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regarded his own devotion to his two friends or the estimation in which they were gener ally held. Miss Edgcombe was an exceptional woman, not only in the act that she was young, wealthy, and handsome, but in having such a well-balanced mind that, in spite of the flattery and homage she bad now for six or seven years been accustomed to re eive, she had lived to the age of twenty-tour with head unturned and, so it was said, hear, untouched. Even her best friends could not successfully defend her from the charge of coldness ; but, just in time to save herself from the confirmation of this reproach, she had encoura ed tne attentions and accepted the hand of David < Ivn ; and friends and ac quaintances agreed t’nai she had chosen well. David Glyn had passed the age of thirty with out realizing any oi the brilliant prophecies his friends bad freely made concerning him in his early youth. Perhaps there had never been any particular ground for believing that these prophecies would be realized. The exact foun dation on which the esteem in which he was held was built it would have been difficult to discover. A handsome high-spirited lad, with a generous disposition and sweet temper, he had occupied even in b s Eton days a high po sition among his companions, independently ot his attainments ether in study or in sport, which were respectable, but not extraordinary. A certain natural reserve, with which neither haughtiness nor sulkiness had anything to do, gave dignity to the sweetness of his disposition, and perhaps did more to secure the respect in which he was held than bis more undeniable merits. The reputation o’ the boy became that of the man ; be passed through life making few enemies and many nends, drifting from the army to the bar, from the bar to a clerkship in a Calcutta bank, from the bank to a government office in London, always steady, always re served, always looked up to as a good man as well as a good fellow. His handsome figure and beautiful grave lace had always attracted a great deal of attention irom women of all ranks and ages, and, together with the fact that he rather avoided their society, had caused him to be much sought after by them. The climax to this widespread adm.ration, of which bo had never been in the east vain, was the interest he excited in beautiful Miss Edgcombe, who frankly encouraged his attentions, without any coquet ry, from the first evening of his introduction to her—when she h-d been prepared to receive him graciously—by Charlie Papillon, who min gled with enthusiastic praises of his friend a glowing account ot the impression her beauty pad made upon him. Alter that, it had been plain sailing tor Glyn ; and in a few weeks, whether at his initiative or hers neither quite knew, ho had proposed and been at one© ac cepted. The person who re'oiced the most demon stratively over this happy consummation was Charlie Papillon, who considered that he was the prime mover in the matter, and took a more than paternal interest in both the young people. Ho felt quite as much excitement over their love-affair as he did o er any of bis own, which were many and varied, ranging irom the purely Platonic through hll the degrees of light-com edy flirtation, sentimental interest, serious at tachment. and hoi eless passion. He was very good at all but the last, from which, in the course of a few d y*. either the hopelessness or th© passion would invariably drop out. Mothers and chaperons feared him; but unattached old ladies and matrons with out daughters to marry petted and tried to con vert him. For Charlie was an infidel and a heretic on many points of social and moral or thodoxy, a blue-eyed cynic, a golden-haired philosopher, "a most dangerous man, my dear, quite an improper companion for young peo ple 1” But there was not much harm in Charlie, ex cept that his desperately ineligible caressing whit© hand and affectionate bin© eyes would come in the way.of most excellent matches be tween pretty girls and men with big, red hands and uninteresting faces, and fortunes which made poor Chari e s two hundred a year seem a very poor pittance, indeed. But, when mar riage made a gap in the circle of his loves, Pa pillon replaced the defaulting fair one by an other, or he entered the bride afresh on the register of his heart under the heading “Pla tonic,” and all went on as happily as ever. No husband seriously eared him, nor had any hus band serious reason to do so ; though, perhaps, had the master o the house always known what a much more spontaneous smile his wife had for th© sunny-faced guest than for his less un varyingly sweet self, he would have wished that young gentleman back at the office where he placed his valuable services, for six placid hours each day, at the disposal of an unexacting gov ernment. Papillon was not a drone, though he rather encouraged the thought that he was; he liked to think that he was quietly husbanding his strength to do great things in that “ some day ” which was to bring him his opportunity. In the meantime mere waiting had its consola tions, and at five-and-twenty ho could still afford to lot things slid© for a while. To be able to debate each a ternoon or evening with himself, on which of half a dozen pleasant places he should shed the light of his presence, with the certainty that at any one of them he would be warmly welcomed, was in itself a thing to make liiejj worth living. What he wotild be at forty he did not ask himself, nor did any on© els© consider ; at twenty-five he was a social sunbeam, whioh of itself was not a bad destiny. Ho had been a small boy at Eton when David Glyn was in the sixth form; but they had scarcely met since until the return of the latter from India, sine© when the old boyhood ac '•quaintaiice had become friendship, and Papil lon had hoisted his friend on to and ’worshiped him and sang his praises with groat enthusiasm. Th© two men got out of the hansom at Hyde Park Corner, and strolled through the gates together. Papillon liked the people, Glyn liked th© trees. But the philosopher, the cynic, had an idea that th© influence of trees was bad, un less you were with a girl—girls having the power to charm away all noxious influences that ever threatened his serenity. So he linked his arm to his iriend’s, and, keeping the thoughts of the latter diverted by a flow of bright chatter, led him into th© stream of well dressed men and variously-dressed women that throng the Park in the season. They had ?;ot to th© end of the path where the crowd was hinnest, when a gentleman whose dress pro claimed that he was not a Londoner came up to Glyn and greeted him very warmly. “ I found out your address, and was coming to call upon you this afternoon,” said he. “ 1 met Barrett last night, and he told me you had come back from India and were going to be married. So, as lam going back to Yorkshire in a day or two, I thought I must find you out And give you my good wishes first. I wish you joy. Glyn 1” “You know who the lady is ?” “ Oh, I can guess, oi course ! It can be only the one.” “Which one?” asked Glyn, with surprise. “ Why, Mrs. Hodson, of course I 1 didn’t oven know her husband dead ; but I know you are not the sort to change, and, as soon as I heard you were going to be married, I guessed Who the lady was,” said he mysteriously. ♦♦ You are wrong, though,” said David, laugh ing. “ Mr. Hodson is alive and in very good health ; and, even if Mrs. Hodson were a widow and willing to have me, which is supposing a good deal, I don’t think I could quite reconcile myself to becoming th© property of a lady so much older than myself. Why, in a year or two I might have proposecWnyselt. as a son-in-law ! ’ ♦‘Oh, well, I beg your pardon I” said the country gentleman, rather disconcerted. “Of course I didn’t know. When 1 knew you there at Richmond, two years ago, you seemed to be always at the house, and people talked, and, until young Taunton turned up there, you seemed to be generally about, and But, oh, I beg your pardon I Er—who is the lady, then ?” .