New York dispatch. [volume], January 10, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
Mid joyless to her; the social triumphs, the
Wonderful Parisian toilets, the round of gay-'
ety, had no pleasure for her; she would have
preferred the constant companionship of her
husband and of the three pretty little girls who
looked upon their mother as some beautiful
goddess immeasurably removed from them,
but who idolized their Auntie Ethel.
“Milos must ask the party at Croft House
over,” said Mrs. Mowbray, languidly, admiring
the black svtin shoe on the fender,* “ and you
must make the most of your opportunities,
Ethel. Really, it is quite time you were advan
tageously married.’’
“ Yea, I ought to marry and relieve papa and
you of so great an expense. By-'.ho-by, what
about the children’s going to the tournament
this altei’iioo i ? They are wild to, see you dis
tribute the pii es and me play.”
“I supnose they can go,” Airs. Mowbray said,
indidereutly. ‘-Jackson might drive them over
in the wagonette. Miss Lockhart can look after
them.”
“Thanks. That is just what I wanted,”
Ttbel replied, gayly, lightly kissing her sis
ter’s cheek. ‘ By-thc-bv, where did you get
Miss Lockhart, and how long has she been with
you ?”
“ How lon . ? I don’t know almost a year, I
think, i ady A 'nite recommended her to me.”
“Lady '-bite?” thel repeated, coloring all
Over her air ace, and complaining of the heat
of the roan he moved rather abruptly away
from her sist. r’b side.
“Yes. o on know her? They are city
people very tie >, you know -heaps of money,
and Just a lit le vulgar.”
“Are they >)l'-r?” Ethel asked, in some
surprise. “Idi 1 not think—l fancied ”
“ ii, the er generation is passable
alihough e e<» tbev sre plebeian,” interrupted
Mrs. Mowbray. “ There are two daughters and
a son.”
“I rath r '• k ct the son at Dieppe this
Summer,’ >■ -1 - emarked, rather constrained
ly. “1 did • onk him vulgar.”
“Vulgar? *• irso not. He is heir to a
baronetcy • i -era! thousands a year, ’ Mrs.
Mowbray r ■ <t md tlum, changing the sub
ject, she >sk -hat dress are you going to
wear this : thel?”
“My ere-; m >■•>? tennis-dress,” Ethel an
. swerc’d. “ -re Miss ■ o kb art’s people,
Mab? Tner filing plebeian about her.”
“? o. H .■■■< perfect, manner* J ”
Mowbray - : ch unusual eagerness
“ That <ag y . y I eng?/ ed her,” she a ded,
laughing ; a natural grace <>nd air ot
good bvee. it.;, ch is getting rarer and rarer,
and which, i’s- . a<; < nly impart it to the gir s,
will Lc r -in-, /sclui to tuein than any num
ber o! ‘olog e-.
“ Who i t • ’s she one of the countless
number y., b \ seen better days ?”
•‘LOjShc - V country surgeon’s daugh
tor; but sb<- s educated abroad, and plays
*nd sings cb,; v i.igly, • Of course her appear
ance is av> • ul' gainst her. bhe is far too
■good-looking or .er place. No household
where there are grown-up sons would admit
her.”
“I suppose not,” Ethel Danecourt said. “I
am a ra.d i rhe must be rather a dull one,
though,” she aided, thoughtfully.
“My dear fuel do you expect me to take
her to balls au I ■ rties ?” Mrs Mowbray asked,
in a tone oi surprise. “1 am going to Jose
phine now ; 1 w nt her to alter the buttons on
my green velvet dre-s ; I shall wear that this
afternoon. Mind you look your prettiest.” she
•concluded; Bulling. “The Croft people will
surely be there.”
She passed out or the room, the long folds of
her blue moruiti -gown sweeping behind her, a
ray of the . eprember sunshine touching the
gold of her ba r and the silver band round her
waist at the same moment. Ethel glanced after
her with lial;-reluctant admiration, then her
flweet gray-blue ey s came back slowl} r from rhe
door and looked Meadily into the lire, and the
wistful look deepened into sadness—and sad
ness of any kind was strange and unfamiliar to
Ethel Dane our. s sunny nature.
“It can’t be righi, ’ she murmured to herself,
plaiting the soil'folds of her cashmere morning
dress with rcstle.-s lingers. “It can’t be right
to marry a man one does not love—and yet—
and yct’l know if he asks me I shall not re use.
Besides, the other will never think of me in that
way; he liked me as a friend, just a friend
only.” The e.we t red lips quivered for a mo
ment, as i tne thought of “the other” were
rather a pain ul one ; then, with a little effort,
she threw off her depression and raised her
head. “‘Lady Woife’ sounds very well,” she
said, smilin . “‘Lady Wole of Wolfingham
Abbey ’ sounds still better ; and, oh, what iun it.
would be to take precedence of Mabel —Mabel,
who has patronised and snubbed me all these
years, and who, although she means kindly, o;
course, is so unpleasant sometimss and says
Buch cutting things 1 Now I’ll go and make the
children happy. The little pale-cheeked gov
erness too looks as i she would enjoy a holiday
as well as her pupils;”
bhe ran lightly up the two broad flights o'.
stairs, up to the second story of the large old
fashioned house. Ou this story the rooms all
opened on to a picture-gallery which ran round
the four sides oi rue house and was lighted
from above by a skylight more like a glass roof
than a window. The gallery itself was hung
with qua nt old pictures and family portraits ;
and Madge Lockhart had spent many a quiet
hour among die painted ladies in their gay cos
tumes and the stalely cavaliers with their ruffles
and plumes, while she had often stood before
the picture of the present mistress of Mowbray
Hall, and wondered at her beauty.
One oi the many doors—which were all shaded
alike with sombre-hued velvet portieres—ppon
ing on to the gallery, led into the suite of rooms
given up to the children and their governess
These consisted o a little ante-room leading
into the schoolroom, beyond which was Miss
Lockhart’s bed room. Mr. Mowbray was a
wealthy man, and all the arrangements of his
household were on the most liberal scale, so
that Miss Lockhart’s situation was a very desira
ble one. Her salary was good, her duties were
not very onerous, and, if in her life were many
lonely hours, that was of course no business of
her employers.
The arrival at. Mowbray Hall of the “ auntie
Ethel ” whom the children raved about, had
caused a welcome break in the monotony
of Madge Lockhart's existence. She and the
children had been at the Hall alone during the
Spring and Summer, but Mr. and Mrs. Mow
bray had come lor the shooting season, bring
ing Ethel with them, and every day since had
been marked by the arrival of fresh guests.
These latter did* not increase the governess’s
gayety, but I thel was a frequent visitor in the
Bchoolroom, and her kindly courtesy was pleas
ant to Madge, whose pale face brightened sud
denly as the door opened and Ethel entered the
schoolroom amid riotous acclamations from her
nieces.
Nearly twelve months had elapsed since
Madge looked her last on her brother’s dead
face, and sent her lover from her with—as he
thought at the time—“ a lifelong hunger at his
heart ” and the months as they slipped by had
been hard to live. Madge had learned in’them
that the poverty she had dreaded was not the
worst of all ills, and that mere ease of circum
stances was not the greatest of blessings.
She had been very lonely, terribly, unspeaka
bly lonely oftentimes in the great empty house;
her pupils were fond of her, and after the first
few weeks gave,her little trouble, but month by
month the lone! uess and desolation of her po
sition grew upon her. She hid nothing to look
forward to, and to look back gave her keenest
Buffering. Sometimes a wild hope had come to
her that Alick Wolie would find her and give
her the place she had forfeited, but, as time
went on, that died out, and a blank, hopeless
despair settled upon her.
Ethel Danecourt’s quick eyes caught the
gleam of pleasure which crept into the beauti-
* ful dark eyes as they met hers, and smiled cor
dially at the pale girl in black who sat at the
head of the table.
“It you’ll leave me enough breath to speak,”
Ethel said, laughing, as the children clustered
round her, “I’ll give you some good news, but,
if entirely destroy my new morning-gown,
I’ll keep silence.”
The children laughed, drew away slightly,
and looked at her with eager eyes. Ethel fold
ed her hands demurely before her, and smiled
at the expectation in the bright young faces,
which however possessed but little of their
mother's beauty.
“My sister will be glad if you and the chil
dren will drive over to Trentham to the tennis
tournament,” Miss Danecourt said in her cour
teous manner, addressing Madge. “The finals
are to be played to-day, you know, and you will
Bee some good play, I think. You will like to
go ?” she added gently. “Itis a pleasant day
lor a drive.”
