New York dispatch. [volume], February 14, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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2
and sans reproche, fuH of pity for weakness, as
only a good man could be, merciful to proved
treachery, as only a large-souled man could
be.’ ”
Such are the words that Rose Fane reads
through a mist of tears—the words with which
the stained and blotted pages end. Rose touches
them reverently with her lips ; she is so intense
ly and passionately grateful for the tardy jus
tice done bv the dead.
“I can bear all the rest now,” she cries,
“even the thought that I, too, have done him
wrong; it is so sweet to know that he ie all I
Bver thought him, my own noble Neal.”
She flushes as she utters the last worde, but
there is no sting in the thought that brings
those blushes now—Neal is hers again, even if
fate should drflt them apart once more if that
broken troth-plight should never be renewed, if
their eyes never meet, and their hands never
touch again—she knows he is her Neal still,
hers in heart and thought; and—as she tells
herself, with that little thrill of sweetest ecstasy
that she had never thought to know again —
“she can bear all the rest.”
Nevertheless she has no intention either of
avoiding or thrusting herself upon Neal Dacre
now. She feels that her future lies in his hands,.
and is quite content to know that whatever he
does will be wisest and best. She has written
to Mrs. Lindsay, fixing a dav or her return,
and, that duty done, she prepares to eiroy
in quiet and decorous fash on the remaining
period of his visit to the Nosbitts and serenely
await the course of events.
Minnie Nesbitt regards her with somewhat
curious and puzzled eyes, not understanding
her sudden serenity and content. She herself,
engaged to a man of whose affection she has
never been able to entertain the most fleeting
doubt, has overflowed with sympathy for the
girl whose faith has been so sorely tried.
“She must be either glad or sorry, you
know,” she says, in a little gmh of confidence
to Mr. Malcolm, when that rising young bar
rister, running down to pay his lady-love a
visit, grows slightly curious about the sweet
faced girl in deep mourning, who, though so
much at home at the Priory, is a complete
stranger to him. “And one feels quite sure
that she must be glad.”
“ Glad of her cousin’s death ?” Mr. Malcolm
exclaims; and Minnie turns round from the
piano, on which her fingers are performing a
running and improvised accompaniment to her
earnest speech, and favors her lover with a
eau<y little frown.
“ How stupid you are, George I No, I do not
mean that exactly, though she caimot feel any
very overpowering grief for poor Maud, who was
not at all a lovable sort of person, and who be
haved quite cruelly at times to her. We used to
think that she bated Rose for being so young
and pretty, and showing, by force of contrast,
that she herself was quite the reverse.”
“An excellent reason for dislike,” the young
barrister agrees, leaning back in his chair and
watching through his half-closed eyes the pretty
play of his betrothed’s white fingers; “ that
J>aft of her conduct, thouah not amiable, is* at
east, intelligible enough. What I cannot under
stand is the attempt to bequeath her husband
by will.”
•'Ah, but I can I” Minnie says, glancing over
her shoulder, to be sure that no listeners are at
hand, and dropping her voice to a cautious whis
per—** That was remorse, George I”
“Remorse?” the young man echoes, half
amused and half-startled by Minnie’s energy.
“ Yes, that and nothing else,” the girl says,
with a profound conviction in her tone. “I
seem to understand Maud Dacre so much better
since her death, George, and to pity her as I
never did in her lifetime. For all her wealth,
she was a most unhappy woman.”
“Did she and her husband quarrel ?”
“ Oh, dear, no I Mr. Dacre was always kind
and attentive, but—oh, Ido not quite know how
to explain myself!—they were a most uncom
fortable pair. She was a good deal older than
her husband, you know, and I think that
thought worried her, for, with all the trying
coldness and stiffness other manner, she really
Worshipped him.”
“ Poor soul I” Mr. Malcolm says thoughtfully.
He has listened with more than common inter
est to the sketched story of Maud Duore’s
married life; it is rather to himself than to
Minnie that he adds, in a lower tone, “ I see
all the elements of a tragedy here—a rich, un
loved, and loving wife, a young, and probably
careless, husband.”
‘•And a sudden deathl” Minnie finishes, with
careless abruptness. “ Why, George, how
startled you look !’*
“Do I ?” the young man answers, with a
smile; but the startled look that provoked
Miss Nesbitt's comment still lingers in his
keen, brown eyes. “Your announcement was
a decidedly sensational one, I admit, but I
should not show surprise so easily—such in
genuous candor will tell against me in my pro
fession.”
“ Not at alh I have not the least doubt you
have your full share of Old Bailey brazenness.
I shall take that start as a tribute to my hitherto
unsuspected dramatic ability,” the girl says,
saucily, and George Malcolm acquiesces, as
though ths suggestion relieved him.
“ Quite right, my dear ; that ‘ and a sudden
death’ were positively thrilling—a bit of Ra
chel—Bernhardt business that would have elec
trified the most apathetic audience ever assem
bled. However, proceed with your story. I
make you a present of that one triumph, but I
defy you to rutile my imperturbability again.”
“ And yet I have several surprises in store—
for instance, not only was Maud’s death dread
fully sudden, but there was some talk of an in
quest at first.”
“ Some talk ? And, if there were suspicious
circumstances, why did people content them
selves with ‘ some talk ?’ Why was the inquest
not held ?”
Minnie stares, as well she way, at her lover’s
excited and half-angry tone,
“ Dear me, Georgs, I did not know you were
such a ghoul, and such an excitable ghoul, too !”
she says, with much placidity. “ And, as for
suspicious circumstances, those exist only in
your own professional imagination, my dear.
Doctor Nelson was ready to prove that Maud’s
heart was hopelessly diseased long before her
marriage, and we were only too glad to escape
the pain and scandal of a public inquiry on
those terms.”
** There was no suggestion of any other cause
for her death, then ?” George asks, eyeing her
keenly—so keenly that the girl blushes and
grows quite uncomfortable over her answer,
though she is wholly unconscious of any reason
for that vague discomfort.
“ Yes,” they did suggest that she had taken
an over-dose of chloral: but, of course, it
would have been frightfully painful for Mr. Da
cre, and, indeed, for all of us, if such a story
got about”
“ Of course,” the young man agrees, with a
careless nod ; and then, as though the con
versation had exhausted itself or lost all inter
est for him, he selects a particular song from
the canterbury, and asks Minnie to sing it for
him.
She complies at once. Her voice, though
not remarkable in the way of strength or com
pass, is clear and fresh and true ; she has been
well taught, and sings nicely and with un
affected expression. Mr. Malcolm is wont to
declare, with lover-like partiality, that Minnie’s
ballad-singing is the nearest approach to real
music that he knows, but somehow it has less
than its usual charm for him to-night. As he
leans back in his chair, with folded arms and
half-closed eyes, he is thinking less of the clear,
silvery notes that fill his ears now than of the
story be has just heard—the grimly-suggestive
story that haunts his fancy strangely—looking
less at the pretty girl exerting herself for his
amusement than at the young stranger in her
mourning dress, whose lair beauty shines out
with dazzling ©fleet.
“She is fair enough to set any amount of
tragic forces at work, to drive any man to mad
ness or to crime,” Re muses as he watches the
light falling upon the red-gold hair and touch
ing the sweet, serious lace. “ And she looks
good, too ; but then good women, unluckily, do
almost as much mischief as bad ones, in this
curiously-constructed world of ours. Well, I
suppose it is ail right; but, judging from Min
nie’s version of the story—the sudden death,
the use of chloral—the good folk of Slocombe
must have shown a most Arcadian simplicity
and lack of all suspicion. I should advise in
tending criminals to take up their abode here.”
“Do you not like that song, George ?” Min
nie asks, a little disappointedly, when she has
waited in puzzled patience for the praise and
thanks of which her lover is ordinarily lavish
enough.
“I beg your pardon,” ho answers vaguely,
then suddenly remembers where he is, and all
that is expected of him, and goes on with re
morseful eagerness, “ Like it ? Of course I do,
my darling; it is a charming song, and charm
ingly sung; your voice grows sweeter every
day, Minnie.”
“Does it?” the girl cries, with a comical
pout and a malicious sparkle in her bright
eyes. “I would not overdo my praise, if I
were you, George—because, you see, it only
accentuates your late neglect. You know very
well you did not hear one word of that song, so
you may as well confess, and beg my pardon at
once.”