“Miss Edgcombe of Ambleside. I wish you were going to stay in town ; I should like to in troduce you to her. She is a great deal younger and handsomer than the impossible bride you Wanted to give me.” “I’m very glad to hear it,” said th© other man energetically. “Then I can congratulate you with a free conscience.” And, after a lew more remarks, showing more kindliness than tact, he went on his way and left the young men together. Charlie Papillon did not as usual break out at once into cheerful prattle, but waited for his iriend to speak first. “ Good fellow that ” “In spite of th© cut of his coat. Where did you pick him up ?” “fused to meet him very often at Richmond before I went to India, at the Hodsons’. You know Hodson, the stockbroker, don’t you?” “Yes. Gives very good dinners and rides very good horses, and Do you like him ?” “Not particularly; but he has a very nice Wife. I think people go more to the Lawns for the sake of his wines and his wife than because they find any great attraction in Hodson him ■elf.” Charlie glanced at his friend’s ealm face, but there was no change in its somewhat languid expression ; it was §lear that the difference in his voice was not assumed. “Yes. Hodson’s stolid enjoyment ot his own dinners is abusing at first; but it is a diversion which palls m’course of time. I’m rather fond of Mrs. Hodson ; she is the pleasantest speci men of the mature coquette I know,” “ That is rather severe, Charlie. She is an awfully kind-hearted woman, and I never saw any coquetry about her. She speaks of herself in the frankest manner as an old married wo man still young enough to enjoy the world.” “Oh, I don’t say anything against her man ner, and she is a charming woman, I admit at once I” “ I think so too. A little unrefined perhaps, but so genial, so-so jolly I Then she is so ready to show kindness •'to any one who feels rather stranded, as it were, and badly off for relaxation or pleasure. For some time before I went to India I got most of the enjoyment I had in life at the Lawns. Instead of giving me a stiff invitation now and then, and showing me that I was de Crop if I made my appearance un expectedly, she absolutely encourag’ed me to come when I liked, and stay as long as I liked, and do just as 4 liked. There is a sort of easy goingness about the whole household, without any stiffness or any want of order, that makes it quite the pleasantest I ever was in in En gland.” “ I wonder whether it is quite as easy-going for those two little girls ?” “ Nellie and Ethel ? One sees so little of them; they are always in the schoolroom. Yet even they add to the charm of the place. They have such prim, demure, pretty little man ners, when one does see them and have auch a quaint old-fashioned look, one won- wonders what they will grow up into. By-the by, they were looking rather tall for their short frocks when I went away; I suppose they must bo almost grown up by this time ?” “Oh, no, they won’t grow up for some time yet!” said Charlie dryly. “Pretty women’s daughters develop very slowly.” “They ought not to have to delay much on that account,” said Glyn, laughingly. “ I don’t con sider their mother such a very pretty woman. Jfyou catch her unprepared—and she doesn’t seem to mind being caught—she really isn’t pretty at all.” “Now I don’t agree with you. I think her very pretty, especially in evening-dress.” “ But her taste in dress is atrocious; she likes barbaric colors.” “ Yes, but they don’t look so ill on her as they would on another woman. And there are gleams of a better nature in her fondness for old lace and Indian muslin. A woman who can afford to tone herself down with old point and dia monds may pass muster as well dressed, how ever far astray her indvidual freaks of taste may sometimes carry her.” “A very good defence, Charlie 1” said Glyn, laughing again. “ However, one forgave her bad taste for the sake of her good nature.” “ I beiieve she is awfully good-natured to young people at a loss what to do with their time—or their money. I know two or three fel lows she has been a mother to.” “ Yon let your cynical tongue carry you too far, Charlie. But I don’t suppose you can un derstand such a thing as friendship with any woman without flirtation.” “ Well, we won’t discuss it, because, to begin with, we should not define flirtation in the same way. Did you ever meet young Taunton at the Lawns ?” “The young fellow whose loffse&gn the Der by made such a sensation last yeifl* ? Yes; he was a client of Hodson’s. 1 didn’t care much about him, and when h© began to com© I left off going there so much.” “ Ah, he was very well off then ! He was a great favorite of Mrs. Hodson’s, wasn’t he ? He’s just been through the Bankruptcy Court.” “ Don’t be unfair, Charlie. You can’t say she was kind to me because I was well off.” “ Well, you had your beaux veux. And you admit you were not so often at the Lawns alter Taunton’s appearance there.” “Butthat had nothing to do with Mrs. Hod son. It was only a lew weeks before I left En gland, and I ha (La great deal to do and had not so much time onfmy hands as before. The hos pitality of the Lawns was as open as ever.” “ Have you seen anything of the Hodsons si ceyour return?” “ Yes; I met Hodson m the Strand the other day, and he asked me down to a dance, and I went. It was the seventeenth of last month, I think.” “ Oh, he asked me to that, but I had another engagement. What sort of affair was it ?” “ The old style there—not too many people, rooms cool, capital supper. Madame was as charming as ever; but I scarcely spoke to her. Missed my two prim little friends, Nellie and Ethel—gone to school. - ’ “Was Miss Edgcombe there ?” “ No; it was before I even dared to hope I had an outside chance with her.” “ Why, I knew how things were going even then. Doris is above encouraging a man for her own amusement.” “You have known her longer than I, you see. Beside, her striking beauty and her brilliant manner fairly dazzled me; I can’t. express the effect she had on me in any other way. So that I had neither judgment nor power of criticism where she was concerned.” “ I can understand that. If she were not generally a little cold, we should all be off our heads about her; when she wishes to please, she is irresistible.” “ Cold I I should not have called her cold.” “No, you would not, of course. She isn’t cold to me, either. But I’ve seen people she doesn’t like shrivel up at a look from Doris; and 1 think, it I had done anything mean, I should run the other way it I saw her coming. She is a little too good for most people; I had just be gun to think I should have to send up for an archangel to marry her, when luckily you stepped in and made it all right.” “Draw it mild, Charlie. I’m a little in awe of her already; she seems to stand out so far above all the other women I have met. Her generosity almost appals me. Do ypu know she absolutely refuses to have any of her money settled on herself, and insists that everything she possesses shall be entirely un der my control ?” “ Ah, yes I I have often heard her say she would never marry a man she could not trust completely, that she would not have any mean money-quarrels. It has been a great dread of hers that she would be married for what she has, and not for herself.” “ What singular modesty in such a beautiful girl 1” “ Yes ; I like her for it, though.” “One can t help it. But I wish she would have been persuaded to keep her fortune in her own hands. To tell you the