“Mrs. Mowbray is very kind,” Madge re
plied. “We shall be glad to go, lam sure.”
“ Sha’nt we just 1” Miss Mowbray cried gayly.
“ We may put our books away now, Miss Lock
hart, may we not? It is almost half-past
twelve.”
“ Yes, you may go,” Madge answered, stand
ing up and collecting her books, and thinking
how bright and happy and pretty Ethel looked
in her soft gray gown. Somehow there was an
almost maternal tenderness in Madge’s interest
in this girl, who was four or five years her sen
ior, an interest which would have amused and
touched any one who rightly fathomed it.
“My sister has been toiling me that Lady
White was kind enough to recommend you to
her,” Ethel said, alter a pause, while the chil
dren were busily putting away their books.
Madge looked up with a slight start, a tinge of
color creeping into her lair face..
“Y r ee,” she answered.
“Are they old friends of yours?” Ethel in
quired. “Do you know them well ?”
“Not very well,” Madge answered slowly;
“Mr. White was a friend of my brother’s,” she
added, forcing herself to speak calmly.
“Oh, you know Mr. White then?”
“I knew him once,” the young governess an
swered, and the tinge ot color deepened and
spread until it reached from chin to brow. And,
while Madge crimsoned, Ethel’s color faded a
little ; and the pretty rose-tint had not returned
when, a few minutes later, she left the school
room and went with slow, lagging steps to her
own room.
CHAPTER VIII.
“it was the face of the prince.”
The tennis-tournament was at its height, and
•the grounds of Trentham Lawn Tennis Club
Were looking their best and brightest on this
sunshiny September afternoon. The elite of the
neighborhood were mustered in strong num
bers ; Mrs. Miles Mowbray’s presence was suiii
cient to bring many who would otherwise have
remained away, and not a few men were willing
to cut their shooting expedition short to win a
the beauty's bln® eyas, Altogether
the ground presented a very gay and animated
appearance as Madge and her pupils drove up
to the gate at the entrance to the grounds.
Several carriages wore drawn up under the
shelter of a belt of fine beeches. Some of the
carriage-people had joined the groups round
the courts, others had kept their seats and were
comfortably watching the players from them ;
Mrs. Mowbray’s phaeton was empty, and the
groom had taken out the horses. In the dis
tance, in a rust c-looking kiosk erected for the
occasion, a military band was playing, while
the red-and-white striped tea-tent and another
smaller tent where the prizes were exhibited
stood out boldly against the background of
thickly-leaved trees, and the gay dresses of the
ladies* were dotted like bright-hued flowers upon
the dark green, well-kept sward.
“ Isn’t it pretty, Miss Lockhart?” said Madge’s
youngest pupil, holding her hand tightly as
they tossed the ground to the courts where the
ladies’ singles were going qd.
Madge answered that it was very pretty; in
deed the bright scene had a charm for her after
the long monotony of the school-room and
grounds ot Mowbray Hall—a charm which was
not without its sadness though, for in all that
gay groand there was not one taco which bright
ened or so.tened as the slender figure in black
drew near, with the three yellow-haired chil
dren in their velveteen dresses, bright sashes,
ami Cromwell shoes.
There was a vacant chair for Madge near the
courts where Ethel Danecourt and a pretty
dark-eyed girl in a tennis-dress of cardinal and
gray—the Trentham Club colors—were playing
the ladies’ finals. Both girls were excellent
players, and the contest promised to be a close
one, and absorbed all the attention of the spec
tators. Ethel’s adversary, being the champion
lady-player of the vicinity, had most of the
sympathy, but Ethel's charming face and sweet
smile wore winning for her a fair share of suf
frage.
“ I hope auntie Ethel will win,” Mog said.
“ I hope so too,” Madge responded softly.
“ There is mamma 1” said Lily Mowbray ea
gerly. “ Isn’t she lovely, Miss Lockhart?”
M* ■ ige looked across the courts to where Mrs.
Mowbray sat in state, clad from head to foot in
rich dark-green velvet, which threw up admira
bly her delicate complexion and golden hair,
he was leaning back in a large wicker-chair,
listening languidly to the conversation of three
or four young men clustered round her.
“ isn’t she lovely?” Lily went on eagerly. “Is
not that : pretty dress, Miss Lockhart? Would
you no ike one like it ? I should. But there—
you .:i way a wear black I” The child prattled
on, heedless that she received no answer.
“ Auntie Ethel never has such pretty dresses
as mamma,” she continued, “ nor half so many!
1 should think mamma could put a frosh dress
on every day for a year it she— Miss Lock
hurt’’—changing her tone and looking up af
frightedly—“ what is the matter ? Are you ill ?”
“ No,” Madge managed to say, as she strug
gled agamst the terrible numbness which
seemed creeping over her, the rushing waters
which seemed to be on the point ot overwhelm
ing her. I think Miss D mecourt has won this
game,” she added, and the ohild averted her
eyes from the ashy white face and gave all her
atiention to the players.
Was she going to faint? Madge wondered
feebly; she was cold and trembling in every
limb, and it was only by a supreme effort that
she kept her seat. Her eyes wore dim and mis
ty, her lips parched and trembling: the field,
the tents, the pleased faces, the gay dresses
were scarcely distinguishable; the music of the
band sounded faint and distant; only one thing
seemed clear to her failing vision - the hand
some. haggard face of a gentleman who was
standing near Mrs. Mowbray’s chair, watching
the players with a faint smile in his tired, look
ing gray eyes. She had recognized him instan
taneously. It was the face of the prince who
had met her a year before at the railway
si ation, who had'taken her in his arms in the
firelit oak-panelled room, who had whispered
softly how dearly he loved her, and who, on the
moonlit terrace a few hours later, had wished
he might never see her again.
He did not see her now—that was the one
touch of sunshine in the present overwhelming
misery; perhaps, even if he did see her, he
would not recognize her she was so changed,
but her heart went up to Heaven in a wild pray
er that they might not meet I
When calmness, in some slight measure,
came back to her, she let her eves rest upon
his face or a moment, and she saw that he too
was much changed; he was bronzed, as if from
a long so onrn in hotter climes—ho looked thin
and haggard. Yet how handsome he was—
handsomer, as be was taller, than any of the
men around her, a king among them all!
He was very attentive to the game, Madge
saw; his eyes rarely left Ethel Danecourt’s
graceful swiftly-moving form and bright sweet
face, and once or twice Mad e saw that Ethel’s
gray eyes met his with a pleasant look of re
coguiiion.
“ Who is the tall man in gray with a yellow
rose n Ins button-hole ?” asked a lady near her.
“ I mean the man who is standing bes.de Mrs.
Mowbray’s chair.”
“ He is one of Sir Francis Croft's party,” was
the answer. “Is he not handsome and dis
tinguished-looking ? I thought Mrs. Mowl ray
seemed very gracious to him. He would no
doubt be a good match for that pretty Miss
Danecourt, who has no clot.*'
A faint smile moved the lips of the pale young
governess. Asif Ethel’s want of dowry would
weigh for one moment with Alick Wolie, if only
she were true and good I
And she seemed both true and good, and she
was pretty and graceful and sweet, and, if he
married her, she would be very happy, and
make him very happy too; but how could Mad.e
bear to see their happiness—Madge, who loved
him still and would love him while lie lasted?
All these long months she never heard of
him. Soon after her brother’s death she had
received a kind little note from Lady Woke,
offering sympathy and assistance, but Madge
shrank sensitively from accepting any help
irom Sir Alick’s mother, and she answered the
note gracefully, saying she had accepted a
situation found for her by a friend, and Lady
Wolfe’s interest m her was not great enough to
induce her to write again.
As the deadly faintness passed away, Madge
was able to look this new trouble in the lace.
There was no chance of her meeting Alick
Wolie, oven if be came to stay at Mowbray
Hall, she told herself. There was a well-defined
line between Mrs. Mowbray’s visitors and her
governess, and she, Madge, would be careful
that they should not meet. And yet how hard
it was that Ethel should have every thing
happy Ethel—even his love, while she, a poor
governess and friendless, had nothing 1
Mad e never remembered how that afternoon
went by. She had a dim recollection ot an
swering the children's questions, of many occa
sional bursts of applause, of gay music, of a
bright, varied scene of sunshine, green fields
and i>right-hued gowns. But what was clear to
her was the look on Alick Wolfe’s face when he
went forward to congralulate Ethol on having
won her set, and then took her away to the tea
tent.
