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6 P/ riENCEJXND DUTY. BY W. H. BRISTOL, It does no good to frown and fret, It adds but to one’s trouble. I never knew such mortal yet Who failed his ills to double. The patient heart, but just and true, Possesses noble worth, And shoddeth rain and gentle dovz Upon life's thirsty earth. The loud complaint that naught is right, Let good sense reprehend it; If aught goes ill, use all thy might To better and to mend it. Can wrong heal wrong and care soothe care? Oan passion rule aright ? In patience, then, complaint forbear— Let reason give theo light. What duty bids thy hand to do, With cheerfulness pursue it; A willing heart finds much to do, But easy way to do it. We cannot cause the winds to blow, Nor can wo give them peace; The wise way is to let them blow And ceaso when they shall cease. b’o in our daily toils and cares, Why should we let them fret ns? A cheerful heart sublimely bears. But peevishness -won't let us 1 With trembling band she takes the rod— The gilt of human will— But uses not to honor God. And stands all listless—still. How better were-the world to-day And happier on the morijowj Did man not wander out the way To gather up his sorrow— To hunt out here and there a thorn And here and there a sting, Killing joy’s bud, as if in scorn. At verge of blossoming. When all mankind shall learn to take This life just as ’tis given, ’Twill be no task for them to make Our world somewhat like heaven. To be resigned to every ill. Contented with our lot, Striving each duty to fulfill, Will yield what few have got. A BITHB CUP. BY A POPULAR AUTHOR. CHAPTER XX. ••the clouds have lifted.” It ia little less than a miracle, the doctors tell each other gravely, that even a man, young and strong and healthy as Neal Dacre is, should have survived shock of the fall, the broken arm, and still* more dangerous wound on the head, and the fever supervening upon all. “It is a miracle,” Rose tells herself, with gratitude that is none the less passionate lor being mingled with reverential awe, when at last Doctor Nelson hints that she may hope for her lover’s life—“a miracle wrought that his innocence may be proved. My.poor Neal 1 He .has antlered so much already, Heaven would not let him die like that,” From tliat moment she never wavers in her feith, though Neal has more than one relapse, and the doctors shake their heads and refuse to pronounce any really reassuring verdict, though the Nesbitts and Mrs. Lindsay ami George Mal colm— aR the friends that have rallied round her in her deep distress—shrink nervously now hwra encouraging her in any hope. But at length there comes a day, a bright dear day in Autumn, when her faith meets with some reward—when Neal knows and calls her by her name. Never, to her dying day, will the girl forget the thrill of rapture, keener than any pain, that stirs her heart at sound of that weak voice, familiar, yet so sadly strange. “Neal,” she answers, with a little gasp, and then, with every evidence of emotion repressed, she walks to the bedside, smoothing the rum pled pillow and smiling down into the haggard pleading face with the calmness of a well trained nurse. “You are better, Neal, dear,” she says, in a brisk matter-of-fact tone, while all the time she is doing desperate battle with the tears that will rise at sight of the big hollow eyes. •‘ Better !” the man echoes vaguely. “Am I?” He tries to raise himself in the bed, but the heavy head drops instantly back, and the •hadow of the old bright, mocking smile Hits .faintly across his face as he adds, “Then I must' have been very bad !” “ You were, dear, but, thank Heaven, you are ■better now.” “ And you have been with me all the time ?” •• All the time, Neal, as it was my duty and my delight to be.” He lies quietly considering this for fully ton minutes, partly because he is too weak for even the small exertion of speech, partly because he is struggling to remember and understand. Rose does not help him in any way. She is praying fervently, and with all her heart, even while she is busily engaged in the preparation •f a restorative draught, that the vail of a merci ful oblivion will hang a little longer about the sick man’s brain, for with awakening memory must come a torturing excitement, and be is •till so pitifully weak. “Drink this, dear,” she says, with gentle authority; and, with mechanical obedience, Neal swallows the draught. He doesnot speak, even to thank her; but she does not find much comfort or re-assurance in that fact. She would rather see him exhaust his strength in questions than lie there with that strained intent look in bis hollow eyes. Suddenly she secs the lips quiver and a quick .troubled nush spread over the pale lace. He halt lilts the bandaged arm, looks at it and her —and then she knows that the right chord is •truck, that it is time for her to interpose. “ Neal, dearest Neal!” She drops on her knees beside the bed er face almost touches that ghastly one upo/tne pillow, her voice is Low and eager, sootlXg the excitement she dare not trifle with any longer. “ You are so weak, for your own sake and mine, you must not talk er think much yet; but there are things you want to know- things you cannot remember, Neal 1” The haggard eyes brighten; the man says, with a little gasp: “ I remember, I think—a fire and a fall. I might think they were feverish fancies but for this”— pointing to his broken arm. “They were both grim realities, dear. There was a lire at the cottage, and you saved Abigail Hunt’s hie at the risk of your own.” “She was saved ?”—Neal lilts himself with a curious strength born of his eagerness. “I did •ave her, Hose? She is living still ?” For one second Hose hesitates; and, looking at her troubled face, Neal Dacre drops back among his pillows with a heavy groan. “ 1 see - I was too late 1” “ No, Neal; you saved her; though stupefied and hall-stifled by tho smoke, she was not even •corched by the fire; but the shock to her sys tem was too great—she lingered a lew davs, and then ” “ Thon she died—without a word ?” •• No, Neal darling. I would not have •poken, would not have told you yet; but joy does not kill—you can bear one more shock. Kbe did you justice before she died, Neal. She Withdrew every charge she had made against you, and more than that ” “Morel” Neal echoes impatiently, as, struck with sudden terror by his growing and un governable excitement, Rose comes to a startled pause. “ What more could she say, Rose ? She could not lilt my burden of remorse, could not make me forget—Maud’s death.” “ But she could explain it; and she did, Neal” —holding his hand, and looking—oh, so gladly 1 —into his eyes. “ Your last trouble was a ■hadow, dear. Maud did not die a suicide’s death; she swallowed the poison by mistake. It Was mixed by Abigail Hunt—lor you.” 1 Bose says no more. She bitterlv regrets the impulse that has urged her on to imprudent speech, lor, with a wild little cry, in which there is more of rapture than any other feeling, Neal loses his consciousness of present things •nd drifts off into dreamland again. * ♦ * * * * It is long before that conversation is resumed. Rose has many a scolding to endure from those •bout her, many a sharp, reproachful twinge from her own conscience, en the score of her imprudent haste, but, after all, no harm is done. Neal makes progress that is astonishingly rapid now, and perhaps the shock that failed to kill him has something to do with his recovery. But he is out and about again, Autumn is on the very verge of Winter, and Mrs. Lindsay and the Nesbitts are beginning to wonder when the deferred wedding will take place. At Neal’s urget request, Rose places Abigail Hunt’s confession in his hand. “We will read it together, dear-,” she says, resting her bright head against her lover’s •boulder and linking her hand in his. “ I have never had courage to open the paper yet, though Mr. Malcolm gave it to me directly he came back item town. He went up to show it to the Home Secretary; it seems that the wretched woman had actually applied to have the grave opened, and ” “ I understand,” Neal says gently, as she breaks off with a little shuddering sigh, “ and Malcolm took down her confession.” “ About an hour before she died. She would hardly speak until then 1” With a sigh, in which there is something both ©f reminiscent and anticipatory pain, Neal ©pons the paper. Its contents are brief, almost startlingly so, considering the tale they tell. But, short as the confession is, it serves its pur pose. “I am dying, so they tell me,” the woman begins, with harsh abruptness. “And they tell me, too, that, before 1 die, I should, for