truth, the respon sibility alarms my indolence.” “It wouldn’t alarm mine. Hallo, I think I recognize that showy little victoria !” They were walking slowly along with the crowd beside the ]|ine of carriages, which were stationary for the moment. A few steps brought them close to the carriage which had arrested Papillon's attention, and both men raised their hats in answer to the bow and smile of a lady whose appearance was attracting a good deal of comment of various kinds. The lady who was the centre of so much ob servation f'ou'ld not be more than five or six and thirty, and Idoked younger, a fact which was due as much to a certain sunny youthfulness of expression as to the aid of pearl-powder. Her dress partook sufficiently of the attributes of that of the grand monde and of the demi-monde to enable an acute observer to decide that she belonged to neither. As she sat back, silent and almost motionless, by the si*de of a judi ciously chosen friend in brown, she looked rather like a well-dressed and expensive wax doll; but when she bowed, smiled, spoke and held out a dainty and perfectly-gloved little band to Papillon, it was impossible to deny that she was charming. “ I haven’t seen you for an age, Mr. Papillon. I suppose you won’t condescend to come to the suburbs in the season. All we poor creatures just outsidb London can expect is to catch a glimpse of you sometimes when town is emp ty.” “Scold Glyn, too, Mrs. Hodson, please.” “ No, no ! I’m the good boy, Mrs. Hodson, am I aot ? I called at the Lawns ten days ago, but you were out” “ Well, come down this evening, and I’ll for give you both. There are two charming girls coming, beside several nice people you know. Oh, I mustn’t forget to congratulate you, Mr. Glyn ! I only heard the secret to-day. I must call upon Miss Edgcombe, and implore her not to keep you all to herself and never let your poor old-fogy friends get a sight of you.” The line of carriages had begun to move again, and with more gracious smiles Mrs. Hodson drove on, and the young men continued their walk. “ You are in favor again now, Glyn. I’ll bet you what you like madame will not be out next time you call.” “Do you think not ?” said the other indiffer ently. “I think I shall find the Lawns just a little too far out of my way just now. South Kensington will bo about my limit for the next six weeks.” “ Six weeks! Is it to come off in six weeks ? In the middle of the season, too ?” 5 A’es. Doris is going to give up the end of. the season, which is very generous of her when she is so fond of excitement.” “ Well, I suppose she wouldn’t give it up ex cept for something she likes better. You are not going away, are you ?” “ No; we shall go straight down to Fairleigh, her place on the Thames. It will be just the right time to enjoy it, you see; we are both fond of the river, and the thought of posting about through the heat and dust from one place to another, or hunting about for some uncomforta ble hotel in some place which is sure to be either overcrowded or deserted, when there is a charming home a few miles off only waiting to be lived in, is absurd, we both think.” “ What a sensible pair you will be ! A model husband and wife ! I shall have to show you off and give lectures upon you. How soon may I venture to come down to be eaten up with envy ?” “ A,s soon as you like. You know very well yon are always welcome everywhere.” “ Because I don’t come when I’m not wanted. I’ll hire a boat, and row up and down the creek till you signal to me that I may land without fear of being considered an intruder. By-the ,.bye, where is Doris to-day, that you are off duty?” “ She has gone down to Reading with her grandmother, to pay a farewell visit before her marriage to some aunts who are going abroad. She won’t be back till to-morrow, so I feel rather stranded.” “ Shall we go to the theatre ?” “ Too hot! I want to get out of London; it is too late to get down somewhere for a pull on the river now, though. Ah, there is Mrs. Hod son’s victoria again ! Surely she is a good deal gjor? made up than she used to be two years ago I It is the first time I’ve seen her by day light since I'y§ been baek. Her face looks' quite blue in the shade. , “ Yes; that is the worst of that liquid stuff she uses; it is extremely inartistic.” “ Why, you know all about it, or else you pre tend very welf.” “ I flatter myself I can analyse any beauty, and tell you exactly in what it consists, whether in veloutine, pearl-powder, or natural bloom, features, expression, or tricks. Well, where shall we go ?” “ Suppose we go down to the Lawns ? We are sure of cool rooms and good champagne there, at any rate.” “And Mrs. Hodson promised some charming girls.i But 1 know the sort ot girl she calls ch'arming, and I don’t feel tempted. Beside, I wouldn’t go to the Lawns to-night if I were you, Glyn.” “ All right I We’ll go and hear Patti then,” said Glyn indifferently. CHAPTER 11. tOUNG women’s CONFIDENCES. In a house in a well-known square of South Kensington Miss Edgcombe sat at luncheon with her grandmother girl-friend, the day after that on which David Glyn and Papillon had met Mrs. Hodson during their stroll through the Park. Old Mrs. Edgecombe was a handsome erect lady for her age, which was about sixty-three. She had been the constant guardian and com panion of her granddaughter, to whom she was NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 6. 1886 devoted, since the death of her own son and his wife, Doris b parents. Her advancing age had begun ol late to make her feel that the time was drawing near when sho must resign her post of chaperon to her handsome, much sought-after granddaughter to younger hands; she had been eager to see her charge happily married, and had been the first to re oice over her engagement to David Glyn. The high minded it somewhat extravagant principles which Doris held in money matters had been inculcated by the elder lady, who had deter mined to leave her|own property, which was con siderable, to her granddaughter, under the en tire control of the latter’s husband. She had bad reason, in her youth, to be disgusted w ith sor did money-quarrels, and she held that no man was fit to be trusted with a girl’s happiness who could not be trusted with her money. She bad returned with Doris from Reading that morning, and, an old schoolfellow who had called to inquire it it was really true that the flinty-hearted Miss Edgecombe had at last suc cumbed to a common human emotion having stayed to luncheon, the three ladies sat round the table talking about wedding presents and the trousseau. “Shall you be married in white or in travel ing-dress?” flaked Hilda Warren, a pretty clever-ldoking little woman, rather eccentrically dressed. “In ivory-colored brocade. I don’t care for the thought of sneaking into the -church m every-day dress, as it I felt ashamed of what I was doing and didn't want to be noticed. I want to look my very, very bast, to make David feel proud of me, and to make the very idlers who crowd round the door to see what the bride is like—as they always do, you know— nudge each other and say, ‘My I Don t she look nice ?’ and think my husband a lucky fel low.” Both her companions looked at Doris with an expression which plainly showed that her last words echoed their own opinion. As she sat back in her chair, and spoke saucily, but with real pride and pleasure iu her face, no one could have denied that, as far as beauty went, her future husband would have found it hard to mifke a better choice. Miss Edgecombe was a brunette, rather above the middle bight, ot slight but well-shaped figure, with delicately slender hands and leet, and almost faultlessly regular face. As is usually the case with beauties of this type, the first impression of admiration in looking at the ’ace was frequently followed by a sense that there was something wanting, that the beautiful eyes sparkled, but did not speak, the well-cut mouth smiled, but never grew soft. It was only at rare moments that some passing emotion would bring the rich color to her cheek and light up her face with a brilliancy which was bewitching. She was looking her best as she raised her dark eyes to her old school-fellow’s face and laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr. Glyn, Doris.” “ Haven’tyou? I have a portrait of him up stairs; come and tell me what you think of him.” The girls rose and left the room, followed more slowly by the elder lady, and they all three went up to the drawing-room, which was furnished rather sombrely, by a freak of its young mistress. The floor was stained and polished, and there was only a small square carpet in front of the fireplace. The windows and doors were draped with curtains of dark crimson plush lined with silk of Oriental pattern and blended colors. The wainscoting and woodwork were stained the same eolor as the floor, and the walls were not papered, but tinted in pale buff. The fur niture was covered with crimson plush, with cushions embroidered in many colors. There were marble statuettes in the corners ot the room, in high relief against the dark curtains; the windows were blocked by stands full of leafy plants, the only flower admitted among them being the pale, heavy, washed-out-look ing hydrangea. There was a striking absence of ornament, of the stands, the brackets, the easily-upset tables covered with trifles, which make progress difficult in most modern draw ing-rooms. There was a large carved cabinet full of not very carious curiosities, chiefly re lics of the campaigns of Mrs. Edgecombe’s late husband, who had been a soldier; there was a grand piano, and there was a large pile of mu sic. “ Do you know, I like this room better than any I know ?” said Hilda Warren, as they came in. “Do you ? Most people call it bare. And I am beginning to think myself that it is rather a mistake. It is a sort of temple to old memo ries. The floor and the hydrangeas are for the sake of a French country-house I used to stay at when I was a child; the cabinet and its con tents are a shrine to grandpapa; the plants are the same as those we used to have in the con servatory at Ambleside, where I was born. And in tfie piano is the spell which carries me back to any one of those places and the people who lived in them. This is Mr. Glyn.” She took from the mantelpiece a framed pho tograph and handed it to her friend, who look ed at it it long and critically. “He is very handsome,” said she at last, “and he looks very good and very nice, and al together quite the right sort of man to be the hero of your romantic dreams. I never knew that you were romantic until to-day; yon have given the key of your heart to the right person, Dorie, for you are much nicer now he has opened it. And who is this ?” Hilda, peering about among the things on the mantelpiece, had unearthed another portrait, half hidden behind a candelabrum. “ Why, this one is handsome too ! Who is it, Doris ? Isn’t Mr. Glyn jealous of your having another ‘juvenile ’ as a pendant to him ?” Hilda Warren was an actress; she thought it was the introduction of a theatrical term into her speech whioh made old Mrs. Edgecombe grow suddenly very upright. Doris took the portrait laughingly from her hand. “ Oh, no; Mr. Glyn has no need to be jealous; that is not a hated rival!” said she. “ Rival! I should think not I” broke in Mrs. Edgecombe severely. “ They ought not to be mentioned iu the same breath. lam surprised nt you, Doris, for allowing a portrait of David Glyn to remain on the same shelf with that of Augustus Melton.” “ Well, grandmamma, don’t be angry; I didn’t even know he was there. He had the sense to creep into a corner where nobody could see him and frown at him. We’ll take him away altogether, and leave David in undisputed sovereignty of the mantelpiece.” “Doris, I think that joking way of talking about them is very unbecoming. I should think Mr. Glyn would disapprove ol your keeping a portrait oi Augustus at all.” “If Mr. Glyn objects, Gussie shall go. Only don’t call the poor boy ‘Augustus,’ grand mamma, please,” said the girl good-humoredly. But Mrs. Edgecombe was offended; and in a few minutes, a‘ter turning a deaf ear to all her granddaughter’s conoilatory speeches, she made some excuse about fetching some work she wanted, and left the room. “ Now grandmamma is offended for the rest of the day,” said Doris, when the door closed upon the old lady. “I am so sorry; and yet I don’t think it was my fault. I did "not mean to vex her; but I don’t like to hear the absent con signed to stern silence without a little pity.” “ Who is this wicked Augustus, or this un fortunate Gussie ? Is he a ne’er-do-weel ad mirer for whom you have just a glimmer of lingering tenderness ? I shouldn’t have sus pected you. of such a thing before to-day; but now that you have proved yourself to be human by falling in love with Mr. Glyn, why, you may even be guilty of the feminine weakness of being sorry for a scapegrace ! Do tell me the story, Doris; I’ve told you all my love affairs, and given the benefit of a long experience in these matters. Now tell me yours, and I will take your one confession as a balance to my half dozen. You know I can keep a secret.” “But there is no secret to keep,” said Doris, laughing. “ And what do you mean by asking me to tell you my ‘ one’ love-story ? I have had only one, and you know—my engagement to Mr. Glyn.” “ But that is not what I call a love-story—it is not romantic enough,” said Hilda impulsively. You are not what I call in love with Mr. Glyn at all.” “ Then I am afraid I shall never be what you call ‘in love.’ But what do you want me to do ? You don’t expect me to talk abouthim in blank verse, or spend my time on my knees before his photograph, do you ?” “ Oh, yes, that is what I always do when I’m in love !” said Hilda dryly. “Now, Hilda, tell me seriously what you mean. You have brought a grave charge against me, and you must prove it or withdraw it. You have accused me of want of warmth ” “ Oh, dear, no ’ J was quite touched by the enthusiasm you showed whey I asked ydu at what time Mr. Glyn was coming to-day. ‘ Oh, he may come at three, or he may come at four, or perhaps he won’t be here till we go out, soon alter five !’ That is what you said, with just as much excitement as it it had been a tradesman coming for an order 1 Why, if I were in love, and expecting the man I was fond of, I shouldn’t be able te sit still; I should be mad with the hands of the clock for not going round faster; I should get a book and set myself a task of read ing so many chapters before I would let myself see what the time was again; I should upset all those nicely-arranged flowers by rushing to the window twenty times I Long before three o’clock came, I should be in a fever; while you Doris, I believe, if he were not to come un til—until six o’clock, you would only say, ‘ How tiresome of him to put out all my arrange ments I’ Of course I know your emotion of im patience because he upsets your plans is much better bred than my impatience to see the man because I love him, but then you know I am only a Bohemian.” ♦ And the girl, whose restless excitable nature betrayed itself as she spoke by quick nervous movements of the hands as much as by the vol ubility with which she poured forth her words, dropped from her chair onto a cushion at the feet of her calmer companion, with a little curl of the lip to belie the humility of the end of her speech. “ Yes, but you don’t make allowance for the difference between my temperament and yours. You cannot imagine