“ Well, perhaps I was a shade less attentive
than usual; the journey down made me sleepy,
I suppose.”
“No, no; that excuse will not serve,” says
Minnie, inexorably. “The trirth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, sir; only on
these terms is forgiveness to be won. lam not
A jealous woman, so you need not be afraid to
admit that Rose Fane is responsible'for your
crime—you have been staring at her, thinking
how pretty she is, when, by all laws of right and
propriety, you should have been listening to
me. Is it not so, prisoner ?’*
It is well lor Minnie that she is not jealous, or
she might misinterpret the unusual flush on
George Malcolm’s lace, the unusual awkward
ness with which he answers :
“ Well, yes, I have been thinking that—and
other things.”
CHAPTER XII.
“YOU KJJOW J LOVE YOU.”
The last day of Rose Fane’s visit is drawing
to a close, her small amount of packing is com
plete, and she has still an hour on hand to
aisposo of as she will before dinner-time. Even
Minnie is not likely to call in upon or disturb
her, 'or she has walked into the little mar
ket-town with Mr. Malcolm, and, in the circum
stances, exposed to the combined attractions ef
the shops and her lover’s company, is sure not
to hurry her footsteps home. As she remem
bers this, Rose’s face flushes with a sudden re
solve.
“I must go some time,” the girl says, speak
ing her thoughts uncnnsrionslv aloud, as she
takes a little fancy wicker-work basket from the
table and hastily puts on her hat, “ and no one
will be likely to’soe me now. Rayner will give
me a few flowers, he is always kind—he prom
ised me some for to-morrow, but to-morrow I
shall be tar away from poor Maudes grave.”
She utters the last words hastily, almost
as though she feared that some others bearing
a wholly different meaning would thrust them
selves in, and win utterance in their place, and
somehow, as she speaks these, the tears rise
thickly in her great gray desolate-looking eyes,
and her red lips quiver painfully.
She brushes the tell-tale drops impatiently
away, and sets out upon her errand. Her trust
in t aynor is not misplaced—the grim-yfeaged
old Scotchman who rules with autocratic sway
over the ’ riory flower-beds and hot-houses, and
denis out the choicer products of both with a
begrudging hand to the Priory household, has
taken a curio s fancy to the sad-faced young
stranger, and is, as Minnie protests, “ reckless
to profusion ” i» the bouquets lid bestows upon
her Perhaps he guesses her errand now, for
he fills the basket with one mass of sweet
scented and snowy bloom.
“ That is as you would like it, miss I” he says,
surveying the artistic triumph proudly, and Ac
cepting the little admiring cry which is Miss
Fane’s best answer, with a smile of benevolent
satisfaction.
“They’re to put on Mrs. Dacre’s grave, no
doubt,” he says to himself as he follows the
black-robed figure with his eyes. “It’s an aw
ful sin to leave my bonnie blooms to witherand
waste out there, but she’s a pretty creature,
and so sad-looking it goes to one’s heart to see
her. Well, she shall have the best I can grow
to make her a bridal wreath.”
In the meantime, unconscious of the benevo
lent intentions thus formed on her behalf, Rose
makes her way to the churchyard, and to Maud
Dacre’s grave. It is the first time she has vis
ited it, and now her heart aches and flutters in
equal proportion, and she feels a weak longing
to retrace her steps without incurring the extra
pang she must needs leel at the sight of that
mound of fresh-turned earth, uncrowned as yot
by any stone, unsoftened by any tender wrap
ping of green turf.
But she will not yield to what she thinks cow
ardly shrinking. She has resolved that she will
speak her pardon by the grave of the woman
who has done her a cruel wrong, that, kneeling
there, she will beg pardon for ail the angry pas
sions of the past, and as she places the flowers
on the grave she will believe that there is peace
between her and the dead.
Something of the feeling she has hoped for
does come to her, as she lifts her head from her
clasped hands, and the face on which the lading
twilight falls, pale and tear-wet though it is,
has a strange spiritual brightness, something
almost angelic in ita sweet calm—and so a si
lent watcher thinks.
She does not see him, does not imagine that
she is not alone, until, after bending to touch
the flowers with her lips, and whisper a last
farewell to the quiet sleeper below, she rises to
her feet and turns from Maud Dacre’s grave, to
find herself face to face with Maud Dacre’s hus
band.
“ Do not, for Heaven’s sake, shrink from me,
Rose,” he says passionately, as the girl draws
back with a quick startled cry, and a look of
terror that stabs him to the heart. “We must
meet, we must understand each other some
time, and nowhere could we explain and meet
so fittingly ae here.”
Rose does not answer. She stands mute and
meek before him ; butshe is doing fierce inward
battle with the wild fear and wilder joy that
seem to tear her heart asunder. It is such rap
ture to stand once more in Neal Dacre’s pres
ence, to know that he has always loved her, that
no law, human or divine, forbids her to love
him, that she almost fears there must be sin in
such excess of bliss.
But Neal is troubled by no such uneasy
doubts. He sees, in the quick brilliant blush,
in the hastily-averted eyes, an assurance of the
girFs forgiveness and unchanged affection, and
just for the moment he asks nothing more of
earth or Heaven.
“My darling, my own true Rose I” he ex
claims, seizing the tremulous hands, forcing the
down-drooped eyes by some strong magnetism
to rise and meet his own, and speaking with a
reckless, passionate fervor. “You know all —
the way that poor woman camo between us ”
“Oh, hush !” Rose ories, with a look of awe
stricken reproof. Even in the midst of her wild
joy she shrinks from the words that, spoken
here, seem almost sacrilegious. “Not here,
Neal; there is nothing more that you can tell
me here. 1 know so much, and”—in spite of
her strong wish to appear calm and unmoved,
her voice falters a little over the last words—
“ and l;am so sorry for poor Maud.”
His face darkens—not with anger, as the girl
sees with a little thankful throb—it is rather as
though the momentarily-lifted shadow of grief
fell heavily over it again.
“And do you think I am not sorry for her?
Do you think that I, of all men, dare judge and
condemn her, Rose ? Heaven forbid. Since her
death she has seemed to change once more,
from the wife I could not and I did not love,
into the iriend whose generous aid and ever
ready sympathy made my younger days smooth
and bright—the dear and honored Miss Roches
ter, for whom, in my boyish enthusiasm, I
should have been glad and proud to die. Why
did she ever break that sweet old tie-why did
she ever consent to be less than my sovereign
lady in my eyes ?”
There is such an anguish of regret in his eyes,
as they rest on the narrow mound by which
they stand, that Rose involuntarily draws a lit
tle nearer, and whispers softly—
“ How you have suffered, my poor Neal I”
“ Suffered I” he repeats, with a look that
makes the one word eloquent; then, turning,
he clasps Rose’s hand tightly, and says in a
changed and passionately eager tone—** But let
the dead past bury itsgdead ; let us turn our
backs upon it, Rose, and think of our happy
future. You know what that future will be,
sweetheart? You love me still—you will not
send me from you for that treachery which was
no sin of mine ?”
“ Oh, no—oh, no I” Rose cries, with a little
fluttering sob. “ Some day perhaps, Neal; but
not here—not now.”
“ Yes, here and now. Ours will be a solemn
troth-plight, Rose, and wo may dare speak it in
the presence of the doad. If Maud could hear
and see us, she would know that her last wish
was fulfilled.”
“ Perhaps she does,” Rose whispers, with a
little shudder and a startled look round. “ Oh,
Neal, you know 1 love you, that I cannot change I
Even if you had been as false and cruel as I
thought you, I could not have taken back my
love—l know, because I tried so very hard.”
“ My darling,” the man murmurs, his haggard
face lighting up with a wonderful brightness of
joy.
“Not yet, Neal; we must wait,” and Rose
draws back with an entreating look.
“ Wait ? Yes, we will wait for the full year—
not a day, not an hour longer. £ ask nothing
from you now but the few words that will set all
my fears at rest. Say them, Rose—say * Neal, I
love you still
For a moment the girl hesitates, then, she
raises her flushed face and says frankly:
“You know it, dear Neal,l’
“ And when the year is over you will come to
me?”
“Yes !”
He draws her to him then, and for a minute
they stand silent and utterly happy.