my soul's sake and his, make some amends to the man who has risked and all but given hi» life lor mine; Why ? I did not want to live, and, if I had not Let the flaring candle stand too near the curtain, when I fell asleep that night, he would most likely have been hanged through my good offices, a less heroic and probably quite as painful a death—beside, he may die Ural, and then what good will my confession do ? •• My soul, you say again. Well, I shall only •hock you it I give my opinion about that. ‘l had better tell at once what sin it is stained with; then you will see how hopeless all your praying and preaching is. I hate Neal Dacre as much as 1 ever hated him, as much as I loved his dead wife, but he is not what I called him, he did not kill the woman he had never loved— he did not even drive her to suicide, as 1 taunt ed him with doing. I, and I only, was her murderess. I loved her as fondly as any mother ever loved her child, with a fierce, jealous, exacting paswou a jrokj and a burden to her at times, but a burden that she never tried to shake off. She might be harsh L ;and ungenial to others, she was gentleness it self to her old nurse, and I—there was not a day, an hour in my life in which I would not have died to make her happy. “ But she was never happy. I saw her health fail, her spirit break, and in proportion to my love for her was my hate for the man who made her miserable. I knew that she had tricked him out of his first love, and know, too, that be bore that stinging, hum.liating knowledge with what some people would have called a rare pa tience and forbearance; he never reproached, never quarreled with her, though her fits of nervous, irritable passion must have tried his temper at times ; but his consistent coldness broke her heart, and I bated him for that. Who was he, that he should resent the trick that had enriched him and given him a wife of whom any man might be proud ? “Mias Aland had no reserve with me; often and often she has laid her poor head on my breast, just where it used to lie when she was a little child, and cried her heart out over her husband s coldness, and the tears she shed used to scorch me like so many sparks of tire and set my fibt temper aflame. “‘He will be happy when I am dead,’she said one day— ‘ he will marry lies?, and be happy ! Oh, yes I I have written a letter, Abi gail ; they will both know that it ia my wish. He will forgive me and think kindly of me then.’ “ The fancy seemed to please her, so I eaid nothing, but I thought, and in that thought lay -the germ of my crime—that I would rather see Neal Dacre dead, that I would rather kill him with my own bands than eee him happy with another, profiting by her death. “ Well, why should 1 drag out the story when I have so little time to spare? The chance to punish him came, and I tried to take it, with what result you know. One night Mr. Dacre lost his habitual patience with his wile, nnd in dulged in such an outburst of passion as almost cost the frail creature her life. She forgave him, but I did not. I felt.that the moment for retribution had come, and, when she sent me to her medicine chest to fetch the potion that was to compose his excited nerves, 1 mixed the aco nite with it and brought my enemy what I thought would prove his death draught. “I knew the drug was swift and deadly, and I had beard the doctor tell my mistress that any one taking it would seem to have died from heart disease ; so I felt no fear oi the result—only a grim satisfaction in the thought that Miss ’ Maud would be free, and that all the world would think her husband had met the doom that was always hanging over her. “ That is all—l cannot write of—and you know the rest. My punishment followed quickly on my cr.me ;it was more than I could bear. In my first madness I could have shrieked out my confession and clamored for the death that would be release ; but, when I saw Neal Dacre by my murdered darling’s side, knew that he was free, and felt that he would Boon be happy, my old hate awoke and saved me from self-be trayal. I could live still, for I could still thwart and torture him. “ I let him think, I led him tp believe that he had driven his wife to suicide, hoping that, with such a burden on bis conscience, he would not daro to seek Rose Fane. If ho did, well, 1 had still u-notber resource—l would accuse him of murder then 1.1 could not follow him in bis wanderings over all the world, but I would never lose sight ot the girl lie until he and the-end came. “It has come at last, and the truth is told. I forgive no one, and I ask pardon of none. I have told the truth, owned my crime, and am ready to bear its consequences in this world and the next. Now let me die !” Then follows the scrawling, barely legible sig nature, witnessed by Squire Nesbitt and George Malcolm, and the various stamps and marginal notes that testily to the paper’s passage through official hands. Neal folds it with elaborate care, and then sits staring steadily before him, with a curious misty brightness in his dark eyes. He is silent so long that Rose, whose tears have fallen freely as she read, touches his arm at last, and timidly asks : “ Neal, are you not satisfied ?” “Satisfied, my darling?” He turns then, and she is almost frightened by the rapture that she reads in that quick answering glance. “Oh, Rose, if you could know, if you could guess what it is to have that load lilted from my soul!” “I think I can,” the girl says, with a wistful look ; then she draws a little nearer, and adds : “And the clouds have lifted for always now, Neal. I am the happiest girl in all the world to-day. Oh, Neal, be happy—quite—quite hap py, too I” “And am I not, my darling? Even if this great gladness had not come, I could not have been miserable with you. Your love and truth and noble trust through all were always some drops of s weetness in my Bitter Cup. THE END. THE DETROITSOLUMON. Quail on Toast—Too Particular—He Made Some .Rhymes—Henry Did. QUAIL ON TOAST. “ Now see how unreasonable some folks are !” exclaimed Stebbins, as the reporters trooped in. “ Here is a woman who wants and is deter mined to have quail on toast for a morning lunch. Have X any quails 1 Have I any toast ? Is it right for a pnsoneress to make such de mands on a man in my position ?” “Q—quail on t—toast!” howled the woman from an end cell. “ Madam, I can’t.” “ You must!” “Gentlemen, if anything happens, they shouldn’t blame mo,'’ said Stebbins, in a mournful voice. “I’m willing to do everything in the bounds of reason, but I don’t know a quail from a goose. If she hangs herself, I want yon to witness that 1 have been consider ate-very considerate.” TOO AWFUL PARTICULAR. The woman referred to was the first one out, and she had scarcely passed the corridor door when she called out: “Do you suppose I’m going to be tried in these old clothes? I want to go home and fix myeelf up.” ’“ls this Mrs. Elliot?” asked his Honor. “Yes, and I ain’t ashamed of it, either. Where’s my lawyer ?” “ I diln t know you had one.” “ Well, I want this trial put off till Monday. I never have good lack in anything I do Satur day.” “The trial must go on.” “ But I want some Breakfast first. I don’t propose to stand here and talk law for half an hour on an empty stomach. Give mo quail on toast and a cup of coffee.” “ Yon are very particular, Mrs. Elliot.” “ I was always that way, and I don’t propose to make a change now. I want a chair to sit down on.” “The charge against you is disorderly con duct. What is your plea ?” “ I want my husband here. He knows all about law suits, and he’ll advise me what to do. ” “ I shall have the officer sworn. The trial must go on.” ‘•I object. I don’t want to be tried in the morning, anyhow.” “ Mrs. Elliot, yon are delaying this court. I am willing to bear with vou, but . .” “ And I’m willing to bear with you, but I want my rights. I want a jury in this case.” “ Mr. Stebbins,” said hir,Honor, as he turned to the janitor, “ take this woman to the door and put her out 1” “ I’ll never go I” she screamed. “I ll never leave this room until I have been tried 1” But Stebbins seized her and put her out. HE MADE SOME RHYMES. “Charles Taylor, you are charged with being a disorderly person.” “The charge I deny and the charger I defy,” promptly replied the prisoner. “ Last night you came down Brush street- You flung snowballs at various doors, and you made various disrespectful remarks to people who came out.” “ In a merry mood was I, and I let the snow balls fly.” “ Oh, you admit it, then. WeU, Charles, such carryings on must be rebuked.” “ The mighty hand of law, has got me in its paw,” meekly replied the prisoner. “And