me hopping about between the clock and the door with my hands through my hair every two minutes, any more than I can picture you sitting quietly and stiffly on a chair waiting with beautiful submission until your hero, as you call him, chose to shed on you the sunshine of his presence.” “ Oh, you want me to think that the differ ence between us is only that your affectiows are under better control than mine ! Well, then, I don’t believe it. You could no more sit there and chatter to me calmly about a dozen differ ent things while you were expecting Mr. Glyn, if you were really fond of him, than I could.” “ You mean that I am ft cold-blooded oreft- tore—a sort ot fish by nature, quite incapable ot feeling any emotion above tepid-point.” “ No, i don’t. mean that you don’t feel any emotion above tepid-point for Mr. Glyn.” “ But, Hilda, you mustn’t say that. Indeed it is not true!”"said Dorie, rather disturbed. “ I am not nearly so excitable as you, I am not even sure that I can feel quite so much—cer tainly I could not show as much, but I admire Mr. Glyn more than any man • have ever met; I respect his opinion in everything: I am never so happy as when 5 am with him; I try to please him far harder than I ever tried to please any man before, and I feel jealous of every other woman he looks at. Surely that is love worth having I At any rate, it is the best 1 have to give.” Hilda shook her head. “ Too calnj !” said she briefly. “And don’t you think a steady feeling like that, which never rises and never sinks, is a better foundation for a love which is to last a lifetime than a spasmodic emotion which can not last, which brings, on the whole, as much pain and discomfort as pleasure even to the ob ject of it, and which you yourself admit you can feel for a succession of people?” finished Doris triumphantly. “ And how can you be sure your admiration and respect will last a lifetime either?” asked the young actress persistently. “ You have no more reason to be sure that this Mr. Glyn, whom you have known only a few weeks, will always be worthy of the respect and all that which he has inspired you with than 1 had for supposing the poor painter who followed me like my shadow, would become the greatest artist of the day, just because the very sound of his voice set me trembling with happiness.” “Do you mean to say that reason ought to have nothing to do with love ?” “ I don’t say anything about ‘ ought,’ but I think reason has very little to do with it.” “ Then the less one has to do with love the better.” “ Yes, perhaps, if one could choose : but one can’t, you know.” “Some can.” “ You think you can. Of course you may be right; I don’t* know. But I don’t think such a nice woman as you are, and romantic, too, will be able to get through life without—loving. Have you read Alfred de Musset's lines on a woman who died without having loved ? M ‘Elie est morte sans avoir veou, main est tombe le livre Dans lequel elle n’a rion lu.’ ” “ Yes, that is very pretty : “ ‘Without having lived she is dead. From her band the book has fallen From which she has nothing read.’ But I shouldn’t go to De Musset for a standard of conduct.” “ No ; you may not go to him to find out what one ought to do, but you might do worse than go to him to find out what one does.” “ Oh, you wicked play-actress ! What would grandmamma say if she could hear you ?” “ She would be very much shocked, of course. Bui she hafl read apd thought over the matter we are discussing long before she met your grandfather.” “Then you really think, Hilda, that I shall lose my head some day—l, who have arrived at the age of lour.and-twenty, retaining the full possession of all my faculties ?” “But are you sure you have never been in love—‘lost your head—whatever you like to call it—already? I'erhaps you won’t confess to me ?” “ Yes, I would, if 1 had anything to confess. But I am ashamed to say that my attachment to Mr. Glyn, which you despise, is the nearest ap proach to that love you say I must feel that I have ever had for any man. And now, you see, I am going to settle down to matrimony, so that my chance of a romance is over. For I hope even you, with your alarming code, will allow that I shall be safe then.” “Seriously, lam not so sure about that. If I were a man, I should feel safer in marrying a girl like me, who had sown the wild oats of her affections, as it were, than in marrying a girl like you, who has never loved anybody and whose capabilities have therefore never been sounded. Of course a man, in marrying you, can pride himself on being your first love, but in marrying me he might feel a great deal surer of being the last.” “ I shall tell David what you say, and ask him if he feels nervous.” “ I don’t think he need feel so.” Not after all your complaints of my ‘ tepid affection ’ for him and your warnings about the ‘ unsounded capabilities ’ of cold women? ’ “ No. I believe this Mr. Glyn is sa sweet tempered and handsome and good that you will really love him after you are married to him. I believe you have a nature not easily kindled; I won’t believe you have no warmth in you at all.” “ That is what they all tell me, though,” said Doris slowly—” all but David, that is to say; he makes no complaints of me in any way. And, if I am warm enough to please him, what more cau I want?” “ Nothing indeed,” said Hilda, looking at her narrowly. “ And who are the ‘ all of them ’ who complain of your coldness ?” “ Oh, the ether men who have wanted to marry me—and my money 1” said Doris, in rather a hard tone. “ But why do you sneer, as if it were im possible for them to care for you yourself apart irom your money? And, however devotedly a man might love you, he couldn’t be quite in different to the fact that you were rich.” “ David is.” said Doris, turning round quick ly, with a gleam of pride and pleasure in her eyes. “My money absolutely stood in the way of his proposing to me, not through his diffi dence, but his distaste for thelresponsibihty of being rich.” “ Oh, he is perfect, of course !” said Hilda rather impatiently. “ I expect you were rather hard on the poor fellows who hadn’t arrived at such a sublime pitch of disinterestedness.” “ Now you are sneering; a minute ago “ No, I’m not. I want to know how you penetrated the sordid motives of your other admirers, and in what way you * dismissed them.” “ Dismissed them ! I didn’t dismiss many, and I didn’t care enough about them to care what their motives were. I have had very few downright proposals—not more than two dis tinct offers of marriage, I think. Y’ou see, a man can’t ask you to be his wife unless you have given him some sort of encouragement, if he is not an absolute idiot.” “ I think it is very good of you, with your opportunities and advantages, not to flirt more than you do. Why, with very little trouble, you might have half the men in town at your feet I” “ And all the women in town about my ears. I haven’t the courage to maintain such a posi tion as that, even it I had the inclination. You know I am called a coquette now, because 1 feel bound to be civil to everybody—at least, everybody I don’t dislike—in return for the at tention most people pay me. I sometimes think, if I were not so well off, I might play at being a little cruel now and then, for my own amusement; but, placed as 1 am, if I were to encourage a poor man—one of those charming detrimentals, for instance, who al ways flirt more pleasantly than anybody else— and then throw him over, as other girls do, without feeling that they have done any great harm, why, in me it would be worse than cruel —it would be mean !” “ You always seem to be thinking more of your money than of yourself. It seems to be an absolute burden to you.” “Itis in some respects. People will do such mean things for the