“ You will not come to the priory?” Rose asks
as they walk from the churchyard.
“No, I will only see you to the gate; but von
will tell the Nesbitts, Rose?”
“ if you wish it,” she answers, with
rather a troubled look, and an emphasis sug
gesting that she herself does not particularly
wish it.
“ I do wish it, dear—they are kind and true
friends to you and me, and we will keep noth
ing from them. If they had known of our first
engagement ”
He pauses, checking himself with a short, im
patient sigh, and Rose, who dreads all allusion
to the past, interrupts him.
“I will tell them at once, Neal, before I sleep
to-night.”
“ That is right, dear. For the present I shall
ask nothing more. And now, Rose, tell me
something of Mrs. Lindsay and your Cornish
home.”
This is an injunction the girl obeys gladly
enough, bhe drsws a bright picture of the fam
ily of which she has been a happy inmate for the
last two years, dwelling with great enthusiasm
on the gentleness and tractability of her two pu
pils, the uniform and considerate kindness of
their invalid mother.
“I could hardly bear to leave her, Neal,” she
finishes almost remorsefully, as she remembers
how small a share in her thoughts the invalid
has had. “ She has treated me from first to last
more like a daughter than a governess; and she
is so ill, she needs me so much.”
“ Not so much as I need you,” Neal breaks in
with involuntary passion; then, remembering
his role, adds gently, “ I shall not take you
from her yet, so it is a relief to learn you are
not among the oppressed governesses, dear.
You return to her ”
“ To-morrow ! * Rose says, with a little sigh,
as, turning out of the lane, they come within
sight of the Priory gates, and know the parting
moment has come. “ So, now it is good-by.”
“Yes, good-by; for I will not even soe you
off—will not even be at the station to-morrow;
if I were, I could hardly let you go—so now,
my own true Rose, good-by.”
The parting is a keen pang to both; but there
is much in their thoughts now to sweeten and
render it endurable, and they do not linger
weakly over tbeir farewells.
Five minutes after they are spoken, Mr. Da
cre is making his way to his home, and Rose,
meeting Minnie Nesbitt in the hall, has apolo
gized for, and half explained her lateness, with
a composure that excites no suspicion in that
young lady’s breast. She explains more fully
later on, when dinner is over, and ths ladies
are in council together, and then, indeed, the
interest of her hearers is fully aroused.
Hers Is not an easy story to tell, and her
cheeks grow painfully hot as she struggles
bravely on with her allotted task. But fortun
ately for her she has the full sympathy of her
audience. Both Mrs. Nesbitt and her daughter
are quick to comprehend and feel for her, the
L tter, mdeed f expresses nothing less than en
thusiastic delight.
“ You dear, sensible, honest Pose!” she
ories, jumping up and kissing the girl heartily.
“Oi course thia is the only right, reasonable
and proper conclusion to the story; but some
how I hardly thought that it would come about
—I feared you would start some absurd fantas
tical ob ection, and make poor Neal Dacre en
dure another penance of probation, when, good
ness knows tie h s su iered enough I”
I “ les,Ro«e acquiesces; then she turns with
j a wiac.ul look to Mrs. Nesbitt—whose judg
i ineut she teds to be more reliable, while her
fr.end-hip is no les: warm ilun inni-.-'s :-nd
NEW YORK DISPATCH,FEBRUARY 14, 1886.
says, “ And you, do you think it was wrong
that, for the present, at least, I should
said nothing—should hare been content to
wait ?”
Thera is a world of reassurance and comfort
in the smile with which the elder woman an
swors that timid appeal—and her words, wh n
they come, bear that smile good company.
“My dear, you have been perfectly honest
and straightforward. You cannot reproach
yourself in any way, and that is the surest
proof that no one else has any right to reproach
you.”
Bose kisses the lips that have given her eueh
precious comfort, and then escapes to her own
room, gladly accepting the excuse of fatigue
and the necessity for early rising that Mrs.
Nesbitt kindly offers her, and feeling tinglingly
conscious that in going she leaves not her
“ character,” but her story, behind her.
“ What will they say, when they hear?” she
wonders a little uneasily as she rests her hot
forehead against the cool glass of the open case
ment window, and looks with misty eyes up at
the starry sky. “ Will they be kind, and under
stand, as Minnie and Mrs. Nesbitt did, or will
they think us—wrong?”
The question is answered down stairs already
if she did but know it. Mr. Nesbitt has express
ed an unalloyed and hearty satisfaction that
would have filled her with content—that, as his
wife thinks, almost goes beyond the present
necessities of the case.
“Why did she run off to bed like that? I
should have liked to kiss and congratulate her,”
he grumbles in conclusion. “By George, I have
half a mind to send Miss Minnie up to fetch her
back I What do you say, Min; don’t you think
she deserves some puniebment for trying to
cheat me ?”
“You really must not,” Mrs. Nesbitt cries, a
little alarmed and scandalized her husband’s
noisy demonstration. “lam as glad as you can
be that the poor child has a fair chance of hap
piness at last, but this is no case for congratula
tion—at least at the present time. It is only to
ourselves of course that the fact of any arrange
ment between them will be known.”
Squire Nesbitt accepts the rebuke meekly;
like most blustering men, he is well under the
dominion of the slender and delicate wife, but
he receives the warning with a smile of aggres
sive scorn, and says proudly:
“ That is so like a woman I Because I vyish to
got up a little domestic scene, and express my
festive feelings in the bosom of my family, you
think I shall tell the news to the town-crier, and
have it all over Slocombe to-night. Never was
grosser error made; Slocombe shall find mo a
silent model of discretion, but here on my
hearthstone I will be glad. Come, Malcolm,
back me up against these unsympathetic women.
Do you not think that, when long-severed lovers
come together at last, the play ends in a stisfac
tory fashion, and it is only decent to reward the
actors with a little applause ?”
“ Assuredly,” Mr. Maloom says with polite in
difference of assent.
It is all he says then, but when Minnie, struck
by something strange in Ms manner, asks him,
a little later, what ha has found to disapprove of
in the arrangement that pleases them all, he an
swers frankly:
“I do not disapprove—that would be absurd
in me, whom the matter does not at all concern:
but I have an unoonefortablo feeling about the
engagement It seems to me that it will not,
and it should not end well.”
“Should not!” Minnie echoes, opening her
big eyes half angrily. “ Well, that is suggest
ing disapproval and hinting pretty plainly at a
righteous retribution, George. I wonder what
Mr. Dacre or poor Bose has done to displease
you I’’
" Nothing, I assure you. Mr. Dacre I hardly
know, and 1 am interested in and attracted by
your pretty friend. No; the feeling I fight against
is an instinctive foreboding, a consciousness of
storm in the air that by and by will burst upon
their heads.”
There is such grim sternness of eonviotion in
the young barrister’s manner, that Minnis, un
comfortably impressed by it, begs ; him, with a
little pettish shiver, “to talk of something
else.” Me obeys with alacrity, and so Bose
Bane’s engagement is discussed no more that
night.
The next day Ross herself returns to her du
ties at the Lindsays’, and the Nesbitts and Mr.
Malcolm see her no mors for many months to
come.
CHAPTER XIII.
“how long the time has seemed I”
“ One year to-day, Rose,” Mrs. Lindsay says,
breaking the silence that has lasted lor some
time between the two, who stand looking out
over the wide waste of sunlit sea, which, as it
rolls and heaves and tosses, as if in tumult
uous joy, seems to murmur an accompaniment
to their thoughts. “ One whole long year has
passed, and now ”
“ And now,” Bose echoes, with a dreamy
smile that makes the fair face dazzlingly bright
—“ now lam very happy, Mrs. Lindsay.”
“ Already ?” Mrs. Lindsay asks, with a little
laugh, and the girl answers, steadily:
“ Yes—already, for I know that Neal will
oome. I ant as sure of it as though he were
here already.”
“Though he has never written—has sent you
no message of any kind ?’’
“ Though he has never written,” Bose re
peats, brightly—“though at this moment 1 do
not even know where he is, not even in what
quarter of the world, except by the instinct that
tells me be is traveling here.”