the sentence is sixty days.” “ Come weal, coms woe, to thi jug I must go Good-by, Judge I” B HENRY DID. " Henry, did you throw your mother-in-law out doors ?” asked his Honor of a peak-faced man of thirty Winters. “ Yes, he did, and I want the whole world to know it 1” exclaimed a woman of filty-five, as she pushed forward to the desk. “ You are the mother-in-law, eh ?” •• Heaven pity me, I am I I’m the woman who was thrown I ’ “ Yes, she’s the old catamount who has made my life wretched for a year past I” sighed Henry. ’■ Look out, sir I” she snapped. “ Don’t you dare to call ms names I” “ Prisoner, what is your story ?” asked the court. “ I was idiot enough to marry her daughter and between the two of ’em I’m hoping every day that death will come to relieve me of mv troubles I” 7 “ Hear him, Judge I” she screeched. “ Why sir, he didn’t wait a week after his first wife was dead before he began courting my daughter! You ought to have seen how soft he was on me until they were married I He thought me su gar 1” “ I hadn’t seen your daws I” he dryly ob served. “ Judge, if you want to win my grati tude, send me up for six months I” “ Judge, don’t you do it 1 He wants to get out of supporting his family 1” “ I want rest.” “ Rest I Why, you haven’t done a day’s work for six.months I” “ Peace—be still,” said his Honor. “It is plain that this is a family affair, and I shall throw the case out of court. Both of you can go.” “ I’ll go for the river I” said the man, as he buttoned his coat. “ I’d like to-see yon !” she answered. “You’ll walk straight home and beg my pardon and be have yourself I” And as they passed out she bad a firm grip on the tails of his coat, and he looked like a man on his way to be hauged. A philosopheu is one who unflinching ly accepts thf situatjou. NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 7, 1886. LOK IJ i MtEft BY JOSEPH VEREY. The scene was the railway platform at Dun dee, and your humble servant, David Mac gregor, had just been greeted with much mirth, and for the following reason. A charming young lady, neatly dressed, was about to take her place in the train, which was on the point of starting, when she dropped her handsome parasol. I was going bv the same train, but in my endeavor to rescue the parasol, I had only just time to present it to the young lady, and to be thanked with a smile after she had got into a first-class carriage. I was about, to leap into another carriage when the guard pulled me back, and I was left on the platform, much to the merriment ot some of the passen gers. I was bound for Aberdeen, where I had re cently started in life, having chosen the profes sion of the law. But the good folk of Aberdeen had not as yet discovered my legal skill, and the client I was hurrying back to meet never came. I was rather sulkily arranging my papers when I heard the genial voice of an old college friend making some inquiries. “ Come up, old fellow,” I called out down the steep stairs. “I am just off lor Dundee. It was a brother student, who, like rayself, had found the law a severe mistress. After some httle conversation on matters which do not affect my story, rav friend said : “ I fancy, Macgrogor, I can put something in your way,' if you don’t mind forsaking the law for a time.” By ail means,” I replied. “My poor old dad down at Tarbot has enough to do to provide for my brothers and sisters with his fishing smack, without my burdening him again.” “ Well,” said my friend, “ you have beard of Sir Andrew Maclure, M. P. ?” “ The gentleman who has bean so eager in pushing forward the Glen Muckley branch line ?” “ The same, my friend. He wants somebody with legal knowledge to help him in bringing forward the measure iu the new Parliament. Here is his address, a few miles along the coast —rather a lonely pluce. But just at this time of the year (it was the middle of September) the seaside will be preferable to the town.” “ I will gladly pay Sir Andrew a visit if you think I can be of service. But I can’t go with out some sort of introduction.” “ I can manage that,” said my companion. “ And yon will go?” “ Oh, certainly I What is the use of my stay ing here if I cannot earn my bread ?” “ Haven’t you had a nibble yet?” “ I’ve only had one visitor beside yourself— ’that was the man with the income-tax paper.” This appeared to be an excellent joke to my volatile friend. “There ianone thing to caution you about,” said he. “I don't know what you will think about Miss Maclure. Some say she is rath er ” ' And he touched his forehead significantly. •‘II •huuldn-t mention it,” he continued, “but 1 know your hofiby for inquiring into mental and I must tell you that Miss Ma clure is kept very close by. her f ather, who won’t allow anybody to see her;” My friend kept his promise, and procured mo the introduction required, and I accordingly started for Sir Andrew Maelure’s country house on coast. I was received by Airs. Crombie, the house keeper, who handed me a short note from Sir Andrew. “I didna ken but Sir Andrew wad be hame lang syne,” said Airs. Crombie. “ Nao doot ye hae had breakfast, and ye ken from Sir An drew’s letter a’ aboot the beuks.” This reminded me that I had not yet opened the missive. It explained that I should find the works of reference required in the library. “ The young leddie, Miss Marion, cam’ doon a week syne. But, puir lassie, she’s no’ vara weel, an' begs to be excused till Sir Andrew’s hame. If you're fond o’ the sea, Mr. Macgregor, there’s a pleasure-boat at your sairvice.” Evidently I had got into good quarters. The charming, and the sound of the waves splashing on the sands was particularly refreshing. In order to make myself at once acquainted with my duties, I got Airs. Crombie to show me the library, and had no .difficulty in selecting the books referred to in Sir Andrew’s letter. Airs. Crombie evidently regarded me with some curiosity. Alter I had spent some hours in the library, she came again. “ Whaiw wad ye like denner, Mr. Macgre gor ?” inquired the dame. “ Here,” I replied, “ if I don’t interfere with your arrangements. ’ The hous keeper was gracious, and the din ner was as satisfactory as my appetite. Just as the cloth was being cleared, 1 heard a sweet voice near at hand singing, “Ye banks and braes.” May I ask if that is Miss Maclure ?” •‘ It is, indeed, puir lassie. Ah, ’tis no vera often she has the heart to sing !” I could gain no further intelligence respecting Miss Maclure, whom I had not yet seen. But a passing glimpse of the young lady, seen through a .hall-opened door, seemed strangely familiar. Could it be the young lady whose parasol I had saved from destruction at Dundee? I be came quite anxious to see her face. Beside, I may confess that David Macgregor ia rather susceptible where a pretty young lady is con cerned. For a moment I felt tempted to make some excuse to gain admittance to the drawing-room. 1 threw out a hint of the kind, but the house keeper repulsed me. “It’s bir Andrew’s wull [will] that my young leddie sees nae visitor till he cornea hame,” said Mrs. Crombie, in a tone which plainly said that her master’s orders would be obeyed. I read for some time in the library, still wondering where I bad heard that sweet voice. After a cup of coffee, I inquired if I could get indoors again, supposing i took a stroll on the shore. “ Thera are nae thieves aboot the place,” said Airs. Crombie with a grin. “Ye can just leave the door unbarred, and come in at your ain pleasure.” it was a superb twilight, with the moon just rising over the sea. I soon found the pleasure boat, and, lighting a cigar, unmoored it, and rowed gently out to sea. It was not yet ten o’clock. There was a per fect calm. The restless ocean whispered in in distinct tones as I paddled lazily over the smooth surface. btayl Was that a whisper of the sea?