sake of it—people you never believed capable of deceit,” said Doris, with warmth. “Itis a very painful and humili ating thing to find out that the attentions, even of a person who was indifferent to you, were re ally directed not to you, but to your fortune.” “Has that ever happened to you, Doris?” asked Hilda, much interested. “Yes. I will tell you about it, and then I don’t think you will be so much surprised by what I see you consider the strained way in which I look at money-matters. You know I. spend part of every year at Ambleside with grandmamma, at my dear old Delhi Lodge, where I was born ? Well, last Autumn, when we were there, some friends of ours, the Bry ants, had taken a house at Bowness, and of course we were always riding and driving and rowing and fishing together. There was a young fellow staying with them who was always about with Marion Bryant, who is a very nice girl, two or three years older than I am, not at all pretty, but very good-natured. Soon after my appearance there, he transferred hfa atten tions to me, and devoted himself to me With £fi utter disregard of everybody else which made us all laugh. Marion took his desertion very good-^ujnoredly t and everybody seemed to think it very natural, and nobody thaught seri ously about it. He was about two years younger than I; but he was so very boyish and had such bad spoiled manners that he seemed a great deal younger, and we all treated him as if he had been about fifteen. He seemed so head strong and thoughtless and made love to me in such a silly, candid, schoolboy sort of fashion that I never for a moment suspected his disin terestedness or believed that he thought about me seriously at all. He took possession of me, and laughed at my jokes and took my snubs and my scoldings just like a cross spoiled child. We got on beautifully together, and, when he made love to me, I laughed, and he left off and just followed my lead i« everything. Then he went away suddenly, and I rather missed him at first—he used to laugh so heartily! but more people came, and I soon forgot all about the ooy. Then, when we came back to town, I met him again one day at the Bryants’, and he worked his way round to me and tried to pick up our acquaintance just where it had dropped. Of course that was out of the question ; the boy was nothing to me—if he had been, I should have been hurt and unhappy at his abrupt dis appearance from Bowness without saying good by to me. As it was, I was obliged to snub him, and the lad, who has no more character than a child, was so utterly crestfallen and sub dued under my rebuke that, when I met him again, I was obliged to be very kind to him, lor he shrank away from me just like a dog that has been whipped.” “Then you did coquette with him?” “ I did not mean to, but a word, either kind or unkind, had so much more effect upon his weak, excitable nature than it would have had upon any other man. It seemed absurd to think of him as a man ; he was a great over grown, spoiled boy.” “ What was he like ?” “He was a great big broad-shouldered fel low—uncouth, the men called him—with pretty vacant gray eyes and such lovely teeth; his face I should have called handsome if it had only expressed anything. But he had a low fore head, to show he hadn’t any brains, and a mouth like a woman’s.” Hilda gave a glance at the photograph which had been displaced from its hiding-place on the mantelpiece and lay now on a chair, Dons did not notice the look, and continued: “ Thon be began to try to talk seriously to me whenever we met. 1 always stopped him and laughed at him, but sometimes that made him cross lor about a minute and a half, for he hadn’t character enough to sulk consistently. Then he talked to mo about his expectations in away which led me to believe he was very well off. I was never unkind to him, I never took him seriously, and I never for a moment gave him cause to think, if he had not been so very silly, that I cared about him. About that time David Glyn was introduced to mo, and this silly boy had to be snubbed again for showing an noyance because 1 spoke admiringly of him. Then one night, at a dance,” Doris went on hesitatingly, in a lower voice, “ Gussio lost his head; and, when he had taken me into the con servatory after a waltz, and I had sat down and leaned my head back among the flowers in that delicious half-weariness you feel when you have been dancing and you still hear the music, and the light is soft and the flowers are sweet, he suddenly threw himself beside me and flung his arm round me, and, if it had not been for the sound of the voices of two other people who were just coming in, he would have kissed me.” “ And what then ?” asked Hilda, breath lessly. “ Of course he started up; and we went out, and I was very angry, very much offended, and would not sneak to him again that night. And next day they told me that he was deeply in debt and had no expectations at all worth speaking of, and that he had been told that nothing but a good marriage could put him straight. It would have made no difference to me if the headstrong boy had been a million aire, but I was very much disgusted to think I had been deceived, for I had not for one mo ment thought his childish attentions inter ested.” “ Do you know, I think you treated him very badly.” “ I can’t agree with you. A few days after ward I accepted David Glvn, and Gussie had the shockingly bad taste to insult him. Of course David treated his petulant insolence beautifully, and was quite sorry for him, even when I told him the boy had only wanted my money. Now do you understand my feeling about it?” ” Now I understand two things. May I say them ? One is that you were a great deal too hard upon the boy, as you call him: the other is that you were a great deal nearer being in love with that unlucky Gussie than you have ever been with Mr. Glyn.” The front-door bell rang as Doris rose from her seat, laughing. ** Hilda, you will read everything by the light of your imagination, and not by that of common sense. That is David’s voice.” The bright color had come into her face at the sound. “ And what are you going to do with * poor Gussie ?’ ” said Hilda, taking up the photo graph hurriedly. “ Oh, ‘ poor Gussie ’ can stay where he is ! David has no reason to be jealous of him,” an swered Doris contemptuously. (To be Continued.) WIPING oUt\ STAIN. BY AN EX-REBEL. When Johnston, about the middle of July, 1864, turned over the command ot the Confed erate army in and around Atlanta to Hood things looked so blue that the humblest pri vate soldier could realize that nothing but some desperate stroke of luck would save us. In deed, most of us looked upon the “ Cause ” as hopelessly lost. That feeling was the natural cause for homesickness, and it was talked among the men that it was no erime to get out from under the impending blow in the best way possible. I had no home or friends to go to, but thousands of others had, and there were a good many desertions, and a good many other unsuccessful attempts. One of Hood’s first moves was to put a check on this business. He issued very stringent or ders, and it soon came to be known that deser tion would bo punished in the severest man ner. Ido not know that any one was shot for this offense, but there were a dozen men wait ing court-martial, and but for circumstances they would have been tried, convicted, and, perhaps, led out to a disgraceful death. One night, while I was sergeant of the relict guard around our camp, the sentinels captured a young private from an Alabama regiment who was plainly trying to desert. He was sent off under guard, and the next day he was brought before our brigade commander. I took him be fore the general myself, and I heard most of the conversation between them. It