphlets, eirdhlars
and Catalognas as high as a tea chest. We
walked around them and went into the library.
My desk was buried under a mountain of simi
lar trash.
‘“Blase, sur,’ said the hired girl, pcintipg to
the hilleek in the vestibule, ‘thirn’s what’s
eeme to-day. If I’d kwowed yaz was cornin’
home airly, I’d hnvHlugged ’em onten the way
afore vez came. There’s ben a rog'lar permis
sion av men and byes a-pokin' tens under tha
doer all day.’ . ..
“ I looked ever a few ef trie things heierc I
nitehod them into tha grate. Thera were twelve
catalogues and priee-liste from furaitars deal
ers, seven dry goods aad mliinery advertise
nxoate addressed to my wife, eards from three
rival bakers, two paper books describing bur
glar alarms, one rHusteatail catalogue el baby
coaches, ‘.our annuals published by insurance
companies, and a circular announcing that in a
few days Mr. Somebody would call with a copy
oi “The Housewife’s Friend,” a compilation of
choice receipts, together with a thousand and
one domestic hints invaluable to the inexperi- j
enced housekeeper.
“ You may laugh, but 1 even found a lawyer’s
card, inscribed : ‘ Legal business attended to
promptly, and without publicity.’ Do you sup
pose tho scoundrel thought I’d want a divorce
before the end of the honeymoon ? But that
isn’t all. We ware swindled out ot our quiet
evening, too. Can’t imagine how they found out
we’d reached home, but three polite insurance
agents called, one after another, before 10 o’clock.
Two of them were file insurance men, aad
each of them tried to picture to me what a her*
rible thing it would be for me to die instantly.
The third was a fire i nan rance man, who wanted
to take a risk on everything in tho house be
fore we had time to sleep. From the wav h«
pictured the horrors of a firs you might havs
thought we were living in a powder mill. I got
mad finally, and told him to go to the devil.
Well, six more bores called on Saturday, Then
I brake down, and to-day I camo to the club to
get away from them. Taka my advice, boys,
and when you gel married don’t put it in ths
papers.”
A CURIOUS STORY.
A Coffin Maker who was Always Warned
£hen His Servioe-l
■Were Needed.
(Frwi the Cincinnati Post. 1 )
The writer was sitting a few days ago 13 the
office of the Hotel Martin, Lancaster, 0., con
versing with an old resident of that city on vari
ous topics relating to tho past history of the
place, when ho inquired :
“Did you ever hear the story of Jacob Hum
bargor, the haunted coffin-maker ?”
“ Never. Is it out of the ordinary ?”
“Yes, it is a curious story, and I hesitate
about tolling it, for fear people will think I am
trying to humbug them with a ghost story.”
“ I’ll accept it as the Gospel.”
“ As I have already remarked, it is a strange
story, and had the effect of making me believe
in suporaiural manifestations—you will, no
doubt, call it superstition. I was a well-grown
boy when the things occurred which lam about .
to relate nd they made such a vivid impres-j«
sion on my mind, that they are as fresh in
recollection as they were over half a century
ago.
“Jacob Humbarger was of Pennsylvania
Dutch stock, and came here from Lancaster,
Pa., three-quarters of a century ago. When I
first knew him this city was a village with less
than a thousand population. He was a cabinet
maker, and made the rough and substantial
furniture in vogue among the pioneers whose
sous have since teeil cuKgifcfSuteh,
senators, cabinet ministers, and generals.
“ He was frugal and industrious and left some
property behind him. In addition to making
furniture, he made,when occasion demanded it,
coffins for tho people of all this region. There
were no hearses and splendid undertaking esf
tablishujenta ip Jiiose days- The dead were
placcil in plain, home-ffiadp Spjfjus and carries
to thp little graveyards in farm wagons, or by
hand whoa tho distance was not too great, ex
cept in rare instances, when there was a little
more sGow and ostentation, and an old-fash
ioned carriage was used in place of the modorij
. hearse.
“ People would ceme from a distance toHufita
bargpr’s shop with tho dimensions of a coffin
and wait until it was finished and then take It
homo in a wagon or on horseback, as the case
might be.
“ One irght, oy rather one morning, an hour
er two before daylight, Humbarger arose, leav
ing his wife in bed, proceeded to his ehop and,
lighting a tallow candle, set to work. When
Mrs. Humbarger arose at tho usual hour, shq
was surprised to hear Jacob hammering away
in his shop, and supposing that he had some
job that must needs be finished early in the day,
set about preparing breakfast, and when tha
meal was ready she called her busband:
“ ‘Vail, Chacob, vy tor yougo ot vorksogwicli
the day ?’ inquired frau Humbarger.
“‘Vy, Katrine, did you not hear dot man
who comes ot der coffin by dree o’clock ?’
“ ‘ Nein, nein, Chaceb, you make foolish of
mo.’