—or was it the accent of a human voice ? I listened again. Once 1 fancied I heard a footstep. Some fisherman’s wife, or rustic maiden, perhaps; for if it was a footstep, it was not heavy enough to be a man’s. Although the moon was rising quickly, all was dark between the waves and the shore. Again I felt certain there was a foot step on shingle. I pulled the boat close in shore, and peered into the gloom, but could see nothing. Presently, to my great atonishment, the tall, graceful figure oi a young lady emerged from the shadow of the cliff. Not for a moment should I have connected thia shadowy figure with the house in which I was staying, but that she was singing softly and in the most delicate tones the very same air I had heard indoors. It was marvelous what a dreary effect she gave to the melody. It seemed to blend with the murmur of the sea in a weird, ghostly man ner. There was something almost unearthly in the singing. Not another soul was near. Here and there a fishing vessel dotted the bay as she stood gazing iar out to sea. The song died off in the most mysterious echoes, as if the singer had been uttering the notes unconsciously. It ended in a few broken tones, and, as I thought in tears. Then she spoke audibly, yet softly : “Dear mother, I am lonely, I am sad! There ia no one to comfort me in this dreary world I” I cannot describe the startling effect these simple words had upon me. They were spoken with strange'pauses between, so that it was not easy to complete the sentences, and occasionally a word was repeated. When she spoke the words “mother’’and “alone,” the utter sad ness of the expression was touching indeed. At first 1 imagined she must be addressing some one, but that idea was speedily dispelled when I saw her face in the moonlight. She was entirely unconscious of her words, and was evidently under the influence of some strong emotion, walking in her sleep. I thought it strange she had not been missed by the housekeeper or the servants. But pro bably she had fallen asleep while sitting rlq&s in the drawing-room. This also would account lor the fact that there was no change in her dress. She was neatly attired, as when I had seen her at first. With the sentiment already awakened deepen ing at every moment, I tried to reflect on the best course to pursue. Ought Ito let her know that what she uttered unconsciously was over heard ? Possibly, it I did so, the confusion and distress it would cause her would end all chance of a closer acquaintance. Once more she spoke in the same soft, subdued tones. Then, with a sudden impulse, I addressed her. “ Miss Maclure,” I said aloud, with my heart in my words, “ dare I offer you my sympathy ? Life should not be sad to one placed as you are.” The rigid gaze of the somnambulist died away for a moment, and there were signs of latent consciousness. “ Who speaks ?” she murmured. “ Not my father. He is always cold to me.” Here was the secret of a life told in a few words. Deeply moved, I pulled the boat nearer to the shore as she turned and walked back in the direction of the house. Uncertain what to do, I mused a moment. Had she often taken these nocturnal wander ings? If so, how singular that they were not discovered by any of the household 1 What danger, too, there must be in her walking alone, and at night, with steep cliffs close to the house, and the sea beneath ! I thanked Heaven I had made this discovery, and deter mined to adopt some plan to cheek the unfor tunate influences which were undermining her happiness. But for the moment I could do nothing more than simply watch and see that she came to no harm. I had pulled the boat in-shore, and was land ing, iu order that I might protect her in case of need, when I clumsily dropped the oar. The clash against the side of the boat and the splash ing of the water startled her, but st.ll she ap peared not to have awakened. I followed her as she quickly trod the wind ing path leading up to the house—vanishing like a behind some 4ease foliage. Sir Andrew did not return for three days. Meanwhile, I saw nothing ot his daughter. I was much perplexed. Did her friends know ot these nocturnal adventures? Had they ever occurred be'ore?—or was Uns the first experi ence of the kind ? • I questioned Airs. Crombie as carefully as I could without awakening her suspicions. *• My young leddie hasna been weel, and is advised to keep her room.” That was all the information I could obtain. Whether the dame was aware of her sleep-walk ing or not, 1 failed to ascertain. 1 imagined that something of the kind had probably happened before, and that it was con sidered the wisest plan to keep the matter se cret. 1 There was evidently some unhappy cause of estrangement between father and daughter, which it would have been impertinent ou my part to refer to. But I was resolved to devote myself heart and soul to solving the mystery, and, it possible, to bring about a better under standing. For ! was perfectly convinced that, whatever the unfortunate cause might be, no blame attached to Aliss Maclure. The next day her lather came down from London. He received me courteously, but with the manner ol a man accustomed to much de ference from those with whom he associated. He made some brief inquiries respecting bis daughter, and speedily buried himself in vol umes of political studies relating to the railway bill he was about to introduce. I said nothing of my accidental meeting with his daughter nt Dundee. That would, of course, have betrayed me, as it would have shown that I had seen Alias Maclure during the short time 1 had been in the bouse. Consequently it was with a feeling of consid erable agitation that I accepted an invitation to dine en jamille the next day, well aware that Aliss Maclure was ignorant as to my name—per haps, even, as to my actual presence iu the house. I was under some anxiety as to her re ception. Although she had seen me but for an instant on the railway platform, she might prob ably remember me. When dinner-time came, I feared I should commit myself, and excite Sir Andrew’s curios ity—or, even worse, his suspicion. The room was dusky when she entered, the blinds having been kept down owing to the great beat. I could see Alias Alaclure looked languid. Her father just mentioned my name byway of introduc tion; but the young lady bowed, scarcely turn ing toward me, and took her seat. But a moment afterward she looked up with a glan e expressive of the utmost astonishment. Better still was a pleasant smile of recognition, and with_a sudden vivacity, for which I had been little’prepared, she told her father of the incident on the railway platform. I may men tion, en passanfy that I had already recognized him as having accompanied her to the railway. “ Since Mr. Alacgregor is so ready to do you a service,” said Sir Andrew, with a rather grim smile, “you will no doubt become excellent friends.” But when the temporary excitement caused by this little incident had subsided, Aliss Maclure relapsed into a brooding mood, and spoke little. Cccasionally she looked at me strangely, and seemed to be listening. “ What on earth do you expect tohear, Atari on ?”said Sir Andrew, abruptly, having noticed her absent manner. She made ho reply, but blushed slightly. It was clear that my voice, as I talked with her father, reminded her ot something she had heardibetore. It was, in fact, vaguely connected with her somnambulism. Gradually her shy ness gave way, and, as Sir Andrew happened to be pleased with some suggestions I made to be introduced in his new bill, he was more gra cious to his daughter, and the dinner ended much more cheerfully than it began. A few days passed, during which I saw little of Alias Alaclure except when we met at the dinner-table. I was pained to perceive that Sir Andrew showed his daughter little sympathy, and there was constant constraint between them. I had no reason to complain, for, delighted with my industry, he treated me with great considera tion, and in a few days I iielt quite at home in the old mansion. But I never relaxed my watch upon the young lady’s movements, fearing that the evidently disturbed condition of her mind might cause her to walk in her sleep again. I was presump tuous enough to fancy that my presence in the house had not been without favorable effect. But at times I could perceive that she was mys tified about me. More than once I had detected her when she thought herself unobserved looking at me with a kind ot strange curi osity. She was as pensive as ever, and this was to be noticed in all she did. The books she read, the music she played, the little feminine amuse ments she indulged m—all seemed to partake oi the settled melancholy that oppressed her. Beyond stating that Miss Alaclure had been terribly grieved at the recent death of her mother, the housekeeper, in response to my occasional questions, could or would give me no in ormation respecting her young mistress. Sometimes I met Miss Maclure in the beauti ful, old-fashioned garden, but never near the sea. I had a conviction that her nocturnal ad venture had been discovered. Possibly the room doors bad been locked also, to prevent her leaving the house. My intercourse with Alias Maclure had not been ire juent, but always agreeable. Some times I bad been charmed with her beautiful singing; and there was another bond of union in the books we read. She had a great love of literature. But a crisis was at hand. Sir Andrew one evening had gone to dine