Mrs. Lindsay sits down, a little staggered,
perhaps, by this sublime faith in the man who,
however innocently, has once before broken a
solemnly plighted vow. But she says nothing,
and, as she looks at Bose,who has turned again
to the sea, and, resting her round white arms
upon the granite walls that guard the cliff-built
garden, is following the flight of the gulls with
wide, bright eyes that have no shadow of un
easy dread, she smiles a little at hey own mis
givings, which seem suddenly overstrained and
absurd.
“ A man might well remember to come home
to each a watcher as that,” she thinks. “ And
she will not disappoist him when he comes,
for, beautiful as she was a year ago, she is far
more beautiful now.”
And Mrs. Lindsay is right. The year that
has brought the grass up thick and green on
Maud Dacre’s grave, and dimmed the first daz
zling snowy freshness of the marble slab on
which her name and age and virtues are re
corded, has made a wonderful change iu Hose
Pane. It has not been an idle nor a happy
year. It has had many moments of keen pain
and bitter self-distrust, many more of weari
ness and sore discouragement; but somehow
she has struggled through them all, and in
them her beauty has ripened and refined. She
is no longer a charmingly pretty girl—she is the
“ perfect weman, nobly panned,” of the poet’s
lofty dream.
Suddenly she turns from ths sea, at which
she is never tired of gazing, and says, in an al
fectionatoly imperative manner:
“ Come, the sun is setting, and there is a
touch of chilliness in the air. It is time we
went in now.”
We ! Are you an invalid now, Rose ?”
“No, nor will yon be long it you obey the
doctor’s directions,” Rose answers as she draws
the fleecy shawl about her shoulders that are
slender enough still, though so much less fra
gile than they were one year ago. “ Look what
a little docility has done for you already.”
Mrs. Lindsay smiles, and, turning regretfully
from the view she loves, suffers Bose to lead
her toward the house.
“ Well, Bose,” she says, “ I shall not want tor
orders while you are here, my dear. You are
lenient enough with Kate and Mary, but the
hardest oi taskmistresses to me. Well, there is
one comfort—l shall not have to submit to you
much longer.”
Bose does not answer, and Mrs. Lindsay,
turning to see the reason of her silence, thinks
she must be ill—she has grown so very pale,
and there is such a curious strained look in her
eyes.
“ What is it ?” Mrs. Lindsay asks a little anx
iously, as Bose comes to a sudden pause mid
way in the steep path.
“ A step in the verandah—a step I know, Mrs.
Lindsay —with a startled, almost entreating
look. “It is Neal—he has come.”
And at that very moment Neal Daore turns the
corner of the shrubbery, and comes eagerly to
ward them.
“Mr. Dacre, I need hardly tell you that you
are a welcome guest here,” Mrs. Lindsay says,
with a cordial warmth that takes all awkward
ness from the meeting, and then she contrives
to slip away, and the lovers are left alone in the
soft stillness o! the Summer evening.
“ At last!” Neal exclaims, with a long-drawn
breath that is half a sigh. “ Oh, Rose, how long
the time has seemed I”
"Yes,’’ she responds simply, “but the first
few weeks were the longest, Neal. I do not
like to recall them even now; afterward I ceased
to think of ”
“ Of what, my darling ?” the man asks, as she
pauses abruptly.
“ Oh, of all sorts of horrors I” she answers
evasively. “My nerves were shaken, I sup
pose, and just at first I used to have dreadful
dreams, to think such terrible things, but I
soon conquered that weakness, and since then I
have been almost happy.”
He believes her fully, looking at the beautiful
face, in which there is not a mean or ignoble
lino—the lace that has regained ita wonted se
renity now—and ho wonders at the patient
strength with which the girl has borne her
heavy burden of pain.
He keeps his thoughts to himself however,
and tells her instead bow he Has spent the year
of probation, busily too. He has been back at
his Indian post, working as indefatigablv as he
had ever worked in the days when he was a
mere employee in the house of Bochester, in
stead of, as now, its chief and head.
“ i could not trust myself in Europe,” he con
cludes, with a smile in which there is very little
jesting. “ I should have broken down, and
coms to you before my time, and then you
would have scorned me, my brave Rose.”
“ Not quite, dear ; but it was a wise and right
thing to go so tar away, and for ths rest—well,
work has helped us both; but yeu have had no
such friend as Mrs. Lindsay ; and, by-the-way,
you have not seen my pupils yet. Come into
the hou.?e and we will find them.”
He obeys somewhat reluctantly, for he would
fain linger out in this wave-washed Paradise,
with the girl he passionately loves, feeling that
for them both the storms of life are past -that
only the happy ealm remains ; but despite bis
rein lance be yields with a good grace, for he
feels that he owes something to the kind woman
who has done so much lor Rose.
When they reach the cottage they find that
Mrs. Lindsay has been busily engaged in hos
pitable preparations. Dinner is an early meal
m the simple family ; but the “ high ” tea that is
lavishly set forth in ths pretty iiower-decked
; dining-room looks at least as inviting a repast
to a tired and hungry man. And, lover though
he is, Neal ie conscious of a most unromantie
hunger. He thinks ho has seen no such appe
tising board as this, with its delicate meats and
crisp green salads, its home-made bread and
golden butter,Jits bowls of roses, and great
glass dishes of heaped-up strawberries and rich
Devonshire cream, its glitter of well-polished
silver, its snowy damask and quaint old china,
its general atmosphere of fragrant Ireshness
and purity.
By-and-by Kate and Mary come in, and are
duly made acquainted with the stranger guest,
in whom with almost ludicrous surprise they
recognize the bridegroom who had astonished
them once before, by talking to their governess
in the church. Naturally Neal is less quick
sighted and of less retentive memory; he has
not the faintest idea that he and the two demure
young ladies have ever been brought face to
face before, and is rather inclined to wonder at
the fashion in which they both leave cup and
plate untouched to stare at him. At last Kate
with characteristic boldness relieves her mind
and bewilders bis by asking abruptly:
“Do you remember Mary and me, Mr.
Dacre ?”
“ Kate !” Mrs. Lindsay exclaims reprovingly,
while l ose looks up trom her tea-pot with an
anxious little flush ; but rebuke and warning
are too late, the question has been asked ; and
Neal answers it with good-natnred simplicity :
“Remember you? No, Miss Lindsay, I am
a raid Ido not. Have we ever met be ore ?”
Kate and Mary look at each other with a little
giggle, then the former replies :
“We remember you—oh, very well, indeed I
Don’t we, Mary ? And you ought to remember
us, for we were with Miss Fane when we saw
you married.”
Never did enfant terrible launch a more suc
cessful thunderbolt or scatter more confusion
around. Bose colors guiltily from throat to
brow, and then grows pale. Neal is for once
completely taken aback, and can only stare in a
helpless fashion at his plate. Even Mrs. Lind
say is almost too much confused to correct her
forward daughter at once, though by-and-by
she does say, with a severity that to both chil
dren seems something portentous in their mild
mother:
“ You are a rude, litSo girl, and much too
fond of talking, Kate.”
“ No, pray do not scold her,” Neal puts in,
eagerly, troubled in his conscience by tbe
sight of the now blank little face, so bright a
moment baok. “ Miss Kate is quite right; it is
I who was forgetful—l have seen both young
ladies before.”
Kato accepts and acknowledges his interces
sion on her behalf with a saucy little nod; she
accepts her mother’s rebuke, too, so far as to
swallow the remainder of her meal in silence,
though, the moment she and Mary are alone
again, she makes up for lost time and recounts
the result of her silent observation iu away
that astonishes her meeker and milder sister.
" I kuow why they do not like us to say we
saw Mr. Dacre married,” she says, sagaciously.
“ And so would you, if you were not a little
silly; but you never do see things until I tell
you.”
“ No,” assents Mary, meekly. “ Tell me,
now, Kate. I wondered why mother scolded
you, for there was ne harm in what you said—
it was quite true.”
“Of course it was true, and of course it was
no harm; but it hurt his feelings all the same
and that made mother cross. When people
are going to bo married again, they do not
like to hear of tbeir first husbands or wives.”
Kate speaks with tbe easy confidence of a
philosopher and her sister listens with awe
struck admiration.
“ And is ho going to be married again ?” she
asks at last, provoking a derisive laugh by the
timid question.
“ Why, of course he is. He has come hero
for that, to marry our Miss Fane.”