A few minutes later Mrs. Mowbray, smiling
and radiant in her green velvet and fur, crossed
the courts and stood lor a moment by the pale
girl in black.
“ You look cold, Miss Lockhart,” she said,
kindly. “Had you not better get some tea?
The children will like some also.”
She passed on with her train of admirers, but
Madge sat motionless. The words had con
veyed no meaning to her, although she had
heard them distinctly. When, however, the
children gathered round her clamorously and
seconded their mother's wish, she rose and
went with them to the tent, where there were a
score oi little round tables and one long one, on
which were piles of cups and saucers and nu
merous urns.
it was a gay and animated scene. Young men
in tennis nannels and bright-colored jackets
were playing the parts of waiters, carrying
cups of tea to stately chaperons, or bringing
plates of macaroons to pretty damsels in tennis
jerseys; people were talking and laughiug, dis
cussing the play and the prizes; the band out
side was playing selections irom “Patience.”
Sir Alick and Miss Danecourt had a table to
themselves, Madge saw, as she stood with her
pupils by the long table at the end of the tent.
Ethel looked flushed and excited. She was
chatting gayly, and her companion, with his el
bow on the table, was watching her with a Took
of kindliness and. amusement. Madge thought
that they looked very handsome and happy and
lover like, and oven her fear that he should
see her could not prevent her looking at them
with great, wistful eyes.
“Is any one looking after you?” asked a kindly
voice at her elbow, and one oi the stewards pro
cured her some tea, which Madge drank as she
stood.
There was no cosy round table, no handsome,
devoted attendant for her. A keen sense of
forlornness stung her with even a sharper
sting than the jealous pain ot a few minutes be
fore had done; even the sunshine outside
seemed to make her lot darker, the quaint mu
sic to add to her pain. The sharp agony ot her
grief at 1 fail’s death had not been so hard to
bear as this.
And there was such a strange bewilderment
in it all - to be so near the man who had been
bo much to her, whom she had loved and who
had loved her, and not to exchange one look or
word with him, made her brain whirl. Ah, if
her sin had been far greater than it was, her
anguish was keen enough to merit forgive
ness !
Presently the children wore called away to
be introduced to some of their mother’s friends,
and Madge crept out of the tea-tent and went
and stood by herself away from all the gay
crowd, and while she stood there she saw Sir
Alick and Ethel leave the tea-tent and go to the
smaller marquee where the prizes were exhib
ited, and she turned away and sat down near
the hedge, faint and sick at heart.
How long she sat there she did not know, but
the sun was sinking in the west and the sky one
mass of crimson and purple and gold behind
the beech trees, when Grace Mowbray’s shrill
voice aroused her.
“ Miss Lockhart, Miss Lockhart I we have
been looking for you everywhere—mamma’s so
angry I it is quite late i”
“ Have the prizes been given ?” Madge asked,
faintly, rising to her feet and looking around
with wide, dim oyes.
“ : ong ago. Aunt Ethel’s got a bracelet.
Come along—mamma’s going home in the wag
onette with us.”
As fast as her numbed, cramped limbs al
lowed, Madge foil iwed the child to the group
assembled near the carriages from Mowbray
several of the other vehicles had already left the
grounds, and a stream of pedestrians was pour
ing toward the gates.
Bir Alick was helping Miss Danecourt to don
her fur cape. Mrs. Mowbray, very stern and
haughty, notwithstanding h6r pleasure at the
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 10, 1886.
very satisfactory appearance of the progress of
matters between her sister and Sir Alick, stood
near the wagonnette.
“You forget yourself strangely,” she said,
coldly, as Madge drew near. “It is hardly my
place to wait for you.”
At any other time the words, and the manner
in which they were spoken even more, would
have stung Madge, for it was the first time Mrs.
Mowbray had had cause to remind her of her
position. Now she hardly heeded them. She
stared stupidly at the fair lady in green, as if
she had never seen her before; then, sud
denly recollecting herself, she muttered a con
fused apology, of which Mrs. Mowbray took no
heed.
The children climbed into the wagonnette,
and, at an imperious sign from Mrs. Mowbray,
Madge followed. Meanwhile Sir Alick had
helped Ethol into the phaeton, and was putting
the rug around her, lingering a little, as if the
task was a pleasant one. Having completed it,
he came forward to help Mrs. Mowbray into
the wagonnette, and they exchanged a few laugh
ing words. . _
“Take care of Ethel,” Mrs. Mowbray said
laughingly, as they drove off.
“ Trust me,” he answered, as he got into the
phaeton and took the reins.
“It is rather strange,” Mrs. Mowbray re
marked to Madge, with a slight smile, as the
wagonnette drew up before the stone steps of
Mowbray Hall, all her annoyance forgotten at
the moment, “ that the gray takes so much
longer to perform the journey than my horses
do with such a much heavier load 1 Don’t you
think so ?”
“ Not very strange,” Madge answered, with a
faint smile, and Mrs. Mowbray laughed gayly.
CHAPTER IX.
“ don’t they look like night and morning ?”
Tea was waiting in the old-fashioned hall.
Mr. Mowbray and the two or three men who as
yet comprised the party at Mowbray Hall had
returned from shooting, and were standing
round the log-fire under the carved mantel; a
tea-table with a quaint service of old Chelsea
was drawn up near the fire, and three or four
cushioned wicker chairs o modern shape looked
graceful and pretty among the dark high-backed
oak chairs and massive carved chests and suits
of armor, while the hall was unlighted save by
the ruddy glare of the fire, which, blazed up
merrily, casting the distant corners into deeper
shadow.
“ Children, you may stay for a while,” Mrs.
Mowbray said, languidly, as she sank down in
an attitude of languid grace into one of the
wicker chairs, throwing aside her furs as she
did so.
“ Where is Ethol ?” asked Mr. Mowbray.
“ She is coming,” his wife answered, with a
smile, and even as she spoke the sound of
wheels was heard ; and just as Madge had
reached the foot of the great staircase Miss
Danecourt came in with Sir Alick.
Madge did not look back ; she went slowly
up the stairs, and it was only when she reached
the top that she turned and looked down at the
pictures nie scene beneath.
The servants had brought lamps, and the
gloomy old hall was bright and cheerful now.
Mrs. Mowbray had removed her bonnet, and
was pouring out tea ; the children wore seated
in various attitudes on a big bear-skin rug be
fore the hearth, looking up laughingly at their
father, who was describing the day’s sport;
Ethel, a little pale, Madge thought, was sitting
in one of the wicker chairs, laughing as she
looked at Sir Alick, who was gently removing
her gloves from her cold fingers, and bending
his handsome head over her. Madge saw it all;
her yearning eyes took in the grace of Ethel's
form, her ruffled hair, her sweet red, smiling
lips, the devotion in Sir Alick’s attitude, the
smile in his gray eyes, the warmth and light
and comfort of the home-like group. Then she
turned away, and, creeping slowly and feebly
up to her own room, locked the door behind
her and lay down on her bed, almost stupefied
by her pain.
She was very cold, and there was a strange
languor upon her. Alter a while it seemed as
if she suffered from nothing but a lassitude and
weakness amounting to exhaustion; it was al
most as if her life were over, as if she were
drifting away into some unknown world. Was
it death ? she wondered vaguely. It was not a
swoon, she knew, because, when she had
swooned before, sight and sense had failed her
in.a moment; now she was conscious of the
darkness and chillness of her room, and when,
after a time, the children came clamoring at her
door, the blows of the r little impatient hands
seemed to fall upon her heart.
“I am coming,” she said, faintly; “lam com
ing,” and she rose languidly, took off the out
door garments she atill wore, smoothed her
hair, and went into the school-room to preside
at the children’s tea.
The little ones were excited by their unusual
dissipation, and chatted gayly and incessantly,
making quaint remarks, asking eager ques
tions ; and it was no small relief to Madge
when, after tea, they scampered off to super
intend Miss Danecourt s dressing operations,
an indulgence which their mother had never
permitted.
Left alone once more, Madge threw open one
of the windows, and, sitting down at one of the
low, broad window seats, leaned out, trying to
cool the burning heat of her brow and ease the
throbbing oi her temples. The night was calm
and still, and a gentle rain was falling. The
girl thrust her head out of the casement to catch
the cool, refreshing shower.