seemed that the boy came from a fighting family, and had not only served for a year and a half in the ranks, but had been twice wounded, It was clearly nothing but homesickness which had stirred him up to play the part of deserter. The general knew his lather, and he talked to him of the disgrace—of the grief the old man would feel—of the stain which would rest upon him after the war—of the cowardice of leaving his comrades to bear the brunt, and by and by he had the boy crying. It was a clear case, and the p.risoner could have been reported to head quarters, but the general seemed adverse to this. He talked as kindly as a woman, and he closed the matter by saying : “ I want you to return to your regiment and wipe out this stain. There will boa great battle soon, and you will have opportunity to prove my trust in you. Here is my hand. Go back to duty, and when the hour comes do not fail mo.” The boy uttered his thanks in a broken voice and went away. Only his own captain knew of what ha'd happened, and he also knew of the general’s kindness. It wasn’t many days after that before we moved out to fight the battle of Peachtree Creek. I had my eye on the boy as soon as we got under fire, and I knew by his looks and ac tions that he meant to wipe away that stain. Once he turned and looked me in the eyes. I gave him a friendly nod, but neither of us spoke. He knew of what I was thinking, and 1 saw by the blaze of his eyes that nothing would dismay him. At one part of the line the Union forces were unprepared for the sudden assault and were temporarily rolled back. On our wing they had been aroused and were wait ing for us. Wo had pushed ahead in solid battle lines, torn by their artillery, but closing up again, and by and by we got the word to charge. Then came tbe confusion, the smoke, the hurrah, the whirl and turmoil of battle. We kept crowding ahead, now obliquely slightly to the left, now to the right, and, as they would not give way, we were finally among the guns in battery. We drove beyond them, were breasted back, fought over’ the pieces, gained and lost them, and the boy I was watch ing was ever at the front. Men on either side of him went down, but he was still unwounded. When wo got among the guns it was a hand-to-hand fight, with bayonet and clubbed musket. I saw blood dripping from his bayonet—l saw him raging up and down with only the gun-barrel for a weapon. Twice, as I gathered a few men about me to drag off one of tbe pieces, men in blue surged up, and the boy drove at them almost single handed and raged among them like a lion. Wo held our ground perhaps twenty minutes, our poor old skeleton regiment. numbering hardly a full company as we gave ground. We had just begun to retire, tho boy standing ex posed and blazing away with a musket he had picked up, when I saw him fall. Two or three ot us picked him up and drew him undor the shelter of a bank, hoping he was only wounded, but there was none more dead on the battlefield. A volley must have been fired at him alone, ior at least a dozen bullets had struck him below the head. Death had come to him in one in stant, and on the face was the smile he had worn as he entered the fray—a smile which said to me: “ You know all, but I have wiped the stain away I” So he had, poor boy 1 SHE SHINES BY NIGHT. A LUMINOUS STBEET BELLE. (From th? Louisv'd'e Weekly Commercial.) I’here is a young and beautiful woman just on the eve of leaving that mysterious period ot lite called girlhood, whose fate is, or promises to be, a most remarkable one. Who she is cannot be published, as there are but a few who know ot what is here given, and they are bound to secrecy by family pride and dislike of the no toriety that would be given if her name were made known. Suffice to say, in regard to the latter reason, that if her likeness could be pro cured it would appear in every pictorial paper in the land. All that can be said is that she lives on Third avenue and is the daughter of a wealthy citizen, and that she attended school in this city, and is neither a decided brunette nor blonde. Giving her age would be increasing the chances of discovering her identity, so it is also withheld. The strange thing about this young lady is of a personal nature, and was discovered only last week by the purest accident. It is none other than that her entire person is phosphorescent from her glorious head of hair to the soles of her dainty feet. It is not as bright as the glow ot a fire-fly, but is very perceptible, even in the dusk, and is much like a parlor-match that has been rubbed between wet fingers. The dis covery was made when standing in her room with her mother, the daughter attired in a thin sleeved dress, just after turning down the gas preparatory to going down-stairs late one even ing. The daughter noticed it first, and, believ ing her eyes were affected, called her mother’s attention. To her horror, the mother gave one look and called aloud for her husband. He glanced, saw the astounding revelation, and the family physician was immediately sum moned. The physician gave as his opinion, on being told by the principal in the scene that she felt perfectly well, that if she didn’t feel sick— although he did not understand the case, and said it was unprecedented—he thought nothing serious would result, and advised that no change at all be made in his peculiarly afflicted patient’s mode of life. With still greater pres ence of mind he advised the family, who in their excitement knew not what to do, to kepp quiet about the matter. But tho servant girl was on hand, as she always is when she isn’t wanted. Since then there has been no percep tible change in the young lady’s condition, but there is hope yet that she will ultimately re coyer, as it was thought that there was a slight failing away of the unwelcome glow. It is probable that the affliction came suddenly. If she recovers her name will be given. HUMOR OF THE HOUR. BYTES DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND. SETTLED IT. Grandpa was telling about some one who was very heavy for his size, and he said: “He is the biggest man I ever saw for his size.” At this all smiled, so he tried it again. “ I mean he is the heaviest person for his weight I ever know.” Then, after a pause, “ What are you all laughing at ?” and grandpa walked off in indignation. TOO LATE. There was an exultant smile on his face as he walked into the office of a well-known capi talist, and there was a proud ring in his voice as he said: “ For twenty years I have lived from hand to mouth, waiting for something to turn up. It has finally came. I have made a discovery which, if you will back it with a few hundred dollars, will give us both fortunes.” “ State your case.” “ Well, sir, I have discovered that banana peelings can be utilized for all kinds of table jellies. A peck of old peelings can be made to bring forth twelve tumblers of the finest cur rant jell, and the profit is “ Hold on right there,” interrupted the capi talist; “you are just two years too late. A chap in Chicago not only discovered that, but he found away to work in apple rinds and cores and orange peel, and we can’t infringe on his patent.” “ But “ It’s no use. I’d like to see you get along, but you must drop that. Don’t be discouraged, however. Perhaps you can discover away to make pressed corn beef out of old boot legs. All you want is a machine to run in ths streaks of fat.” THREE DISAPPOINTED WOMEN. There were three middle-aged women and two middle-aged men in the car. The men sat opposite each other, and pretty soon one of them exhibited something which looked like a horse-chestnut and said to the other : “ Here is what I was speaking of. It’s the most subtle poison known. A little scraped off into a cup of tea or milk