with a friend. I was sitting up late in the library, making some ex tracts lor a speech he intended to deliver the next day at the county town. Looking sud denly up from my desk, there stood before me, with the same fixed glance I had seen on that memorable night by the sea, Miss Maclure, motionless and asleep. Her eyes were fixed and glassy, and there was not lbe slightest sign of recognition. All I could gather—and even that was mere conjec ture—was that she was evidently seeking some one. This time she was dressed differently. A light dressing-gown enveloped her graceful figure as she stood before me in statuesque calm. Suddenly she came to the side of the library table where I worked, and sat down in the chair generally occupied by her father when engaged with me. There was something so unearthly, so unexpected, in the incident, that I could hardly mas.er my thoughts sufficiently to decide how to act. What 1 might have done to attract her atten t’on I know not. Fortunately at that moment the bell rang. It was S.r Andrew, just re turned from his dinner party. He was some what flushed and excited under the influence of the dinner and politics, and. seeing a light in the library, came immediately there, possibly with an idea of suggesting some work for the next day. No sooner had he entered the room, than he turned from red to white with passion, looking at the same time inquiringly at me. “ Hush, Sir Andrew 1” I murmured. “ Be lieve me, it ia from no contrivance oi mine that your daughter is here. Look at her. She is asleep. Listen 1 She is about to say some thing.” Then, in the sweet, gentle tones which had so delighted me when I first heard them, she said: “He was so kind! I am sure he is a true friend. I love him 1” “ What on earth does all this mean, Mr. Mac gregor ?” asked Sir Andrew. “Have you any idea ? Has she been meeting anybody ?” Happily there was no occasion for a reply. A breeze from the sea entering from the window, which I had for coolness left wide open, shut the door with a crash, and Miss Maclure, with a sigh and a shudder, awoke. Never in a:ter years did the remembrance of her sweet confusion fade from my mind. I could not doubt for a moment but that she loved mo, and had thus unconsciously avowed As for myself, a secret passion for her had been growing so rapidly since I had been an in mate of the house, that on the impulse of the moment I determined to risk the future happi ness of my life, and I boldly declared to Sir Andrew that from the first xhomont I had seen his daughter I loved her. Marion, meanwhile, had stolen silently away, while her father, to my great surprise, sat down calmly in the seat the beautiful girl had just vacated, and said, with great sei.-control: “ Air. Macgregor, why was I never told of this before? I had long felt there was some secret influence affecting my daughter’s mind and health. Tell me, candidly, how did you dis cover it ?” I related my experiences on the first night of my visit. He listened attentively, and when 1 had con cluded, said, with much emotion : “My dear sir, I confess there has been a coldness between me and my daughter which should never have happened. I was not hap pily married. Yielding to the advice of am bitious friends, I was united to a woman who never loved me. Our daughter, instead of bring ing us closer, only served to widen the gulf; for my wife, passionately devoted to her child, yet did all in her power to by mis representing me. Since her mowvr’s death I have seen plainly that Marion thought me to blame. It may be that the fault was mine, to a great extent. \Ye think of these things when it is too late.” He rose from his seat, much moved. The strong, stern man had tears in his eyes, and his voice was broken with emotion, as he called: “ Afarion, my dear, come this way.” She was evidently not far off, and came timid ly, wondering at the gentleness oi hi's tones. “My dear child,” said Sir Andrew, “ I have been less considerate to you than I might have been. I did not agree with your poor dead mother, but let the past be past forever between us. You shall never complain of my coldness any more.” His daughter embraced him with tears of joy. “ And now,” said Sir Andrew, “ seeing that Mr. Alacgregor has so largely aided this happy result, we owe him some reward.” What that reward was may be easily guessed. It has brought me love and happiness, and I have reason,to believe the young lady somnam bulist does not regret the day we met. But I may remark that she dresses in bright colors now. Vaccination for Yellow Fever. —Dr. Domingos Freire, of Rio Janeiro, head of the Biological Laboratory ot Brazil, who has been for five years experimenting in yellow lever in oculation, writes to the Secretary of the New Hampshire Board of Health, “ that he has per formed 6,01)0 Yaccieatiens, tbat not a single subject has contracted yellow fever, although many were in the middle ol the infected dis tricts and some acted as nurses. In the dis tricts where 3,041 were vaccinated, 166 of those treated lived in houses in each of which from one to five fatal cases occurred, and in all of which 273 unvaccinated persons died.” STR A NGER THAN FICTION. Death, Shipwreck, Drink, Poverty, In sanity and . Murder in a Minister’s Family. the PhUadelphia Press.) In Woodland Cemetery, under a small marble monument that is only a miniature of the tall, white columns that surround it, lies the body of Rev. William Loughridge, a briiliant young divine ot long ago. In the dead-room of the Episcopal Hospital, with bruised and broken limbs, lies the body of the aged, gray-haired Mrs. Annie Loughridge. She was the “young parson’s pretty wi e ” grown old. In one ol the Twenty-second district station’s narrow cells lies a young man crazed with dissipation. He is William G. Loughridge, the parson’s only son, and is charged with murdering hie mother. In different cemeteries lie the bodies of the par son’s three pretty daughters. Two ol them be came wives before they died. This is Parson Loughridge’s family. Nearly forty-five years ago the young Presby terian minister married in Ireland, near Belfast, and brought his pretty wife across the ocean to Philadelphia. Rev. George Potts, an excellent man, as’ all Philadelphia’s old Presbyterians will testify, invited the young Irishman to preach in’ his church, at Fifth and Gaskill streets, and his debut won him laurals that made him Air. Potts’s successor. Thon when the congregation had greatly increased under his pastorate they built the Fourth Presby terian church, the chuncky old edifice that stands on the southwest cornePof Twelfth and Lombard streets. During the popular pastor’s five years’ work there three children were born to young Airs. Loughridge, whom all the con gregation had learned to know was the daugh ter otoa wealthy Irish gentleman. The little Loughridges were then Lavinia, Martina, Gussie and Willie. One day, thirty-five years ago, there was great griei at the parsonage at Tenth and Bain bridge streets for* Rev. William Loughridge died, leaving the Fourth church without a pas tor. The body was interred in the church burymg-ground at Twelfth and Lombard, and that little white monument marked the spot until the bones of the Fourth church's patri archs were taken to Woodland. Air. Loughridge had been dead several weeks when Airs. Loughridge decided to return to Ireland with her children. There were no steamers in those days and '.passage was taken on the packet “Thomas P. Copo.” Alany of the Fourth church’s people stood on the dock and waved her farewells, and some of them wept, for they loved the dead parson’s pretty wife. The good ship was doomed, however, and hard ly was she outside the capes when a fire oc curred on board, and seamen battled with the flames for seven long days before the crew of a roving bark rescued all on board, and the Loughridge family was brought back to Boston. T,hen Mrs. Loughridge gave up her trip to Eu rope, and the hospitable grocer, William John son, invited the family to make his place at the southwest corner of Eleventh and Lombard streets, their temporary home. Everybody in that vicinity knows William Johnson. For for ty-nine years his sign, “ Groceries and Provis ions,” has flapped to summer and winter winds, and he keeps-his flour-bags piled up against the Lombard street entrance and whiffs his strong pipe and thunders “ the other side ” to people who don’t know the way in. He is a vigorous old human landmark. He said last night: “ After the burning of the ship Mrs. Lough ridge and her children stayed with me five months.” “ Oh, father, I wouldn’t tell him that,” pro tested old Airs. Johnson. “But