“ Oh, no I” Mary grows quite daring ia her
energetic protest. “ She would never marry
and go away from us. What would mother do
without her?”
Kate Lindsay shrugs her shoulders.
“My dear child, what a baby you are still I”
she says, with sublime patronage. “Never
marry I Of course she will marry. Only hope
lessly ugly women stay single all their lives,
and, though Miss Fane is not at all young
now—she told mo the other day she is more
than three-amd-twenty—she ia very handsome
still—and I say, Mary”—dropping all at once
from condescension to easy confidence—“do
you remember how awfully ugly his first wife
was ? Miss Fane will look better than that in
her wedding-dress.”
“ She will look lovely 1” the other agrees,
with a little flash of enthusiasm. Then her
thoughts revert to her own grief, and she
adds, in a doleful, whimpering tone : “ But I
don’t want her to get married. I want her to
stay hero.”
“ Well, tell Mr. Dacre that, and perhaps to
oblige you, he may give her up,” Kate says,
with ponderous sarcasm. “.Come, dry your
eyes, cry-baby, and wo will run down and see
Abigail Hunt; you know mother said we might
pay her a visit this evening.”
“ But mother meant us to go with Miss Fane,”
hesitates the conscientious Mary.
“ Oh, never mind that 1 Miss Fane is en
gaged ; it would be cruel to disturb her and
equally cruel to disappoint that poor old
woman. Come, we shall be baok before they
miss us, if you make haste.”
As Iran al, Kate’s imperative impetuosity
sweeps her feeble opposition away, and pres
ently the two giels are merrily chasing each
other down the steep and stony path that leads
from “Mont Calm,” as Mrs. Lindsay’s hillside
cottage is called, to that humbler dwelling
which Abigail Hunt has taken at its very gates.
Mrs. Hunt is at home, and ip her grim way
seems glad to see her merry young visitors,
with whom she has grown quite familiar in the
course of the last year; but, even while she
welcomes them, her eyes wander out into the
deepening dusk, seeking another form.
“You have run on as usual and left your
governess behind you ?” she says, interroga
tively to Kate, who is roaming round the
room and investigating its contents in her
Iree-and-easy fashion, while Mary sits on the
hearth-rug quietly nursing a large black oat.
“ We have left her behind, but not in a race
this time—she did not come out with us; I do
not think you will see her to-night. Whose
portrait is this, Mrs. Hunt?”
She holds up a large and rather faded photo
graph that she has taken from a velvet-covered
case on the side-table. Abigail snatches it al
most rudely from her.
“ You khould not touch that, miss 1” she
cries, angrily, then relents at the eight of the
child's dismay, and adds, in a gentler tone : “I
beg yonr pardon, Miss Kato, that is my young
lady—Miss Maud Rochester, and she is—dead.”
“Ohl lam sure lam awfully sorry; but ” —
curiosity conquering decorum once again—
“ Why do you call her Miss Rochester? I
thought your mistress was married.”
Abigail’s face grows very grim and dark, and
her lips twitch in an ugly fashion as she an
swers, slowly:
“ Yes, most unhappily for her, she was Mrs.
Neal Dacre when she died.”
“ Mrs. Neal Dacre ?”
“Yes.”
Kate turns delightedly to her sister with the
eager query:
“ Mary, did you aver hear anything so funny
—only fancy my turning that picture out to
night, when Mr. Dacre is hero ?”
Mary does not answer, she is too busy watch
ing Abigail’s face, the swarthy skin paled t» an
unwholesome hue.
“Oh, Mr. Dacre is here!” Abigail says at
last, in a tone that startles both children, and
with a smile that seems te Mary more alarm
ing than the preceding frown. When did he
come, and what did he come for and how long
does he mean to stay ?”
“ Dear me, I cannot answer all those ques
tions at once 1 He camo this evening, if that
will do to begin with.”
“Quite well, and did Miss Fane expect him?”
Kate ponders this for a few seconds, with her
head a little on one side ; it is a view of the
question that has not struck h’er before. Sud
denly she brightens up with a suggestive recol
lection, and nods sagaciously.
“ Yes, she must have expected him or some
one, for she wore her pretty gray dress, with
bows of dark-red ribbon, and made herself look
awfully nice ; did she not, Mary ? And she has
always worn black till now.”
“ I see. All pretence of mourning dropped—
all their other pretences will follow soon,” Abi
gail mutters to herself; then aloud she asks,
with a savage jocosity, “ And, having dressed
up for the occasion, Miss Fane sent you out of
the way while she entertained her company
“ No—she did not,” Mary puts ia promptly,
as her sister answers only with a flippant nod.
“It was Kate who would run away and leave
them.”
Kate latently studies Abigail Hunt's threat
ening face, and thinks within herself:
“She does not like the idea of a marriage be
tween Mr. Dacre and Miss Fane. I wonder
why ? She will be rare fun at the wedding if
she brings such a face as that to church.”
And then, finding that there is no more
amusement to be extracted from her grim host
ess, Kate suddenly announces that it is time
they ended their visit, and, as Abigail makes no
effort to detain them, she and her obedient sis
ter are soon scampering merrily home.
(To be Continued.;
THE EVENING STAB.
HOW VENUS LOOKS DURING THE
MONTH: OE FEBRUARY.
(From the Providence Journal.')
Venus is the evening star. She will still hold
her place at the head oi the planetary roll, for
during February she will appear in her most
charming aspects, both as evening and morning
star. On tbe 18th, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon,
she is in inferior conjunction with the suDj
passing, like the moon, at new moon, between
us and the sun, and reappearing l on the sun’s
western side to commence her course as the
morning star. She may be equally beautiful in
this part of her course, but there are compara
tively few to behold her as she crowns the
smiling morn with her “ bright circlet.” It re
quires effort and self-denial to rise before the
sun, even to behold tbe fairest stars, while lit
tle painstaking has been necessary for the last
few months to watch the radiant course of th©
most lovely star that glows in the firmament.
Hesperus and Phosphor were the poetic
names given by the ancients to the fair star. It
was ©ven believed that they were two distinct
stars until observation showed that Phosuhor
was never seen in the morning sky until Hes
perus had disappeared in the evening sky.
Tbeir identity was thus proved. Venus varies
greatly in apparent magnitude. V’lion she ia
' in superior conjunction her diameter is lOmin.;
when she is in inferior conjunction her diameter
is about 64min., or nearly six and a half times
greater. Her dark side is then turned toward
us, but the brilliant light she gives for a month
before and after inferior conjunction, when only
a narrow crescent oi her surface is illumined,
allows us to form an idea of what a superb ob
ject she would be if we could see her bright side
instead of her dark one as she passes between
us and the sun.
No one can form any conception of the beau
ty of this planet who has not had a view of her
in crescent through a good telescope. A few
observers gi ted with exceptional eyesight have
seen her as a crescent with the unaided eye.
The crescent has thus been visible in the sky of
Chili, and, with a dark glass, in Persia. Theo.
Parker saw the crescent form in this country
when twelve years old, being ignorant of its ev
istence, and when no one else could perceive it.
The present is a favorable time for a trial of
visual power in this respect, but it will require
youthful, sharp-sighted and practieed eyes for
any promise of success. Observers who can
see Jupiter’s moons, or an elongated Saturn,
may hope to behold the crescent Venus. On
the 6th, at five o’clock in the morning, Venus
was in perehelion, but her orbit is so nearly cir
cular that she is only about a million miles
nearer the sun than when in aphelion. When
she is nearer the sun she is further from the
earth, and her apparent diameter at inferior
conjunction is not quite up to the maximum; it
is 62.4 m. Venus rises one hour before the sun
on the 28th.
A SAD’CRIME.
BY FLORENCE REVERE PENDAR.
lam “quiet,” they say, and so am let roam
about the place as the fancy takes me. But once
they used to lock me up, and sometimes now
even when the speM is on me—they tie me down
so cruel, so cruel. It’s the snow tihat does it.
Ah I how I love and hate it in one breath, the
soft, deceitful, falling snow. How it comes
whirling and twisting toward you, and when
you’d clasp it, it is gone. I have never told
them, but I know it—l know it. In every flake
there is a drop of blood concealed. Such little,
soft, white things as they look, you would not
think it. But they are cunning. I found them
out long ago. It is of that long ago I would
tell. Perhaps if I write it down it will cease to
torture me; but I am watched. They think I
don’t know because I pretend not to notice; but
the shadows—they whisper to me that it is so.