Presently a shrill child’s voice sounded loud
and clear.
“Miss Lockhart-Miss Lockhart, come and
see Auntie Ethel I She looks lovely ! Do
come.”
Madge started and shivered as she turned
from the dark, still night to the lighted
room. It was empty. The shrill child’s voice
came from without, and the young governess
rose, crossed the schoolroom, and went out
through the little ante-chamber into the picture
gallery, where the light fell brightly on the lines
of pictured faces and heavy velvet portieres,
and on the slim white figure of a girl who stood
drawing on her long gloves, against a back
ground oi heavy purple velvet falling in thick
folds.
Involuntarily Madge stood still, looking at
her with great wistful brown eyes. How pretty
she was in her long, soft, white gown, with her
blue eyes smiling, her cheeks rose-tinted with
excitement, the silver girdle round her waist
gleaming in the light I She wore no ornaments
save a knot of heliotrope in her breast, and she
needed no other. The children were dancing
about her in amusement and admiration, calling
her “ pretty auntie ” —they themselves were pic
turesque little figures in their black velvet
frocks and scarlet sashes and stockings, and the
group made a pretty picture, far fairer than any
upon the walls.
“Now, Miss Lockhart, is she not pretty?’
Margaret Mowbray said gayly. “ She is all
white, white as snow, and you are all black ! If
I could paint, I should paint you two together
just as you are, and call you ‘ Night and Morn
ing
“Meg waxing poetical!” Ethel said laughing
ly, as she held out her hand for Madge to fasten
her long gloves. “Wonders will never cease !
Thanks, Miss Lockhart,” she added; then her
voice changed suddenly. “ Are you not well to
night?” she asked gently. “ You look bo pale i
Are you tired 1”
“ Tired ? Oh, no ! And lam quite well,” the
girl answered, beginning to school her voice to
firmness. “Do I look pale ? You look like an
ideal Gretchen,” she added, forcing a smile—
“ Gretchen going to meet Faust.”
Almost as she uttered the words there was the
sound of a door opening just near them, a band
pushed aside the heavy folds of purple velvet,
and Sir Alick Wolfe came out, dropping the por
tiere behind him as he came, his eyes resting
for a moment on Ethel’s slim figure, then seek
ing the other girl in her long black robes, her
hair pushed roughly back from her forehead, a
look of dread and fear flashing in her velvety
dark eyes—and that one swift glance brought
recognition. But he gave no sign that he recog
nized her. Calm, self-possessed and proud,
he came forward, a tall, handsome figure in his
sombre evening dress, a sprig of heliotrope in
his button-hole showing faintly against its som
bre background. Meg ran to meet him with a
gay laugh on her red lips.
“Don’t they look like ‘ Night and Morning,’
Sir Alick?” she asked, and the young man
laughed too.
“ Or like Cinderella and one of the wicked sis
ters,” Grace Mowbray said eagerly, “when the
wicked sister is going to the ball and Cinderella
is left at home ?”
“ Not very complimentary to me, Gracie,” Mias
Dancourt remarked smiling; while Madge won
dered it they would see how her lips were quiver
ing, and how, involuntarily, she had caught at
the heavy folds oi the portiere for support. “Is
she, Sir Alick ? Do I look like one oi the wicked
sisters, I wonder ?”
“ Your look more like a pure white lily,” he
answered smiling, his voice serene and suave.
“ I was not quite sure whether yon were a pic
ture or a living woman when I saw you a min
uute since. That purple velvet made so perfect
a background.”
The cloor deepened slightly in Ethel’s cheeks,
then faded, leaving her a little pale, and she
moved away with Sir Alick, the children troop
ing gayly before them and running a race down
the wide old oaken staircase; the tall fair-haired
man, the slim fair-haired girl followed more
slowly. Madge watched them as they wont,
until they disappeared down the stairs.
Ten minutes went by, but Madge had not
moved from where she stood when they had left
her. She still grasped the heavy folds of vel
vet at which she had caught for support, and
her head had fallen back upon them. Agiinst
the purple hue of the velvet her lace looked
white as alabaster, in its intense pallor and
immobility; her eyes were hah closed, her lips
of ashen hue. In the terrible numbness and
chill which were creeping over her limbs, she
felt as if death were near; all her senses seem
ed to be failing her, the lamps burning so
brightly a minute before were dim and misty
now, her breath came slowly and heavily. She
did not hear a step coming rapidly up the
stairs and along the passage, and. when Sir
Alick spoke to her, in eager, agitated tones, his
words hardly reached her.
“Are you ill?” the young man asked hur
riedly, pausing near her in his hasty progress
down the gallery. “ You look very ill. Can I
get you anything ?” Shall I call for assist
ance ?”
She raised the heavy white lids of her lan
guid eyes and looked at him with a dim, unsee
ing regard.
“ Thank you,” she replied faintly, in a voice
hardly audible—“ lam not ill—l need nothing.”
“I am grieved,” he said, a great pity in bis
voice. “If I had known we should meet,
believe me I would not have come here.” *
Madge raised her head languidly, yet with a
touch of pride which was piti’ul to see.
“We meet by accident to-night,” she respond
ed, in the same low feeble tones; “ but we need
not meet again; nor need my presence here affect
you. lam sorry if ’
“ But how can we help meeting if I stay ?” he
asked, in some agitation. “ Guests in the same
house ”
Madge’s lips parted almost as it she smiled.
“I am not a guest here,” she said. “ I am
the governess.”
He started violently and flushed slightly.
“ The governess I Then to-day at the ”
He broke off; there was a lump in his throat
which made speech difficult.
“At the tournament ? ’ she finished. “ Yes,
I was there—very near you, but you did not
know me.”
“ You are so changed,” he murmured, “ so
terribly altered.”
“Ain I? Well, a year changes most of us,
especially ” She paused abruptly—she
would not appeal to his pity. “ You are not
changed,” she added, with the same ghastly
smile, which made the young man long to cover
his eyes with his hands to shut out the sight of
her face.
“Am I not?” he asked abruptly, and there
was a brief pause, during which the girl’s stiff
fingers loosed their rigid clasp of the velvet,
and her arm dropped heavilj’ nt her side, and
she stood erect. “The world must be very
small after all,” the young man said, with a
hoarse laugh. “You are about the last person
I should have thought of meeting here.”
“ I suppose so,” she returned father unstead
ily.
“ I never heard Miss Danecourt mention you,”
he wont on, with a touch of constraint in his
voice. “Of course, if you are married, your
name would be unknown to me, although I have
not forgotten ”
“I am not married,”.Madge interrupted.
“And you are in mourning—not for your
fiancee, I hope.”
“ No -for my brother.”
She spoke steadily enough now. Before this
man who had once* professed to love her, and
who had cared so little for her that he had never
troubled to make one inquiry as to her welfare
since they parted, she would not break down.
“ Your brother I I did not know—l had not
heard —I am truly sorry I” he said earnestly, in
a softened voice. “It must have been a terri
ble loss co you.”
Madge said nothing. Even now she could not
speak of her brother's death with anything like
calmness.
“ You are much changed,” Sir Alick again re
marked, with a little hesitation. Have you been
ill ? ’
“No; I am quite well.”
“ Hardly that, I think,” he said hastily, his
passionate gray eyes dwelling with eager long
ing on her face, the pale face which had lost all
its old beauty, on the slender figure which ho
remembered, so prettily rounded and graceful,
and on which now the black cashmere gown
hung in such loose folds, on the thin little hands
which hung so helplessly at her side.
“ I am tired to-night,” she returned careless
ly. “It has been a long day. There is the din
ner-bell,” she added, turning slightly away.
“ You will be late.”
“ And you ?” he asked eagerly.
“I? lam the governess,” she rejoined, with
a slight laugh; “ I do not dine with the family.
A sudden hot flush crimsoned his face from
chin to brow, and a gleam of anger flashed into
his gray eyes.
“it is quite usual ” Madge added quietly. “I
am treated with the utmost consideration here.”
“Are you?” he s tid almost roughly. “I
congratulate you thou on finding so comfortable
a home until you go to one of your own.”
She turned away with a slight inclination of
the head; the dinner-gong was sounding loudly
through the house, the children’s shrill voices
were heard as they scampered across the h<ll
on their way back to the school-room. For a
moment Alick Wolie hesitated, then without
another word he turned on his heel and went
hurriedly down stairs.