“ ‘ I not make foolish Katrine; dot man coma
of dree o’clock on der dqpr an’ say I must hat
det coffin of 10 o’clock, an’ he gif me the measure
oa dot vork-bench, and Igo of vork und hat
him now haf mate.’
“ Katrine was incredulous, and Jacob was
firm in his asseverations. Certain it was that
he had a coffin well under way , and by 10 o’clock
it was finished and Jacob was waiting for his
customer while he smoked a pipe.
“ Between 10 and 11 o’clock a gentleman ap
peared at tha shop door, and Humbarger greet
ed him with:
“ ‘ You was a loedle lade, mine frent.’
“ ‘ Not very late, considering that I hava
ridden from near Somerset since half past
seven.*
“‘ Vy for did you go back home after you
vako me Ub ?’
“‘ I didn't. I have just got to town.’
“ ‘But you come of mine door last nide, und
call me ond of mine ped to make dis coffin.’
“ Ob, no, my friend, but it looks as though
it would suit my purpose. Let me measure it.'
“ The stranger measured it and it was jus)
the size of a cofiin ho had boon sent to procure,
and he asked Humbarger if he could have it tc
take back with him immediately.
“.Dot vas your coffin any way, since you
order him und leaf der measure,’ promptly re
sponded Mr. Humbarger.
“ The price of tho coffin was agreed upon, it
was paid for, and the farmer took it away in his
wagon. Jacob related the circumstances to his
wile, who mischievously said:
“ " I told you, Chacob, dot no vone voke you
up in der nide. You haf been haunted.’
“ Humbarger, however, insisted that he had
been called out of his house during the night,
and that he readily recognized the man who
subsequently got tho coffin and pretended thai
he had not ordered it.
“ Ot course the story soon circulated through?
ent the village, and the gossips added to it. A
mouth later Humbarger had another nocturnal
visit, and a child’s coffin was ordered to be fin
ished iu tlfo alternoon. Later in tho day a farm
er living a few miles west of the town called on
Humbargor to secure his services, one of his
children having died.
“ ‘ Oh, yes; I know it. You come of der nida
and told me, und mark der size on dis vork
bench.’
“ The farmer protested otherwise, but as th®
coffin was of the exact measurement desired, ha
took it home. Thou Mr. Humbarger began ta
have an indefinable fear that he was haunted.
“ The thing was of regular occurrence, and'
almost every one who came to Humbarger for u
coffin found it ready mads to order. The vil
lagers began to fear the coffin maker, and tha
eeffin maker avoided tha villagers as much as
possible. The women and children, and not a
few of the men, believed he was tn league with
Satan, and he suffered a great deal in his trade.
“To these of his neighbors with whom ha
conversed on this subject- and among them
was my father—ho said that the orders were de
livered in tho night by persons whom ha immor
diately recognized when they called for th®
coffins, and that when they were ordered ha
found tho exact dimensions' iu chalkmarks oa
his work bench the next Aorning. His wife no
on ger chaffed him on the subject of thh ghostly
orders.
“ Ono morning ho said to his wife that a cof
fin had been ordered during ths night, but that
tho man had concealed his face, and ho feared
that he would not recognize him. He proceeded,
however, to make the eotfin in accordance with
the measurement on his work bench, and at
last finished it to his satisfaction.
“I was on pleasant terms with Uncle Jake,
as we called him, and happened in the shop
just as he was finishing it.
“ ‘ Dot man vos sosaepoddy who vill be buried
mit dis eo®u,’ he remarked. ‘I not see who ha
vas dat order him, but I know it vas for soma
big man or somepoddy, so I make him of dev
finest cherry uncl line him of silk und satinl
Vy, my bey, I weald not pe ashamed to .pa
buried of dat coffin minsellvf.’
“A sudden pallor overspread Humbarger’s
fuse, he stretched out his hands and fell dead
across the coffin ha had just finished.
“ He was buried in it, and the story of Jacots
Knmbarger was more thin a nine days wonder
here in Lancaster fifty-four years ago.”
The writer was fain to acknowledge that the
story of Jacob Humbarger largely discounted
the general run ot ghost stories.
Dracov Dons.—Mr. G. C. Davis, in
recent work oh East Anglia, says that dogs aq
well as tame ducks are used ou the Norfolk
“ Broads ” to entice the wild birds. All kind®
of fowl, it is said, display groat curiosity at thf
sight of a dog—of course by himself—and they
are more inquisitive about a red-colored dog
than any other. Thus, whan a certain numbet
are gathered about tha mouth ef a decoy-pipe,
a dog of this color is trained to show himself
for a moment inside, aad then retreat. “In aq
instant every head is up among the teal, and
with outstretched necks they swim toward thq
dog, their bright eyes twinkling, and every
movement indieatißg a pleased curiosity. When,
enough ef them have got well inside, the keeper,
gets behind them and wares liiu pocket-hand
kerchief, when all fly up the pipe into the tun
nel net in which it gradually terminates, and
are captured iu a body.”
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