The shadows are my friends. The tall one that
so often comes and walks beside me, I like it
best. There is something familiar about it. I
talk to it when we are alone, but sometimes I
do not see it for davs, and I feel so lonesome
without it. It is to this shadow that I shall give
this that I write, for it can gp and come as it
pleases, creeping in and out at the window some
times.
On, it’s a cunning shadow it is. I have coaxed
it so to take me away with it, but it never will;
perhaps, though, when it reads this it will
change its mind. If it only would, and let me
slip away with it through the bars. I remem
ber, that long ago my hair was not white
like—like the snow. He used to say it was the
color of gold.
But who was he with the handsome face that
called me Jennie? Sometimes I think he was
my husband; but no, Frank was always so good
and kind. Mabel Vern ! Ah ! I knew she would
come to me—the woman that won his love from
me. It must have been long, long ago, but I re
member, oh ! yes, I remember her pretty face
and childish ways; but she was false, deep
down in her heart, and I killed her—yes, I killed
her!
It was good to see her lying there so cold and
still, powerless to work me harm. And I
laughed, oh I how I laughed. I felt so merry,
for I knew th t Frank would kiss her no more.
They said I was mad, or I never would have
done it, but only the shadows and I know how
the snow tempted me forth that night. My
God I I saw him kiss her, holding her close in
his arms, and then together they went away to
ward the Elm Walk, the snow all the while fall
ing-falling and covering up their footsteps.
How I hate those soft, deceitful flakes, and yet
—and yet I love them, too, for they whispered
to me as they kept whirling, whirling round my
head:
“Follow them—follow them,” and then they
lifted me up and bore me so swirly over the
ground, until at last, my God ! I found them.
It was cruel of the snow to make me hear him
tell her that he cared naught for me, his wife ;
that he loved her only, and that together they
would flee. I saw him—my husband—that I
loved so dearly, kiss her again. And then I
shot her dead with the pistol I had carried for
days, for the shadows had whispered to me to
Watch and wait. Ah I but it was fine—like a
play I saw once. She lying there so cold and
still, with the snow-flakes dashing scornfully
against her treacherous face ; he with that look
shining in his eyes. That look 1 It comes to
me at night; I cannot shut it out. It is always
there—always. How I laughed when they said
I was mad.
These men, they think they know everything ;
but I tricked them—tricked them. It was false
and cruel, though, to say that I killed my Frank,
when I loved him so dearly—how could I ?
Yet they have locked me up, and won’t let
him come*to mo, and I would like to tell him I
am sorry for causing his face to wear that look
of horror, but not for killing her. Ob, no ; lam
glad—glad, lor he cannot kiss her now. They
are clever, these doctors, but they connot cheat
me. They think I believe that my husband is
dead, but I know better; the shadows, my
friends, bring mo messages from him. They
tell me that he loves me still, and that ho is
waiting for me outside—outside, somewhere.
The shadows are so sly, they know every
thing—a great deal more than the doctors and
nurses; but I don’t tell them so, or they might
lock me up again. Oh, no ; I could not bear
that Then I should surely go mad.
I will tell you a secret, they are all mad,
stark, staring mad, these doctors and nurses.
I have watched them, poor things. They think
I don’t know; but wo have found them out;
the shadows and I. There is my shadow now.
See, how softly it comes. It has promised to
take this letter away out beyond the bars, to
Frank. Then when he reads it, he will come
and lock all these mad people up and take me
and my shadow away off where tbe cruel snow
never falls. One oi the doctors is coming. He
must not find me writing this. I will hide it
away in a corner. My shadow, it will know
where to find it. What fun we have, my shadow
and I, but we have to be careful with so many
mad folks about.
# * » • * *
The shove, penned by an insane woman’s
hand, was found bidden in tbe corner of a room
devoted to the nee ot harmless patients belong
ing to one of our largest insane asylums. It
chancing to come into my possession, I was curi
ous enough to enquire into the woman’s story.
It seems that when about eighteen, she es
poused a very handsome and wealthy man some
seven years her senior, who apparently was
devoted to her and whom she fairly worshipped.
For several years no happier home was there
than theirs, albeit no tiny feet pattered through
the luxuriously furnished rooms; but there
came a day when a young and very lovely cousin
of the wife’s took up her abode with them.
Both the husband and the young girl, Mabel,
were fine musicians, and out of this grow an
intimacy that otherwise perhaps would never
have come to be.
The wife, although gifted in many ways, was
powerless to evoke anything bnt commonplace
melodies from the fine Instrument her husband
had provided her with. Day after day, evening
after evening, saw these two musical enthu
siasts at the piano, their glorious voices blend
ing exquisitly. The wife was content to have it
so, as long as it gave pleasure to her husband,
until a note accidentally dropped by him re
vealed to her the horrible truth, that his love
had gone from her unto her young cousin’s
keeping. Indignant and jealous, but too proud
to speak, she waited, hoping against hope that
her husband s love would return to her; but
hour after hour in her despair she saw him
drifting further and further from her.
Still she spoke not, but noted every look and
sign until one nifeht she saw the man who had
B'vorn to love her and her only, clasp this
young girl in his arms. Heard him tell the
girl that it was her and not his wife that he
loved, and beg her to flee with him. Bendered
almost frantic by her husband’s perfidy, the
wife had followed them as they passed out into
the grounds going toward what was called the
Elm Walk. There, although the snow was fall
ing in thick flakes, they paced to and fro, he
talking eagerly, apparently urging the young
gipl to a step that she hesitated at, while the
wife crouched behind a tree, watching her prey.
Maddened by her fearful wrong, tbe wife hav
ing but one thought,to kill the woman who had
robbed her of all she held dear, sprang sud
denly into the path before them, and without a
word of warning shot the young girl. The hus
band, grasping hie infuriated wife, sought to
wrest the weapon from her. In the struggle the
pistol must have discharged another shot, for a
small boy' who had been an affrighted witness,
swore that the husband and wife clenched to
gether for a moment, that the pistol had gone
off, and that the man had fallen backward
without a word. It was the boy who, when he
found courage to descend from his perch in a
neighboring tree, spread the tragic tidings.
When the horrified villagers hurried to the
scene of the murder, they found the young girl
quite dead, a smile upon her pretty lips,
while the wife, seated upon the ground nearby,
was rocking herself to and fro, her husband’s
body clasped tight in her arans. Sh. had paid
no heed to the awed crowd, but laughed and
talked to the senseless formol the man she had
so fondly loved, telling him how happy they
were to be, now that Mabel oould never come
between them again.
Softly, like a shroud, the snow had fallen
about the three, as if seeking to hide from pry
ing eyes the deadly traces,of so sad a crime. A
raving maniac, they carried the wife away from
the scene of her sad deed. The revolver with
which she had committed her rash act, belong
ed to her husband; the cunning of madness
doubtless suggested to her how to possess her
self of it unsuspected.
To-day she is harmless, pleasing herself with
talking to her shadow, or writing such out
bursts as the foregoing. One of ths doctors,
however, informed me, that should she by any
chance catch a glimpse of falling snow, she
would at once commence to rave wildly, some
times necessitating her removal to the strong
room, otherwise she was very easily managed.
Poor woman 1 A sad ending for so bright a
beginning. Yet perhaps her insanity is a mercy
in disguise, tor what tortures would be hers if
1 she was fane t
SCIENTIFICJ'RUTH I
Regarding the Functions of an Im
portant Organ of Which the Public
Knows but Little, Worthy Careful
Consideration.
To the Editor of the Scientific American:
Will you permit us to make known to the pub
lic the facts we have learned during the past 8
years concerning disorders of the human Kid
neys and the organs which diseased Kidneys so
easily break down? You are conducting a
Scientific paper and are unprejudiced, except in
favor of Tbvth. It is needless to say, no
medical journal of “ Code'* standing would ad
mit these facts, for very obvious reasons.
H. IT. WARNER & CO.,
Proprietors of 11 Warner's Safe Cure.”
That wo may emphasize and clearly explain
the relation the kidneys sustain to the gen
eral health and how much is dependent upon
them, we propose, metaphorically speaking, to
take one from the human body, place in the
wash-bowl before us and examine it for the
public benefit.