she did,” he replied. “My, she was a haughty woman 1” “Now, father 1” “But she was,” said the determined Mr. Johnson. “Then after they left here they went to live on Christian street, near Twenty-second. I tell you there has never been a preacher like her husband; General Patterson used to go hear him. “ Mrs. Loughbridge got into the mint, and she had several hundred dollars a year from her father in the old country. The girls grew up. They were pretty misses. Lavinia married a merchant here named Crawford. He and she are both dead. Alartina married a Mr. Tyson. She’s dead, and he lives out West; and Gussie, she didn’t marry she died.” “ But that boy,” said the old man, and he drew hard on his pipe, “ was always bad. He used to get his mother’s money, make her give it to him and drank it up. She was proud, and covered up his badness.” “ His hair is turning white now,” said Mrs. Johnson, kindly. “ White through rascality,” growled the old man. “ Now, father.” •‘ But it is,” he said. Mrs. Loughridge left the mint five years ago, after lier son’s debauches had the effect of put ting him in an insane asylum. After his release she was turned out of several boarding-houses because she would have him with her, and the landladies would not put up with him. Then she took the house at No. 2,6J2 Sartain street, and a scheming Frenchman robbed her. This, coupled with her son’s continued bad habits, made her desperate, and she began drinking with him. Their sprees together ended in the debauch, during which she received fatal injur ies, supposed to have been inflicted by her son. A Magnificent Project. —An enor mous schema for the disposal of the eewaga of London has been projected by Col. Jones and Mr. Bailey Denton. Canvey Island, in the Thames, not far from its month, is a low,.flat island of 4,500 acres in area, which, although containing a tew dwellings and a church, lies below the level ot high tides, and the water is kept from overflqwing it by embankments ten to twelve feet hi .li. Tq this island the pro-po sition ie to convey the sewage ot the metropo lis, and, after purifying it by limo, which can be procured at small expense irorn the chalk which crops out on both sides of the river near by, discharge the effluent in the river on the tailing tide, the low-water level being ten to twelve and a half feet below the surface ot the island. The solid portion of the sewage will be deposited on the surface, and render the soil fertile and productivo. The capacity ot the isl and is such that it is estimated that it will take the sewage of London one hundred years be fore it will be filled up to the level of the exist ing levees. If found profitable to do so, the liquid portion ot tlie sewage might be pumped on to the mainland over a r.dge two hundred feet high and live miles off, and thence flow by gravity over a territ ;ry ol (X),OUO to 80,000 acres ot arable land. The projectors estimate that tho expenses of construction and miiutenance could be met by a taxation of three-tenths of one per cent, of the assessed valuation of the metropolitan district. A Remabkabm Incident.— At the exe cution of tho murderer Gagny, at Troyes, a few days ago, an incident took place the like of which had never before been witnessed in Fiance. The condemned man, during his trial and final imprisonment, did not evince the least fear. When, on the morning of the fatal day, he was roused from sleep and informed that hie hour was come, he received the intelligence quite calmly. He arose, attended to his last religions duties, ate a hearty breakfast, had his “ toilet ” made, asked for a good glass of bran dy, and said he was ready to go. He walked between his attendants with a firm step and a look of resolute courage, almost of defiance. Bat when he came in front of the ghastly instru ment of death and glanced up at it, he was no ticed "to blanch or turn almost white. At the same time.his body became inert. He was lift ed on the bascule, where ho lay for twenty-five awful seconds before the knife' tell. Meantime he did not stir. When the head was severed from the body it was noticed the blood did not spurt eight or nine feet, as it does in such cases. When the attending physicians were given charge of the body, they found the heart had filled with coagulated blood. This they ex plained by the fact that when Gagny looked at the machine and turned suddenly white, his heart ceased action and did not resume after. He was dead before the knife touched him. Two Wives in One Household. —A strange story — so strange that in fiction it would be condemned for its impossible situation cornea from Milwaukee. Five years ago, as the story goes, Mrs. Herneman, wife of William, submitted quietly to a divorce for which he sued on the ground that she had borne him no children, william soon afterward married again, an 1 now has two children. About two months ago he removed to Milwaukee from Michigan, where he had divorced his first wife. A few days later the first wife arrived in Milwau kee and begged so piteously to be near her form er husband, whom she said she still loved more than liie, that Mr.Herneman and his present wife took her in as housekeeper. They are now all living under the same roof, and the former wife seems to be exceedingly grateful for her privi leges, and fond ot her former husband’s chil dren. The love that can urge a woman to ao cept this situation must be irresistible Chica- go News. Leaving Thousands to Hkb Rescu ed —J. Wilbur Dorsey, ot Ijamsville, Freder ick county, Maryland, a good swimmer and baseb.ll pitcher, has just inherited a sum of money in a rather romantic way. Dorsey spent a couple of weeks last August at Atlantic City, and while bathing one day he rescued a yonng woman irom drowning, tihe was from one of the Western cities, aud formed a great attach ment for her rescuer, although he knew noth ing of it except that she and her friends were profuse iu their thanks to him. Dorsey thought no more of the matter, and was surprised a lew days ago to receive a letter informing him that the woman was dead and had bequeathed him $i)0,000 ior his heroism. Dorsey refuses to give the name of the woman, as her lawyer, in his letter, says that one ol the conditions ol the will ie that Dorsey shall not make known tho name of bis benefactor. Dorsey last season pitched lor a Maryland baseball club. The Yulees of Florida. —The his tory of the Yulee family reads like a page of an Oriental tale. The grandfather of Mr Yulee was Prime Minister or Morrocco. The reigning Sultan was cursed with a rebellious son. A conspiracy was hatched to assassinate the ruler and to crown instead the young heir, who abet ted this treason. Yulee got wind of the whole affair and disclosed the plot to his master. Princekin was clapped into a dungeon to lan guish there till his papa expired. Then his turn came, and, alas ! Yulee's, too. Off went his head. Mrs. Yulee, No. 1, wag an English Jewess named Levy. Her husband’s decapita tion caused her flight with her baby boy to Eng land. Thence they came to America. When young Levy, as he was called, waxed into grace ful manhood, he plighted his affections to a Miss Gratz, a beautiful Jewess. For reasons now forgotten their engagement was broken. The fidelity and charms ot this Hebrew girl so delighted Washington Irving that he related her history to Sir Waite? Scott. He painted and immortalized her as Rebecca in “Ivanhoe.” Young Levy married, and his son in turn wed ded a Miss Wyckliffe, of Kentucky, resuming also the patronymic of Yulee. In the veins of this generation of Yulees is mingled the blood of Jews, of Moors and of blue-grass Christians. There are a son and three daughters, one of whom ranks among the great beauties and bears the name of Florida, the State which sent her father to the United States Senate. The Crown Jewels of France. —Many of the famous Crown jewels of Franco, which the Chamber of Deputies has just resolved to sell to provide a fund for aged workmen, are curiously associated with the history of the old Empire and the young Republic. Among the objects which are to be melted down after the jewels have been removed, instead of being sold in their present form, are the sword of the Dauphin and that of Louis XVIII., and the im perial crown made in 1854 for the coronation which never took place. The “Regent,” tho famous diamond purchased for £135,000 by that Regent,of Orleans to whom it owes its name, will probably not be sold. The Orloff diamond, which is said to be the purest, if not the largest of the famous jewels, was worn in the crowns of the kings of France. Napoleon I, however, transferred it to the hilt of his sword, and at Waterloo it fell into the hands of the Prussians. After the Restoration it wont back to France, and in 1870, when the Capital was about to be invested, the famous stone was taken to Bordeaux for safekeeping. Napoleon I. exhibited during the palmy days of his as cendancy 37,393 precious jewels of various kinds, valued at 18,922,477 francs, but many o; these were afterward lost. The amount men tioned in a dispatch on the prospective result oi the sale—s4o,9oo,ooo—is probably a mistake or an exaggeration. Why Hans Von Bulow Wouldn’t Play.