Two minutes later the children, racing down
tbo gallery with gay laughter, found their
governess lying prone upon the threshold of
the school-room, her long black gown falling
in heavy folds around her, her face hidden
by her loosened hair.
(To ba ContinuelJ
abovetheTiist.
BY LILLIAS CAMPBELL DAVIDSON
“To-morrow is Marjory’s birthday,” said the
laird. What shall we give her ?”
They were all out after dinner, on the low
stone terrace of the old gray castlo, drinking
their co fee and watching the broad sheet or
gold spread across the loch, as the moon rose
behind Ben Lomond’s solemn hight.
“What do you want, my pet?” and he slid
his arm round Margie’s slender shoulders, as
she leaned beside him,wrapped m asoitcloud of
wfaitg woolen drapery, upon the carved stone
balustrado.
“ Uh, I want nothing, papa! I think I’ve
everything I could possibly need—except—ex
cept a little bit oi white heather.’’
Everybody laughed, except Angus Colqu
houn. It takes little to e.icito mirth among a
party of guests in a pleasant country-house,
who have dined well and have no heavier cares
than how to settle to-morrow’s amusements.
These gay people, fresh from a London season,
found the novelty of a Scotch castle quite deii
licious. The weather had been perfect, and
they had not begun to be bored yet. They
were in a state of mind to be amus'ed at any
thing—even young Mr. Colquboun’s sulky
looks at dinner.
“ White heather 1” cried Lady Grace Daven
port, a very consolable young widow. “My
dear Margie, what an idea 1 Why don’t yon
wish for diamonds?—a set like Mrs. itiving
ton’s.”
Everybody laughed again, except the young
Laird of Logie, whoso stern features did not
relax their expression in the least.
He was tasting to the full to-night, poor
Angus, how bitter life could he, Marjory—wee
Marjory—his pet and his darling Of the old
school-boy days-his “ wee wifie,” as she had
been called since she clung to his proud hand
to take her first tottering steps on the very
stone terrace where they stood together now—
who would ever have dreamed that Marjory
could hurt him as she had done in the last three
days ? Oh, if she had never gone to London
for that odious season I
In all the days of the life they had spent to
gether, they had never been parted but once
before—when he went to Edinburgh for his
last school year. All their schooling before
that had been got from governesses and tutors,
and Marjory even made her first stammering
acquaintance with the Latin tongue, an ac
quaintance which never ran any risk of de
generating into contempt, from Angus’s own
well-thumbed Prmcipia, How she cried that
time they parted I and how his heart wae
wrung at going! But he found the same old
merry Marjory when he came back to Ardoch;
and they were as h?,ppy as the Northern Sum
mer days were long.
This time it was Marjory who parted, and
she did not shed a tear. It was only August
now, and the snow-wreaths had not all faded
Irom Ben Lomond’s 10. ty crest before she went,
and yet those few short months had robbed
him of his sweetheart, and the “ wee wifie ”
was his own no more.
If he had but spoken when he came from
college, and found himself, at twenty-one, Laird
of Logie, and bis own master! It was all
through the old Laird that he did not lay Logie
and himself, then and there, at Margie's little
feet, and tell hqj they were hers, and only hers,
now and for ever. Ardoch had spoken fairly
enough; he told him it was his hope and hi*s
wish to call him his son, and Logie lands
jumped with Ardoch. There never was a
Ferguson who could not appreciate the joining
of two neighboring estates. Ardoch was a
thorough Ferguson, high-minded and generous
though he might be. But Marjory had seen
nothing of the world; it would not be just to
bind her till she had had her season in London
and seen gay life. Angus’s Scotch sense of
justice made him see the force of that, and he
did violence with himself and saw her go with
out a spoken word of love. Surely Mar.ory
knew, without the speaking I
Now she was at homo again, a Marjory, all
London airs and graces; littlo affectations and
lashions and follies, such as Ardoch’s gaunt old
walls had never seen before. She treated him
as if they were old friends—no more. There
wae not a blush, nor a falter; she had forgotten
how to look shy in London drawing-rooms.
Angus raged inwardly, with a pain that seemed
to take ail his strength to bear; and with the
pain and hurt, feeling was mingled—though he
would have died rather than own it to himself
—a certain secret sense of the difference be
tween him and the London men Marjory had
brought back in her train. He felt as great a
gulf between himself and these indifferent men
of the world as there was between his evening
suit, built by a Glasgow tailor, and the em
broidered shirts and waistcoats, satin neckties
and big-bowed shoes, which filled his country
soul with wonder somewhat dashed with dis
dain. On his own ground—by moor, or loch,
or mountain, or among his books—Angus—tall,
broad-shouldered Angus—was their master,
and knew it, but to-night, at the dinner, with
its complicated menu, such as Castle Ardoch
had never provided before, he felt himself at a
disadvantage among these denizens ot fashion
able spheres.
In vain Lady Grace tried all her fascination
on the “ handsome young Scotch bear,” as all
the ladies privately called him; in vain they
went into ecstasies over the view of distant
Logie from Ardoch terrace, the short, heavy
towers, with their pointed caps, like a four
teenth-century Norman chateau, even over the
“doo-cote”—a little isolated turret itself,
within the outer moat—Angus’s solemn gravity
never yielded, and Marjory grew gayer and
more frivolous every minute.
There was a certain Mr. Venables, who
was the principal object of Angus’s aversion;
a strange man, with flowing locks, and an
expression of mild suffering, dressed in the
garb of half a century ago, with a peach satin
waistcoat and broad white shirt cuffs, turned
back ova* his tight coat-sleeves. Round him
the whole party seemed to circle, with a pro
found interest and admiration. If he only mur
mured, m a sad and weary voice, that “ the
transient shadows on the mountain were ex
quisite in their evanescent glory,” everybody
caught the retrain and sang the glories of the
shadows, till Angus wished they shared the
fleeting propensities they found so admirable.
He loathed Mr. Venables, who persisted in ad
dressing him as “Mr. Logie,” as jf thatyerg
his surname; who aflected to be unable to com
prehend the title ot “ Laird,” when Ardoch
kindly took upon himself to explain ; who
looked as though he were ready dressed for
private theatricals, and—crowning sin—fol
lowed Marjory about with a persistence which
would have been pointed had it had enough en
ergy.
Lady Grace had enlivened the second entree
by telling Colquhoun that Lionel Venables was
“ the fashion,” the art critic of the season, the
arbiter of taste and feeling, the greatest man of
the day.
“ The Fergusons are no end lucky to have
caught him lor a visit,” said Lady Grace, who
did not a eet the a sthetio in her conversation.
“ The Duchess of Wiltshire was ready to tear
her hair because he threw her over to come,
and ho goes on to Sandringham next month.
One would have thought wild horses wouldn’t
have kept him from the duchess’s artistic fete,
but lions can afford to give themselves airs,
and ot course we all know the attraction.
Lucky girl I There wasn’t a woman in town
last season who wouldn’t have given her eyes
to have Lionel Venables at her apron-strings,
as he was at Marjory s. The jealousy and
hatred that girl excited 1”
Lady Grace gave an envious sigh.
So Angus gloomed in the background, while
everybody else laughed and chatted and ad
mired the moon effects, “as if they had been
got up for their entertainment,” thought the
young Laird ot Logie, in his sulks.
“ Well, well,” said the Laird (when that title
possessed a capital it always meant Ardoch),
patting the soft cheek which rested close to his
shoulder. “You’ve had your own way ever since
you were born, my lass, and I expect you’ll go
on having it. White heather you must have,
since it’s white heather you want, though it’s
younger bones than mine that’ll be seeking it, I
doubt. Who’ll be your knight, and bring you
home a piece of good luck to wear at your birth
day dinner to-morrow night, I wonder ?”
There was a polite chorus irom all the men
present.
“ But that’s too simple a deed for a lady’s
knight,’’ said old Sir Charles Huntly, wish his
courtly grace. “Only a handful of a shrub
that grows wild every where and can be had lor
the picking ■”
“Indeed, and you’ll not find that to be the
case,” said the laird, with his fine little North
ern in lection of voice. “ Heather a common
enough, I grant you, but white heather’s as
rare as the black swan. Mar >ry says it’s the
type of happiness; perhaps that’s because of its
scarcity.”
“ Ur because it is so hard to fiind ” (Marjory
seemed almost serious.) “My old nurse,
Elspie, had a prettier reason still ; she said it
was because it grew only on the lofty heights.”