You will imagine that we have before us a
body shaped like a bean, smooth and glistening,
about four inches in length, two in width and
one in thickness. It ordinarily weighs in the
adult male about five ounces, but is somewhat
lighter in the female. A small organ, you say ?
But understand, the body of the average size
man contains about ten quarts of blood, of which
every drop passes through these filters or sewers,
as they may be called, many times a day, as
often as through the heart, making a complete
revolution in three minute*. From the blood
they separate the waste material, working away
steadily, night and day, sleeping or waking,
tireless as the heart itself, and rally of as much
vital importance; removing impurities from 65
gallons of blood each hour, or about 49 barrels
each day, or 9,125 hogsheads a year I What a
wonder that the kidneys can last any length of
time under this prodigious strain, treated and
neglected as they are I
We slice this delicate organ open lengthwise
with our knife, and will roughly describe its
interior.
We find it to be of a reddish-brown color,
soft and easily torn ; filled with hundreds of
little tubes, short and thread-like, starting from
the arteries, ending in a little tuft about midway
from the outside opening into a cavity of con
siderable size, which is called the pelvis or,
roughly speaking, a sac, which is for the pur
pose of holding the water to further undergo
purification before it passes down from here
into the ureters, and so on to the outside of the
body. These little tubes are the filters which
do work automatically, and right here is
where the disease of the kidney first begin s.\
Doing the vast amount of work which they
are obliged to, from the slightest irregularity in
our habits, from cold, from high living, from
stimulants or a thousand and one other causes
which occur every day, they become somewhat
weakened in their nerve force.
What is the result? Gouges non or stoppage
of the current of blood in the small blood ves
sels surrounding them, which become blocked ;
these delicate membranes are irritated ; inflam
mation is set up f then pus is formed, which col
lects in the pelvis or sac ; the tubes are at firdt
partially, and soon are totally, unrfble to do
their work. The pelvic sac goes on distending
with this corruption, pressing upon the blood
vessels. All this time, eremember, the blood,
which is entering the kidneys to be filtered, is
passing through this terrible, disgusting pus,
for it cannot take any other route I
Stop and think of it for a moment. Do you
realize the importance, nay the vital necessity,
of having the kidneys in order ? Can you ex
pect when they are diseased or obstructed, no
matter how little, that you can have pure blood
and escape disease ? It would be just as reason
able to expect, if a pest-house were set across
Broadway and countless thousands were com
pelled to go through its pestilential doors, an
escape from contagion and disease, as for one
to expect the blood to escape pollution when
constantly running through a diseased kidney.
Now, what is the result? Why, that the
blood takes up and deposits this poison as it
sweeps along into every organ, into every inch
of muscle, tissue, flesh and bone, from your
head to your feet. And whenever, from hered
itary influence or otherwise, some part of the
body is weaker than another, a countless train
of diseases is established, such as consumption,
in weak lungs; dyspepsia, where there is a del
icate stomach; nervousness, insanity, paralysis
or heart disease in those who have weak
nerves.
The heart must soon feel the effects of the poi
son, as it requires pure blood to keep it in right ac
tion. It increases its stroke in number and
force to compensate for the natural stimulus
wanting, in its endeavor to crowd the impure
blood through this obstruction, causing pain,
palpitation, or an out-of-.breath feeling. Un
natural as this forced labor is, the heart must
soon falter, becoming weaker and weaker, until
one day it suddenly stops, and death from ap
parent “ heart disease” is the verdict.
But the medical profession, learned and dig
nified, call these diseases by high-sounding
names, treat them alone, and patients die, for
thcarteries are carrying slow death to the affected
part, constantly adding fuel brought from these
suppurating, pus-laden kidneys which here in
©ur wash-bowl are very putreiaction itself, and
Which should have been cured first.
But this is not all the kidneys have to do; for
you must remember that each adult takes about
seven pounds of nourishment every twenty
four hours to supply the waste of the body
which is constantly going on—a waste equal to
the quantity taken. This, too, the kidneys have
to separate blood with all other decom
posing matter.
But you say, "my kidneys are all right. I
have no pain in the back.” Mistaken man I Peo
ple die of kidney disease of so bad a character
that the organs are rotten, and yet they have
newr there had a pain nor an ache!
Why? Because the disease begins, as we
have shown, in the interior of the kidney, where
there are few nerves effecting to convey the sen
sation of pain. Why this is so we may never
know.
When you consider their great work, the del
icacy of their structure, the ease with which
they are deranged, can you wonder at the ill
health of our men and women ? Health and long
life cannot be expected when so vital an organ
is impaired. No wonder some writers say we
are degenerating. Don’t you see the great, the
extreme importance of keeping this machinery
in working order? Could the finest engine do
even a fractional part of this work without at
tention from the engineer ? Don’t you see how
dangerous this hidden disease is ? It is lurking
about us constantly, without giving any indica
tion of its presence.
The most skillful physicians cannot detect it
at times, for the kidneys themselves cannot be ex
amined by any means which we have at our
command. Even an analysis of the water,
chemically and microscopically, reveals nothing
definite in many cases, even when the kidneys
are fairly broken uown.
Then look out for them, as disease, no matter
where situated, to 93 per cent., as shown by
after-death examinations, has its origin in the
breaking down of these secreting tubes in the
interior of the kidney.
As you value health, as you desire long life
free from sickness and suffering, give these or
gans some attention. Keep them in good con
dition and thus prevent (as is easily done) all
disease.
Warner’s Safe Cure, as it becomes year after
year better known for its wonderful cures and
its power over the kidneys, has done and is
doing more to increase the average duration of
life than all the physicians and medicines
known. Warner’s Sale Cure is a true specific,
mild but certain, harmless but energetic, and
agreeable to the taste.
Take it when sick as a cure, and never let a
month go by if you need it, without taking a few
bottles as a preventive, that the kidneys may be
kept in proper order, the blood pure, that
health and long life may be your blessing.
H. H. Wabneb & Co.
INDIAN MOUNDS.
Sacrificial and Effigy Mounds in Wiscon
sin and Elsewhere.
(From the Weekly Wisconsin.)
In the realms of archeology and ancient his
tory there are many shapeless things that give
to the mind no clue by which they can be iden
tified, but no figure in the whole gamut is more
vague than an Indian mound. One authority
speaks of an Indian mound as a common grave,
such as one meets with in any cemetery. The
average farmer, driving his city guest over
country roads, points with his whip into an ad
jacent field at a circular hillock, with the base
like a charcoal pit and rising more gradually-to
a point near the top, saying : “ That’s an Indian
mound.” As the guest shows his interest in
the subject and strains his eyes to catch sight of
the object, the accommodating farmer keeps
pointing out the mounds every little way. In
truth, half the mounds pointed out are not gen
uine, or if they are, bo one knows about it, as
they have never been opened. It is scarcely
plausible to assert that the Indians passed all
their time building mounds. If they did, they
might have been in better business.
A traveler who has ridden fast and far in com
pany with inventive drivers, and who has had
things palmed off on him as Indian mounds
that would have made the builders turn in
their graves, had an interview with an eminent
searcher after mounds on the subject He said
that he was convinced, as far as any one could
be convinced, when tangible proofs were want
ing, of the Asiatic origin of the people who
mined copper on the south shore of Lake
Superior and earlier still on Isle Boj-ale, and
who built what is known as Altaian. “There
is a great variety of mounds in the State,” he
said; “but all divisions that have been made
yet, are not to be depended on. The earliest
that were built were the sacrificial mounds and
the mounds of adoration. The latter were
built so that the rising and setting sun could
be seen from them. They were invariably built
round. The sacrificial mounds were square,
as their remains indicate. The size of the
mounds depended on the ease with which the
soil could be moved. There are also round
mounds, in which a great many skeletons are
found when they are opened.
“ The sacrificial mounds are not very plenty in
this part of the State, nor, in fact, in any part.