—Dnring Hans Von Bulow’s last concert tour, as ha was about to taka his seat at the piano, he saw soma very plain women Seated near the platform. At that he walked off the stage, and to his manager’s inquiries and en treaties said, “ Until those ugly women, are re moved! will not play a note; so you may do as you please about it.” The manager stepped up on the stage, announced that Herr Von Bulow had become suddenly indisposed, and the or chestra would play a symphony which was to have been played later in the While tho audience looked on in wonder, he had a number ot palms and shrubs Irom the conserv atory near the concert-room placed between the platform and the audience. Then calling Bulow to the wing, tho manager asked if the view suited him. “ Oh, yes, that’s all right,” quietly said the great mirsician, “ as long as I don’t behold those monsters of ugliness 1 am quite indifferent to my surroundings.” And, without any more ado, tho capricious composer wont on the platform and performed his share of the programme. “ I was most ready to return a blow and would not brook st all this sort of thing,” for I knew I could cure all damages with Salva tion Oil. The Redwood Tber. — A striking peculiarity of tho rodwood', says a writer in the San Francisco Chronicle, is the surprising facility with which it imitates all other forms of coniferous growth and branching. Some of the tops of the younger trees have all the wave, swing and grace of feather palms; others are stiffer in line and resemble more the sugar pine. The flr, the great sequoia, the ponderosa or yellow pine, and also the solid dome top, noticed so sharply by Muir in the virgin groves on tho Keweah are all typified by this versatile tree. It also has a peculiar feature efits own, a thick branching of long, extended and pendu lous arms, leafless, except a slight furriness all over. The branches have a delicate and grace ful flexibility of line and beautiful swing, with out the slightest woodiness or stiffness.: and yet this form of growth is the most repulsive of all the redwood’s freaks, and is best described as snidery, and that on a giant scale. The branches, or, more properly, arms, appear to have the power of locomotion and to be able to seize and hold. A Cat Dentist. —A singular sight was witnessed in a house in Salem, Mass., one day last week, where lives a cat and a large-sized kitten. The two felines were noticed together on the floor, acting rather strangely, the big cat appearing to have the little one down and ex amining her head. At length both mother and kitten jumped up on the window-sill, and the former placing onel paw on the latter’s head, as if holding it in position, commenced to strike the kitten on the mouth with the other paw. This operation was kept up for some time, when the two appeared to be satisfied, and went off to sleep. Shortly alterward the floor was swept, and a decayed tooth was found under the win dow where the queer performance was carried on. As the tooth belonged to a cat, it is safe enough to presume that a sagacious mother enacted the role of a dentist for the time being, and extracted the aching tooth from the mouth of her Buffering offspring. Good Obatobs in Congress Scarce. — Morrison talks like a schoolboy delivering a poorly committed declamation. Carlisle talks in cold, rasping tones, and without much varia tion. Bandall gestures not at all, and though Hiscock swells out his chest and delivers his speech in good round tones, be does not thrill you nor can he be called eloquent. McKinley talks better than most ot the members, and Tom Reed makes bitter speeches, and his words are fnll of meat. But he is not soul stirring, and his speeches influence the intellect rather than touch the heart. W. D. Kelly is one of the most powerful talkers in Congress, and Judge Taylor always has something new to say. Tom Bayne is an entertaining speaker. Judge Seney, of Ohio, always reads his speech es, and Governor Bong, of Massachusetts, does likewise. Long is the best reader in Congress, and for the saying of pretty things he is per haps the most able. A Rbmabkabdb Ball Costume. —The most remarkable mask costume on record was worn by Miss Winter, daughter of an Austra lian editor, at a mask ball in Melbourne, not long ago. She was dressed as “ Sport, tho Spirit of the Times.” She wore a pink satin bodice, gold cap and sash, the colors of the trotter, Grace Darling. On the front and back of the waist were pictures ot other horses. One sleeve was decorated with a painting of a footballer, the other with a lacrosse player. Portraits of various bicyclers, quoit and bil liard players and owners of winning horses adorned the back and front of the skirt. On one side of the skirt were painted the “Puri tan” and the “Genesta,” on Hie other there was a slipper with his two grayhounds in leash. Her fan was a light lawn-tennis racquet covered with geranium satin, on which a paint ed scene showed ladies playing tennis and croquet. _ Phil Kearney's Mule. —Says the Oak land (Cal.) Times: No mule is better known or more “ revered ” than “ Old (loose,” of Leavenworth, who is now at the Shell Mound farm, near Alameda, where Government horses are taken care of. She is now over forty years old, and has not yet given up her mulishness. “ Old Goose ” was brought to this coast in 1849 by General Kearney. She has been through flood and field, and has borne some of the bravest of our heroes on ths war-path. Captain Moore was mounted on “ Old Goose ” when he was killed at San Pasquale. She has done good service at most of the military posts on this coast, and is well known by all the old army officers who served on the Pacific coast. Gen eral Sherman, on a recent visit to the farm, recognized this old pack mule and said that this '■ faithful servant should be pensioned. She is now retired from service and draws her regular rations. Stomach Troubles are caused by improper diet, hasty eating and drinking, late suppers, the excessive use of stimulants, and a scrofulous condition of the blood. Ayer’s Sarsaparilla is the most efficacious remedy for all such disorders. •*! am convinced that the worst cases of Dyspepsia Can be •ured by taking Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. I suffered greatly from this complaint for years, and never took any medicine that did me any good until I commenced using Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. I took four bottles of this preparation last spring, and my appetite, health, and strength were completely restored.—Richard M. Norton, Danbury, Conn. My wife was long subject to severe Headaches, the result of stomach and liver disorders. After trying various remedies, without relief, she used Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, and was speedily cured.— S. Page, 21 Austin st., Lowell, Mass. As a remedy for Debility, Faintness, Loss of Appetite, and Indigestion, I took one bottle of Ayer’s Sar saparilla, and was cured.—H. Mansfield, Chelmsford, Mass. Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., LowoU, Maos. Books Bound in Human Skins.—Fol lowing the example of Joseph Zaehnsdorf, who lately bound bis El evir editions in human skin, another London binder has executed an order to in ase a copy of Hans Holbein’s “Dance of Death” in the same ghastly integument, cer tainly a very appropriate covering for this work.. These are not the only instances, how ever, in which tho casing of the “ human form divine ” has been utilized. In the library at Mexborough House, near Methley, there were formerly two books, Sir John Cheek’s “ Hurt of Sedition ” and Braithwaite’s “ Arcadian Princess, ’ both bound in the pre pared skin of Mary Batoment, “ the Yorkshire witch,” who was executed early in the begin ning of this century for murder, but these were among those which disappeared dnring the cataloguing of the library tor sale, when one of the former b arls of Mexborough was in difficul ties. Yet another instance: When the writes was last in Baris he was shown a small book by a dealer, who solemnly avowed it was bound in. a portion of the. sk n of the notorious Louvet d® Couvray, and which he valued at 1,000 francs, and for authentication of which he produced Sr long ped gree. Byron Swimming the Hellespont.