“Poetical, but incorrect,” murmured the
Laird.
Venables appeared uneasy. “Do I under
stand that it has an inaccessible habit?” ho
asked. “Though that were little if tne ladye
deign to crave tor it.”
“ Uh, it’s easy enough to find if you know
where to look,’’ said good-natured Mrs. Fergu
son ; and Venables considered within himself
that tho wild and bare-footed youths of the
neighborhood would no doubt" possess that
knowledge.
“uut isu t there another moaning than happi
ness, Margie?” asked Lady Grace gayly. ‘ Some
thing like heliotrope, in ‘ Tom Brown at Ox
ford ’? ”
“ May I not know it ?”
Venables put on his most witching air.
“Uh, you may find it in the Queen’s ‘High
land Journal,’ ” laughed Marjory, lightly,
though her face colored a little in the moon
light. “ Mamma, are we have no music to
night?”
And they adjourned to tho music-room.
Late that night, as Colquhoun crossed the
panelled hall on his way to his dog-cart, ulster
clad, and pipe between his fingers, the door of
the book-room ( A ng Hee, library) stood ajar, and
his passing glance lit on Mr. Venables, sunk in
tho Laird’s own big leather chair. A green
bound volume was in his hands, and ho was
skimming its pages. Col .uhoun’a loyal soul
knew well that oft-perused book : “ Leaves from
tho Journal,” ho muttered between his teeth,
and closed the nail-studded front door wilh a
portentous clap.
It w s not royal weather that hailed Marjory’s
birthday, as the Oastle Ardoch party started to
picnic on Ben Lomond’s crest. Tho sky was
overcast, and the Laird predicted rain before
night, though he was generally voted a wet
blanket, and his prediction laughed to scorn.
Most of the party were mounted for the ascent,
Southern hearts rather quailing at so formida
ble a climb; but Mar,ory walked with tho Laird,
and most of tho male element, out-liatanced
altogether by Angus, who swung off with a
steady stride, suggestive of Malcolm Graeme.
\ enables lingered beh.nd, and entered into
converse with one of the white-haired laddies
near the Rowardenin hotel, who looked intelli
gent, pulled his lorelock, and scampered off up
the mountain. Perhaps it was tho delay so
caused which resulted in Venables reaching the
summit, breathless and exhausted, some half
fa oxir after the rest.
AfigUs, well-used to mountain picnics, was a
host in himself, and he and Mrs. Ferguson had
the cloth laid, and the hampers emptied, with
a business-hke celerity tru y delight ul to the
hungry. It was only aitor luncheon was over
that" he disappeared, and Marjory s quick eye
saw him as ho van.shed on the further side o
the tall peak that crowns Don Lom.ond'B top.
All the rest of the gentlemen began to soarml,
with much merriment, but less energy, for Mar
jory’s coveted white heather. Mr. Venablos
strayed thoughtfully away in the direction
taken some hours before by the youth with tho
“ lint-locks,” and Marjory was ior the moment
alone w.th the remnants of the feast. She felt
uneasy, she could scarcely have told why ; there
was a* look in Angus’s face that haunted her
since yesterday, and half unconsciously ear and
eye were strained toward tbo spot whore ho had
vanished.
Suddenly, through tho gray hushed air, a
faint cry struck qu her ear. Without the hesi
tation of a moment Marjory turned Und darted
like a young fawn upward to the peak. As she
ran, with one swut breath, tho whole face of the
bill-world changed, and a white mist, thick,
blinding, impalpable, swept up the slope be
hind her, and blotted out all the world be
neath.
How she chose that one steep sheep-track
she could never tell; sho seemed to act by an
instinct beyond herself, and it was hardly sur
prise that struck upon her heart like the'touch
ot a coldhand, as she reached the foot of a stoep
precipice, and saw lying at its base, one foot
twisted beneath him, the still, motionless form
of Angus Colquhoun.
“ Oh, Angus, Angus I”—she was on her knees
beside him, raising his head upon her arm—
“ I have killed him 1” and with a cry that rang
back from the frowning crags above, like a
weird wail of anguish,-she flung herself upon
his breast.
Evon as her head rested upon his heart she
felt its boat. Bhe started away, but his left arm
held her fast, and as the color came back to his
blanched face, and his eyes unclosed, she ceased
to struggle.
His bask was in the pocket of his coat; she
found it and put it to his lips. He jerked him
self up to a sitting position, clenching his teeth
as he twisted his ankle by the movement, but
he still held her fast.
“ Fainted like a girl!” said he, with intense
disgust. “ A thing Venables might have done 1
But oh, Margie ! Margie 1 can this be true ?”
and he fell to covering her hands with kisses.
“Andi thought you did not care!” sighed
Angus, in his content, forgetting everything but
that she was beside him.
I only found I cared just now.”
“ And your white heather, dear! I slipped
before I could reach it up there. I can’t give
you your bit of happiness, Marjory, alter all.”
“ You have given me all the happiness the
world holds, Angus,” was all she answered.
Suddenly, with breath as swiit as before, the
mountain mists shifted again, and the scene be
low lay clear once more—the group about tho
horses, at the place where they had lunched,
and, just beneath them, Mr. Venables receiving
a bunch of something from the hands of a kilted
youth. Marjory’s quick eye caught that, and a
blush of sympathetic shame crept into her
cheeks.
“ Angus, you must lean on my shoulder,” she
said, “the path is not far, we must get back to
the ponies. ’
He turned to drag himself to his feet, and his
touch closed on one tiny spray of white heather
where he had lain.
“ Look 1 look !’ ho cried triumphantly. “ You
will have it, alter all I Elspie was right—hap
piness grows high above the mists.”
“ And close at hand, when we looked for it
far off,” murmured Marjory softly, as Angus
laid the little white bells in her hand.
There was high festival that night at Castle
Ardoch when Marjory’s health was drunk at
dinner with Highland honors ; and young Col
quhoun, on the tartan-covered sofa in the din
ing-room window, was promoted to be interest
ing invalid, and voted much nicer ill than well
by most of the ladies present. Venables’ portly
bunch of white heather decorted the big silver
epergne, presented to the Laird by the yeoman
ry when he resigned his command; but one
slender bit, with tiny blossoms, nestled among
the plaits of Marjory’s soft hair.
“May I tell the Laird, now?” whispered An
gus, as she lingered by his sola in passing, when
the ladies went away.
“Tell him what?” she laughed back, with a
flash of the old sauciness. “ You’ve told me
nothing, yet. Do you know you’ve never even
asked me a certain question ?”
“The heather asked it for me,” he said, look
ing at her with dancing eyes ; and that was all
the proposal of marriage Marjory ever had.
THE BUTTONS.
These Have Got to Be as Big and as
Hard to Get as Dollars.
(From the Philadelphia Press.}
Buttons are things |that men do not think
about very much, except when one is missed
from a pair of trousers. In fact, few men know
what au important item in a woman’s expense
account buttons are. Fashion has now decreed
that they shall be used more for ornamentation
than usefulness. Hooks and eyes serve to hold
the clothing together and buttons are used for
show. The biggor they are the more fashiona
ble are they.
“ Few buttons are worn now that are less in
size than a half dollar,,’ the head of the dress
making department of a big dry goods store ex
plained recently. “ Most of them are as large
us a silver dollar. The favorites are made of
cut steel, and the object is to make them as
brilliant as possible. Long rows are set on the
front of drosses and frequently on the over
skirts whenever there is an opportunity. TLo
buttons vary much in price, and some of them
are very expensive. Here are some of cut steel
of the largest size, that cost $lO a dozen. These
smaller ones of the same material sell for $7,
Bronze buttons cost about the same.
“Some ladies have a very neat way of avoid
ing heavy expense in the" matter of buttons.
Clasps, you know, are quite fashionable now.
We make clasps out of these la.ge buttons when
they are desired. Only four buttons are needed
for two clasps, so you see the expense is greatly
reduced. One clasp is worn at the thr- at or on
the left shoulder, and the other at the waist;”
IN A FALSE-FACE STORE.
Where the Masks and Wigs Used, by
Costumers are Made.
(From- the Philadelphia North American.)
A knowledge of things that are false is knowl
edge of half the things that be, and is of the
greatest importance to every one contemplating
a trip through this world in this age. Men and
women are half real and hall made up by hand.