The remains at one are located en the east bank
of the Chippewa river, near Beef Slough, and
another on the point of land at the confluence
of the Red Cedar and Chetek rivers, in North
ern Wisconsin. A path of effigy mounds has
been traced from Chetek lake to Cedar lake, in
Barron county. In a swamp, west of Lake Che-
tek, flooded by water now, is the old road the
early caravans used to travel. These traces are
all that remains of the race that worked the
early copper mines on Lake Superior. In Wis
consin by far the larger proportion are effigy
mounds, while in Ohio the an mal mounds do
not probably number a half-dozen, and the
largest of them is entirely separated from the
inclosures. Two bird mounds occur in Putnam
county, Ga. With these exceptions the effigy
mounds belong to one locality and to a people
who had not the characteristics of contempora
ry nations. It is also probable that the people
who built the mounds were not the same who
constructed the burial mounds. It is the re
mains of the effigy mounds that we want the
State to appropriate money to purchase.”
“ How much land would it take?”
“ About 300 acres in different parts of the
State. It is the square mounds that are most
significant, as their relative positions show tho
way the people traveled.”
Alluding to the magnitude of the work done
by this strange people, he said that the excava
tion on Isle Royale, Lake Superior, showed that
thousands of men had worked there at a time.
“ Whole cartloads of hammers were found
there. In Ootonagon county and at Kewaunee
Point, on the south shore of the lake, the exca
vation extends for fifty miles. The Indians of
the present day are a different race, for tb.e
work of the copper mines was abandoned eev
soral hundred years ago. In fact it is my theo
ry that the conquest of Mexico by Cortes and
the shutting down of work in the copper mines
was at the same time.”
It is probable that some measure will be con
sidered in the next Legislature to appropriate a
sum of money to buy the land on which the
mounds are located.
THE TRAVELIIfiPRINTER.
HE GATHERS IN THE SHEKELS
AND SILENTLY STEALS AWAY.
I had been devil in the Bugler office, in a town
in lowa, about four months, when the editor
was one day called away. The man who was
acting as compositor, pressman, job printer,
collector, solicitor, Ac., seized the opportunity
to go off on a spree and I was thus left in solo
charge.
Just after dinner, as I was washing the roller
and cleaning up generally, in walked the first
old “ printer bum” I had ever seen. The duds
on his back weren’t worth a silver quarter, his
hair was long and unkempt, his face covered
with dirt and bristles, and’ his breath scented
the room. He was ragged, dirty, homeless and
penniless, and had been let out of the county
jail, eight miles away, that morning.
“Howdy, boy,” he said as he came in,and with
out a second glance at me he took a seat at the
desk and attacked the remains of my lunch.
When he had eaten tho last crumb, be pieked
his teeth with the editorial pen, peeled off his
old coat and commanded:
“Boy, hunt me up a job stick.”
I obeyed, and as he took it, he walked over
to the rack, slung in two or three lines of dis
play type and then stepped to the small-pica
case and set up the body of a circular reading :
HE HAS ARRIVED!
THE WORLD-BENOWNED PROF. PETERS I
VENTRILOQUIST I MESMERIST ! PHRENOLOGIST !
Prof. Peter* ha* engaged Snyder** Hall for the
evening of Sept. 22. 1868 (to-morrow evening), and
will give the citizens of Carmer Oity an exhibition
of hi* wonderful power* in ventriloquism, mesmer
ism, and phrenology. Will imitate the note* of all
bird* ; will speak to you in sixteen languages ; will
wager SIOO to $5 that he can mesmerize any person
in the audience ; can road your character by feeling
of your head ; will forfeit SSOO if ho fails in a single
case. Medals c .from all the crowned heads of Europe.
Flattering press notices from the loading news*
papers of the world. Fvorybody turn out. Admis
sion only 25 cents. Children free.
He placed thia matter on a galley, pulled a
proof and corrected it, and then cut a lot of print
paper to tho right size and said to me:
“ Get up the roller and roll for me.”
I complied, and he worked off two hundred
circulars. He was not only a good compositor,
but he wrestled the old hand-press around
like a man who had never done anything else.
When we had finished WatkcJ:
“ Take the tin pail a quart of beer*
Tell ’em to charge it to the office.”
I was afraid of the man, and I got the beer
and paid for it out of my own money. Ho
drank the whole quart with only one breath.
“ Now then, take these circulars out and dis
tribute ’em,” he said as he put away the pail.
“ Be a good boy and I’ll give you two tickets to
this great entertainment.”
That was inducemoat enough, and in two
hours, with the help ot another boy, I had bill
ed tho town. When I returned the “ bum ” had
washed up, combed his hair, and had on a new
suit of clothes. He had gone to a clothiers and
bought them and had thorn charged to the of
fice, claiming that ho had been engaged as fore
man. Further than that he had been and en
gaged the halL I had been back only five min
utes when the boozy compositor camo in. He
had scarcely entered the door when the “ bum”
rose up, waved him back, and tragically ex
claimed:
“Go hence ! This is no placo for the de
praved. Bow dare you enter my office in your
present condition ?”
The “comp” backed down stairs drunkei
than ever, ana after the stranger had questioned
me as to when the editor would roturn, ho went
to the hotel and engaged the best room. I had
heard that somebody held a mortgage on the
office, and it struck me that this must bo the
man’s agent. I was young and green, and had
never seen a display of tramp printer’s gall.
Next morning he took possession of the of
fice. When the now sobered compositor ar
rived, the “ bum ” selected copy for him, and
bossed him around, and 1 there was no rebellion.
He wrote and set up several editorials himself,
made up the outside pages of the paper in a
neat manner, and worked off two jobs, for
which $3 75 cash was paid in. During the two
days,'subscribers paid m $4, and all tho money
went into the stranger’s pocket.
The editor was to be gone two days, and the
man took such complete possession that we be
lieved in his right, and did not kick. During
the day he got a hat and a new pair of boots tho
same way he got the clothes, and he drank
three quarts of beer at our expense.
Prof. Peters’s circular sfilled Snyder’s hall
that evening to overflowing, and it was the old
bum who stood at the door and took the money.
When the last person had passed in, the door
keeper slid into the darkness, and the people
sat there for half an hour before they realized
that they had been duped. Then a grand man
hunt was organized, but it was too late. Ths
bum had stolen a skiff and dropped down the
river, just about $l5O ahead of our town.
THE FIRST"STRIKE.
(from the Hartford Post.)
The first strike among our working people, I
think, was at Dover, N. H., in 1827 or 1828. The
Cooheco works were established in 1820, and
the operatives were almost entirely American
girls, who deemed that weaving and spinning
was better than farming, and became “ fac
tory girls ” on the erection of the works at Do
ver Falls. A small factory up the river was No.
1, and the works at the falls were Nos. 2, 3 and
4, as I believe they are at tho present time.
Everything went on spinningly and smoothly
until the year of which 1 write. There were ex
actions on the part of tho corporation that the
independent spirit of the fair spinners and
weavers could not brook. A rule was mads
that the great gates should bo shut at bell-ring
ing, and those who were late should go through
the counting-room passageway to be marked
for reduction ol pay, largely disproportioned ta
the delinquency. This gave great offense, other
measures awakened opposition, and on a fine
morning the mills wore idle. Every operative
was out, leaving tho overseers to run them
alone.
They met at some convenient square, and,
forming a procession, with a band, and bearing
the American flag, they paraded the town,
under a leader whom I very well know a year
later, and a stalwart manly guard of one for
their protection. The corporation came down
at once, the offensive rules were withdrawn for
the time, and everything wonton harmoniously.
But there arose, again, threats of war between
James F. Curtis, a new agent, and Mill No. 2.
He was not a fortunate selection for the office,
as he had been a sea captain, and endeavored
to introduce ship’s discipline among his crew of
girls. It would not work, and a general irrita
tion prevailed.
The climax was reached when he ordered the
windows of No. 2to be nailed down. This wai
done over night, and in the morning, when they
found out what had been done, and one of the
loom girls had fainted, their anger knew no
bounds. A strike in that mill was the conse
quence. I saw the excited crowd from an upper
window opposite, and such a clatter of tongues
has not been heard since Babel. Agent Curtis
was sent for, and went among them, angry at
first, but that bird wouldn’t fight, and he came
down to coaxing, begging them to return,
arguing the necessity for the nailing down,
which excited them tho more, until he com
promised the matter by allowing the windows
to be opened part way. Other inducements
were given, and they returned to their work,
but during the altercation with him they had
spotted his black coat with cotton locks until ha
looked like a new description of leopard.
8 Humiliating
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