—* It was in May, 1810, that Lord Byron, in tion of Leander, swam across the Hellespont. The distance, however, being two miles from the European to the Adriatic side, when he reached the latter, from exhaustion, he was compelled to seek repose in the hut of a Turkish fisherman, where he remained careful ly attended by the wife for five days. Upon hl® departure, his lordship, whose rank and fame were unknown to the Turkish peasants, re ceived a gift ot a loaf, some cheese, a skin oS wino, and the blessings of Allah. In Byron sent the fisherman a few fishing-nets, a fowling-piece, and several yards of silk for hi® wife. The Turk, overwhelmed with gratitude, resolved to cross the Hellespont to thank hi® unknown guest, but in the passage his boafc waa upset, and the poor fellow met with a wa tery grave. General Sheridan Halted by a Pri vate.—General Sheridan was once halted by G. M. Woodward, ot Wisconsin, when the latter was a “ high private ” in the Army of the Poto mac and on picket duty. A man on horseback came along, and he greeted him with the proper salutation: “Who goes there?” “A friend, ’ a was the reply. “ Advance, friend, and give the countersign,” said young private. “I am General Sheridan,” said the horseman. Wood ward gave him to understand that he didn’k care if he was General Sheridan ; that be want ed the countersign, and he brought bis bayonet into close proximity to the general’s person and demanded the proper answer. fcßheridansmiled, gave it to him, and, as he rode away, turned to remark: “Young man, there’s a regiment oil infantry coming just behind me. Don’t molest ’em.” Description of a Toboggan Suit.— ' A lively Philadelphia girl describes the tobog gan suit as follows :—Yoh first get a long ancß. wide roll of flannel, and, having divested your- . self.of the majority of your clothing, you hold one end of this to the back of your neck, get your maid to hold the other, and then turn yourself slowly around until you have envel oped yonrielt head to foot. Over this you put - a Bloomer costume of heavy, flannel, and over this again a jacket and skirt made out of &- blanket Draw long woolen stockings over your logs, put vonr feet in moccasins and your head in a small saclr. You will then look like an attenuated football, and you will feel like one. That's what they call a toboggan suit. Valuable Documents Stolen fromt Italy.—The Italian Government has offered a reward of 10,000 lire (£400) ta any one giving certain information ot where a codex of Cicero's “De Officiis,” which has been lately stolen, from the Municipal Library of Perugia, is to be found. A report is current in Rome that the stolen manuscript hafs been sold for 600 lir® (£24) to an English or German collector. Th® Italian Embassies in foreign countries are au thorized to pay the reward. Reman papers an nounce that another manuscript parchment codex has been stolen from the Casanatensiau Library in Romo. It consisted of four parch ment leaves, and waa the “ Mundus Novus written by Amerigo Vespucci himself. A Quick Horse Trade. — One of th© quickest horse trades on record was made on Tuesday at Central Falls. A man was driving? his horse, attached to an open carriage, along Central street, when another person, also in an open carriage, tried to pass him. Just as th® carriages were abreast the man in the second carriage shouted; “ How will you trade horses ?” “ Even,” quickly replied the other, and with out any further talk about the merits or demer its of either horse both were unhitched, harnes® changed, hitched up again, and away went the teams, each driver being apparently satisfied with the trade. A strange fact is that neither of the traders knew each other. One for the Mahdi. —Lord Wolseley, in the course of his rec?ut lecture, told a num-- ber of amusing anecdotes, the best of which wa® as follows : One of his officers, who happened to have a glass eye, was one day examining ft. prisoner, a zealous follower ef the Mahdi. “ Why do you believe in the Mahdi ?” asked th® officer. “ I believe in him,” replied the man, “because he can work miracles.” The officer immediately took out his glass eye, tossed it up in the air, caught it, and put it back into it® place. “D’ye think the Mahdi could do that?’* he asked. The man was appalled, and couldn’t say another word. A Sioux Custom. —Among the Sioux Indians, when one family borrows a kettle from another, it is expected that, when the kettle is returned, a small portion of the food that has been cooked m it will be left in the bottom. Should this custom be disregarded by any one, that person would never be able to borrow again, as the owner must always know whaC was cooked in her kettle. A white woman on Ik one Occasion returned a scoured kettle, intend iw to teach a lesson m cleanliness, but her act became the talk ot the camp as a fresh exampl® of the meanness of the whites. Good Humor. —Good humor is the clear blue sky of the soul, on which every star of talent will shine more clearly, and the sun of genins encounter no vapors in his passage. ’Tie the most exquisite beauty of a fine face ; a . redeeming grace in a homely one. It is like th® green in the landscape, harmonizing with every co : or, mellowing the glories of the bright and softening tho hue of the dark ; or like a flute in full concert of instruments, a sound, not at first discovered by the ear, yet filling up th® breaks in the concord with its deep melody. Beef in China. —Beef is never seen at - a Chinese table, oxen and cows capable of work* ingthe plough being accounted too valuable to the farmer to be consigned to the butcher. Very severe penalties are attached to tho slaughter of these animals. The punishments for the first offence is a hundred strokes with a bamboo, and then two months in the wooden • collar. Should love ot beef or desire of gain induce a repetition of the crime, a second judi* cial flogging is followed by exile for life from the province. Misnamed Animals. —The weight of scientific opinion now favors the view that “fly ing-fish ”do not fly. The muscles of flight in birds average in we ; gh4 ene-six-th of the whol® body, those of bats one-thirteenth, while those' which have been supposed to enable the fishes to fly are only one-tbirty-second. The impulse to the propulsion of the flying-fish is probably delivered while they are still in the water by the.exceptionally powerful ftmacles which oovelC both sides of their body. The Fish Crop.— There are not far short of 160,000 vessels engaged in Europe and North America in fishing. Between 600,000 and ’ 700,0.4) men are employed in this industry, and the total annual product of fish is estimated to be about 1.500,000 tons. As a ton of fish i® equal in weight to about 28 sheep, a year’s fish supply lor ten European countries and th® United States and Canada would be equal to 42,000,000 sheep. Corean Women. —The position of wo-, man in the Corean social economy is a strange one. From her birth to her seventh year she enjoys her freedom; at seven years of age she is shut up—a seclusion to last her life. While 'she lives in her father’s house, no man save he and her brothers may look upon her; after she has gone to her husband’s, only he and he* father-in-law ever see her. !"■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■"■%? Troubles Never come alone. If the Liver, Kidneys, or Bowels are disordered, other parts of the body become affected. Ayer’s Sar saparilla restores the vigor required for the healthy action of these organa more speedily than any other medicine. **A few bottles of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla Cured me of Kidney Disease, when all other medicines failed. It is the most reliable and best remedy for this complaint known to me. —Eli Dodd, Xenia, Ill.* I was afflicted with a severe bowel diffi. culty; my vitality seemed to be rapidly diminishing, my appetite failed, my tongue was badly coated, and my strength was gone. In tiris enfeebled condition I began taking Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. I had not taken many doses before I noticed a decided change for the better. My appetite and strength returned, and my whole system manifested renewed vigor. — E. B. Simonds, Glover, Vt. I have used A er’s Medicines in mt family, with satisfaction, for years, and: always have a bottle of Ayer’s Sar saparilla in the house: it is so good for the blood. — • Mrs. Et Thruvegen, Perth Amboy, N. Sold by Druggist*. Price *1; six battles