Halt their lives is spent in telling wbat they
think, and the other half in telling what they
don't think.
“ To help “ get up ” a man with his crooked,
unsymmetrical body to start with is a part of
the business of the tailor, the shoemaker, the
hatmaker, the barker, the dentist and the doc
tor. The doctor is to keep the bodily construe
tion intact while the others build upon it. The
dentist has to supply his teeth, which play such
an important part in his facial appearance. The
tailor must make his clothes just so as to con
tribute most to symmetry. This depends near
ly as much on the character of the cloth as on
the fit. The coat must give erectness and
squareness, and may be broadness, to the ap
pearance of the shoulders. The shoes must
give the high instep, and the hat—its import
ance in the “make-up” may be reckoned by the
hours required in its selection. But the barber
has yet the most important part—the cut of the
face and head. In the management of the beard
and hair a skillful barber can make one’s physi
ognomy to that ot many different characters.
Between them all they can make a priest,
a pilgrim or a patriot, a painter,, poet or sculp
tor, a musician, mathematician, millionaire, mi
ser or murderer, a statesman or a dude, all out
of the same ordinary-looking individual.
The study of fa.so faces shows well the im
portant features of different caricatures. An
amusing colloquy was heard yesterday between
a shopkeeper in a costume estanlishmont on
Ridge avenue and her customer.
•‘I want a lalse-ra-e,” said the incomer,
glancing around the walls adorned with hun
dreds of ridiculous faces, made up ot the ugly
features of all kinds of animals, including
monkeys, dogs, dudes and birds, molded on the
background ot human countenances.
“ What kind ot a lace ?” asked the pretty
shop-girl.
“ Well, first?’said the customer, “give mo a
face ot a girl that thinks she’s just too beauti
ful for anything and that her phiz can win her
any man she chooses.”
Out came a painted, small face, with & tny
rosebud of a mouth, a sweet little nose and the
most delicate eyebrows, dimpled cheeks, point
ed chin, and the expression of “Ain’t-I-aweet ?”
over the whole.
“How’s that?” asked the shop-girl, putting
on the face or view. “Women faces are very
hard to find. Very few of them are made, and
there’s no variety m them.”
“ She’ll do, ’ said the customer ; “ now I want
a stately, austere, aristocratic, dignified, never
smiling face ot a man who is supposed to seek
the hand and heart ot that sweet little maid.”
“Don’t know about that,” said the shop girl,
searching around among the faces. “ The idea
is generally to give these faces ridiculous ex
pressions.”
“ Haven’t you the caricature of a statesman,
a lord, a Senator or a Government dignitary ?”
“ Well, now here is a face that looks like a
statesman I know of. Maybe it will do.”
The face had some of the features of a ward
politician or a State Representative, and didn’t
seem to strike the customer favorably.
“ It’s strange bow one can see his friends
among those horrid things sometimes, isn’t it?”
he remarked.
“ Yes, indeed, they’re lots of people I know
hanging around on the walls here,” was the
reply.
“ When you look into these older, soberer
faces for anything like dignity or aristocracy.”
said the customer, “ there appears to be an ex
pression of intense pain or sickness there. Have
you none without that ?”
The shop-girl looked around in vain and
then said: “ Sometimes the features you want
are really in the lace, but have to be made more
prominent. After all it depends much on how
you look at them. Sometimes I look at a face
and think it's smiling, and other times the
same face appears distressed. It takes very
little change in the features to change the whole
expression.”
“ Well,” said the customer, “give me the
face of a bashful, love-sick youth who is afraid
to tell the above maiden his love.”
“ Well, for that,” said the shop-girl, “you can
take another girl’s face and put a little mus
tache on it. You know you have seen minstrels
with the same identical face transform them
selves from a gay and giddy girl into an old,
stiff-jointed maid, then become an Irish washer
woman or a plantation darky, just by altering
their bead-gear and clothes a little. It s easy.
It you want to try something, just get before a
glass and draw down the corners of your mouth
slightly, or elevate your cheek bumps or your
eyebrows, and open your eyes a little wider
and see what a different-looking fellow you
would be taken for.”
u That’s the ticket,” said the customer, as the
mustache was placed on the girl a face. Now
give me a plain,common, meet-you-on-the-siroet
-every-day-face. This is to be the one that gets
that sweet girl finally.”
“Oh, you can’t find that kind anywhere.
There are no plain faces. They don’t make
them. You see nearly all the false-.'aces are
imported and we have to take the kind that
pleases the people over in Europe.”
“ Well, give me a priest to marry them.”
This was another bard job and then the cus
tomer asked lor “a reverend looking old col
ored preacher.”
The lady brought forth a face that laughed
with the pleasure of a darkey who has just cap
tured a watermelon. The customer was about
to demur that it was too humorous and not be
nign enough, when the pretty shop-girl said :
‘TH put a little bunch of white chair-stuffing
hair on its eyebrows and chin and in front of
the ears. Then it would be better to have this
bald-headed wig on, too,” she said, producing
one.
These changes had the effect of turning the
laughing expression into one of holy good hu
mor, and the customer, having found faces he
thought would suit all the characters wanted,
departed.
“Do you have many customers like that?”
asked the reporter.
“Oh, yes.”
“What does be want to do with those faces ?”
“Very likely he and his friends want to take
part m a dialogue or tableau, or something of
the kind. We have many customers who want
to be dressed to go to masquerades. Now, dur
ing the holidays we have to get up many Kriss
Kringles for churches. In the false faces,every
body is asking lor darkey faces with red hair.
A most ridiculous combination.”
“ Where do you get all your hair for wigs,
switches and the like ?”
“ It’s nearly all imported.”
“ But how do they get it over there ?”
“ From the peasant girls in Franco and Ger
many; the best comes from France.”
“ Do you mean the girls grow it and are clin
ped like sheep ?”
“ Yes; there s a regular market where the
girls go to be sheared.”
“ How many crops can a girl ra’se in a
year ?”
“ That depends on the length, but two good
heads of hair a year is about the average.”
“ Why will it not grow as fast here ?”
“ Well, I think it is the fault of the climate.
It is so variable. You know many foreigners
when they come here lose all their hair.”
“ And is none of this hair obtained from
corpses?”
“ No; most people have no hair of any account
when they die', or if they have it’s nut worth
much.”
THE LARGEST DUCK STORY OF
THE SEASON.
(From the Cincinnati Sun.)
Several old sports were seated around the
table at the Board of Trade- last Sunday, and
as usual were deeply interested in narrating
their achievements in the duck-hunting line',
and some very tall yarns were spun, but as
nobody questioned the volunteered experience
of anybody else in the crowd, everything went
along peaceably until Col. Minor took a hand
with the following statement, which for the time
being completely paralyzed the boys:
“ You fellows think you’re mightv smart
when you try to stuff us that you’ve killed forty
and fifty ducks at a shot. You’re no good. I
saw a shot once that killed a million i”
“Oh, let up,” chorused the gang.
“ Won’t do it. If you den t leave mo alone
I’ll make it two million, and then I’ll be on the
inside.”
“ Let’s have it, then, if it isn’t too much sud
den death.”
“ Well, I don’t care whether you believe me
or not,” said the old gentleman, “ bat it’s the
truth I’m telling you. In 1815 I was captain of
the steamboat ‘ Gazelle,’ running in the Gulf
trade from Houston to Galveston, coast.ng as
it were. At the northern end of the bay was a
river barely navigable at the best of times. The
surrounding country was unsettled, and the
region was a perfect godsend for sportsmen.
Winged game was innumerable, and seemingly
made it their head quarters more especially
during stormy weather, as the locality was well
sheltered and land-locked. A storm arose alter
we left Galveston on this particular trip, and as
steamboats were not built either as large or as
substantial as they arc at the present time, we
broke for shelter and anchored at tbe mouth of
the river. [The spot is now known as San
Jacinto Bay.] It was barely twilight, but the
whole river as far as we could see was a solid
mass of ducks, geese, and trout. Suddenly a
flash of lightning or ' thunderbolt sprang out
of the sky; there was a deafening and blinding
shock, such as 1 had never before or have ever
since experienced, and all those ducks turned
up their toes.’\
“ Kill ’em all?” asked one of the crowd.
“ Blessed if I know,” said the colonel, “ but;
the whole of Galveston Bay was covered with
ducks lor a fortnight. The people lived on
salted duck for about a year, and I gathered ia
about 160 bales of feathers.”
“ See here, now, wo can’t stand everything.”
“ Wishimaydie if it ain’t so. I’ve got soma of
the feathers at home yet, and will bring you
down a sample the next time 1 think of it.”
ONFeYED RILEY.
CAREER OF A JERSEY BEAR.
“One-eyed Riley’s back agin!” shouted Jim
Shaftley, the hunter, as he hurried into Stull’s
tavern in Oakland, N. J., on Thursday last.
got another shot at him, but he got away.” Th s
news was soon spread around the village, and
the excitement was great. “One-eyed Riley” was
a bear. For eightyears he had helped himself
to mutton and pork in this vicinity, and had de
fied all efforts to capture him. ’ His right eye
was out. It was put out on November 29tli
by Alt. Daggen, a lumberman. Daggen had
wounded the bear and they h id come to a wres
tle. Daggen foil down in trying to get away
from the bear.
The bear had its paws on the fallen hunter’s
breast, when Daggen jabbed a stick in bruiu’S'
right eye, gouging it out of the socket. Tbe
bear left Daggen, and before it could renew the
attack the hunter escaped. The next Septem
ber Jim Shaftley caught a one eyed bear in a.
trap. He made up his mind to keep the big
animal alive, and tied him in a log inclosure..
Shaftley gave the bear the name of One-eyed
Riley. The very first night a ter its capture it
escaped. Ever since then it had at intervals
appeared in the vicinity.
It had been shot at a score of times. Jim
Shaftley and his brother Bill followed it once
for twenty miles and failed to fbteh it back with
them. n the Summer of 1 .->Bl the big one-eyed
bear joined a number of children in the huckle
berry woods back of Oakland, and drove them
ack ro the village in short order. A party of
hunters followed him to the swamp and watched
the swamp on all sides for two days,, bat One
eyed Riley didn’t show up, and the hunt was
abandoned
The next day the bear walked into- Bolton’s
pasture and walked out with a sheep. Ln Au
gust, 1882, Jim Shaftley met the bear alon , a
trout brook, where he was. fishing. He bad no
gun and the bear went leisurely off into the
woods. That was the last time the one-eyed
was seen or heard or until Shaftley ran across
h m last Thursday. Jim bad just shot a suaail
bear on the edge of the swamp, when his dog
s ented another one in the swamp and brought
it out at the very spot where Jim was st-.nding.
Tire moment tbe bear appeared, the hunter
recogni/.ed his cunning old friend One-eyed
Ri ey.
The bear stopped and turned quickly back in
to the swamp, and the ball that Jim sent a ter
him did not hit the mark. The bear whipped
the dog and drove it put. Jim hurried back o
tbe village with the news. On New Year’s
morning twenty-three hunters started out de
termined to run One-eyed Riley down. They
surrounded the swamp and seat hali a do eu
dogs into it to route the big bear out. Tbe
dogs failed to- find him and after the swamp
had been beaten lor more than hour, word
came that the one-eyed bear had been seen in
Shaftley s meadows, six miles away, since the
party started out. The hunters turned for the
meadows, spreading cut through the woods.
They had gone about three m les when one>
section of the party met the bear shu ilinj#
along back to the swamp. Three shots were
fired at him.
The mon who had seen him shouted for the
others to be on the lookout, as he had turned
off into the thicket on the right. Hunters came
running to the spot from all directions and the
boar met them whichever way he turned. He
was surrounded at last, a volley of rifle balls
were poured into him and he died after nine
teen bullets had pierced his vitals. He was
probably the toughest bear that ever defied the
hunter. His immense carcass was borne to the
village in triumphal march. The victorious
hunters were received with cheers. The killing
o: this cunning old brute was celebrated by a
ball at the tavern on New Year*s night. The
festivities were kept up until daylight and the
bear furnished the viands for a rousing back*
woods feast.
R AILROAIT DISCOVERY.
THE FIRST TIME A TRAIN WAS
BUN BY TELEGRAPH.
(From the Utica Observer.)
In 1850 the Erie Road was in operation be
tween Piermont and I lmira. The track was a
single one, such a thing as a double track be
ing then unknown in the country. Two years
beloro, after much discussion and opposition, a
telegraph wire had been put up along the line.
Superintendent Minot, who was a man a long
way in advance of the times, was a strong be
liever in the practicability of the telegraph as a
facilitator ot transportation on railroads.
In the Summer of 1850 he was a passenger one
day on a west-bound train over his road. The
train he was on, according to the printed time
table, was to meet a through train from tha
west at Turner’s Station, forty-sayon miles from
New York. When Mr. Minot’s train reached
Turner’s, he learned that the east-bound train
was six hours late, owing to some mishap.
Under the system of railroading then govern
ing QmulOjees the west-bound train had to re
main at Turner’s until the delayed train passed,
the station. In fact, the whole business of the
road was at a standstill owing to the non-al’-
rival of the train at the differentwhere
other traiho, were avv’illhr.6 it. superintendent
Minot saw at once how ridiculous such a sys
tem was.
There was a telegraph office at Turner’s, and
it was then the only one between that station
and Jersey City. The superintendent went to
the office and made the operator’s hair stand by
sending a message to the station agent at Port
Jervis that he intended to run the train he waa
on from Turner’s to Port Jervis on the time of
the belated east-bound train. He ordered the
agent not to let any train leave that station go
ing east until the train he was on arrived there.
He also ordered the agent to telegraph him how
he understood the message.
The answer was satisfactory, and the super
intendent went to-tho conductor of the train and
told him to start on with his train. The con
ductor refused to do so, and the superintend
ent discharged him on the spot, Minot then
ordered the engineer to pull out. The engineer
said that ho would not take the risk, and in the
argument that followed the superintendent
dragged the engineer from the cab, gave him
an elegant dressing out, and mounted the
lootboard himself. He ran the train to Port
Jervis and sent it on west as far as Narrows
burg be ore it nwt t.he late train, thus saving
the passengers hours, aiid settling forever
the question of the accuracy of the telegraph
in running railroad trains.
HE WAS OVERWORKED.
BUT HIS WIIE DIDN’T BELsEVE
HIM.
(From Drake's Traveler s 1 Magazine.)
“You are not looking very well this morn
ing,” said Mrs. Breezy, helping her husband to
a cup of tea, and gazing intently at him across
the table.
“Beg pardon, dear?” said Mr. Breezy, look
ing up from his morning paper.
“ 1 say you are looking very seedy—l should
say, unwell,” said Mrs. Breezy, tapping the ta
blenervously with her fork.
‘*Oh, I feel all right,” said Mr. Breezy, m ik
ing another attempt to catch the drift of an edi
torial on Civil Service Reform.
“ Well, you must have a constitution like
cast-steel,” said Mrs. Breezy, driving a spoon
into the sugar. “How you men manage to go
through what you do, is a wonder to me.”
“ What was that, dear ?” asked Mr. Breezy,
looking up again with a hopeless expression on
his face.
“I believe you attended a meeting of direct
ors, or trustees, or something, last evening ?”
said Mrs. Breezy. “ That is what kept you out
until three o’clock this morning?”
“ Yes, dear, ’ murmured Mr. Brae :y from be
hind the paper.
“ Your business was of a very complicated
nature, I suppose,” said Mrs. Breezy, iumb.ing
around in her pocket.
“ Oh. yes, very 1” ejaculated Mr. Breezy, com
mencing a paragraph for the sixth time.
“The hours slipped away like minutes, and
you did not imagine how late it was growing? ’
said Mrs. Breezy, still groping about with her
hand in her pocket.
“Yes, we bad considerable figuring to do, and
the time did—”
“Do you usually do your figuring with these
things ?” ejaculated Mrs. Breezy, at the same
time slapping down upon the table two cham
pagne corks and a half dozen poker chips : but
Breezy suddenly remembered that he had an
early engagement at the office, and stood not
upon his going, but “ dusted.”
Miss Mary Anderson, the actress, is
said to often weep for joy. We have always under
stood she looked well in Gala-tea.
f my
(,?■ ratioq
to Health
to th?
Ke M E D I E 3”
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the blood and perspiration of impurities and poisonous
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cers and restores the Hair.
Cuticura soa?, an exquisite Skin Beautifier, is indis
pensable in treating Skin Diseases, Baby Humors, Skin
Blemishes, Chapped and Oily Skin.
Sold every*here. Price—Cuticura, 50c. ; Soap, 25c.;
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