will kill within an hour and leave no trace.” “Can’tthe doctors discover it?” asked the other. “ No, sir. It is absolutely impossible to de tect its presence in tho human system. It a wife wasn’t living very happily with her hus band— (The three women looked at each other.) “ what a boon this would be. She could have a little ot this ready for his cup of tea at supper time, and he would go to his bed, fall asleep and die without a struggle. She (All the women craned their necks to see the object.) “ would give the alarm, summon the doc- tor, and of course do more or less weeping and grieving in order to carry out her part. The (The women looked at each other in a know ing way.) “ doctor would call it a case of heart dis- ease, and not the slightest suspicion could pos sibly attach to the widow. The only trouble (Each woman bent forward and held her breath to listen.) “ is to get the article into the hands of such women as would like to use it, and to have them understand that I was a person who could be trusted. How (Each woman shook her head as if saying that it would be dangerous.) “ ever, perhaps I shall hit upon some plan. I’m off here. Good-bye.” Each woman followed him with her eyes until he turned a corner, and then they looked suspi ciously at each other and nodded their heads, as if saying : “She’d like that poison—you bet she would I’’ BOX OR COX? The Brunswick Hotel is no more the Water Office than the High School building is the City Hall, but there are people who are determined not to understand this. An average of half a dozen per day walk into the office of the hotel, plank their money down on the counter and call out: “ I want to pay the water tax on No. 254 Blank street.” When the affable clerk informs them that they have made a mistake, which is only what au af fable clerk should do, there is a feeling on the part of these people that they have somehow been abused, and they go off mad. Two or three weeks ago a very stern-faced man, carrying himself very rigidly, entered the hotel, rapped on the counter with his knuckles, and icily observed: “ I’ll never pay it—never!” “ What?” asked Clerk Brown. “ That infernal water tax I You can sue and be hanged!” “ This is not the Water Office.” “It isn’t?” “No, sir; you’ll have to go down four doors.” “ But it this is not the Water Office what do you have the sign up for ?” “ We have no such sign.” ft“ Well, it looks like the place.” “ Not at all, sir. Please call lour doors be low.” “ I’ll be durned if Ido ! Why didn’t you tell me when I first came in that this was a ho tel ?” “ I supposed you knew it.” “ Oh, well, perhaps you will make something by this, and perhaps you won’t.” A week later the stern-faced man entered the Water Office one morning, reached his hand through the window to one of the clerks, and said: “ Shake, old boy. I was out of temper that morning, and have been very sorry for it. Odd, wasn’t it, that I came into this hotel in stead of the Water Office ? You treated me like a gentleman, and I beg your pardon.” “ I—l don’t understand,” replied the clerk. “ Why, I came into this hotel one morning not long ago, and ” “ But this is no hotel. This is the Water Of fice 1” “ But why don’t you put up a sign ?” “ There’s one at the door, sir.” “ And where's the hotel ?” “ Please call four doors above.” “ I won't do it. No, sir—never I See you hung first! Good morning, sir—never’ll pay that infernal tax if I die ior it I” EATING IN ITALY. EVERYTHING EATEN AND EVERY BODY SEEaMINGLY SATISFIED. The Italian of the lower order is not very particular about his eating. What he wants is something to eat, and he cares very little about how it is prepared or in what shape it comes to him. One street leading off from the Theatre San Carlo is for a mile a sort of market devoted to the sale of comestibles, and there are long rows of booths for the preparation and sale of ready made meals. The street itself and the alleys leading from it are indescribably dirty, so dirty that to make a description that will convey any idea of it is as impossible as it would be to describe the hues of a rainbow. Imagine every possible description of garbage, with every other species of filth, thick on the streets, reeking, ferment ing and festering under a tropical sun, and you may have some idea of it. There are kinds of filth mixed with this mass which may not be described in print, for the Italians of the lower classes, male and female, have no sense of the commonest kind of de cency. In the midst of all this stench there are booths for the sale of macaroni and everything else edible that can come within the compass of a cent a portion. There are the hideous cuttle fish, boiled and cut into portions. The seller, with a fist that is as black and grimy as original sin, places a portion of the fish upon a slice of brown bread, dashes some of the hot water in which it was boiled over it, the consumer with a hand equally grimy seizes it, and in a moment it is gone. The macaroni eater takes the long strings in his hand, tbrowa back his head that he may lose none of his pennyworth, and swallows it. There are fish fried in loud smelling oil, fish boiled in filthy water in still more filthy kettles, fish picked and fish in every form, the only difference being that some look more dirty than the others. They are still on an equality in this respect, however, being all as dirty as they can be. But nevertheless everything is eaten, and everybody seems to be satisfied with it. Vast quantities of fruit are eaten in these markets, as it is very cheap and good. Oranges are worth next to nothing—five for a halfpenny, and sometimes cheaper; and other tropical fruits are just as cheap. They ripen the year round, and there never is a lack of them. One article of food is plentiful in Italy, and always good—namely, eggs. The Italian takes naturally to hen culture, it being a pursuit just suited to his nature. The hen is, unlike its owner, an enterprising being, and can skirmish tor her own living. The hen providing for herself, the gathering of the eggs is exactly the Italian’s idea of labor. He is equal to the.picking up of eggs if they are not too much out of the way, and it is a la bor that precisely suits him, because the hen does all the work. Therefore, he cherishes the hen, and looks upon her with great favor. He would like the donkey better if the donkey would only load himself, trot on without guid ance, and unload himself. As the hen boards herself and requires no attention whatever, the Italian being put only to the inconvenience of gathering the eggs, the Italian loves the hen above everything in animated nature. He not only can get the product of her work without any exertion, but the egg, when he has got it, can be consumed without labor. The Italian sells it when he is not hungry, and when he needs the nourishment he can eat it raw. The hen is the Italian’s best friend. The fondness for hen culture furnishes the residents with fresh eggs always, and their style of cooking them is really appetizing. They fry them in oil, they torture them into omelettes with oil, and as in respectable restaurants, ho tels and families, the oil is always good, the re sult is entirely satisfactory. Fortunately, oil is very cheap, and there is but little inducement to adulterate it, and the hen is always present. So he who can live on oggs can get ou well in Italy. AN OPIUM EATEK’S STORY. Crawling Over Red Hot Bars of Iron in His Fearful Frenzy— A. Scientific In vestigation and Its Results. (From the Cincinnati Times-Star.) “ Opium or death !” This brief sentence was fairly hissed into the ear of a prominent druggist.on Vino street by a person who, a lew years ago well off, is to-day a hopeless wreck I One can scarcely realize the suffering of an opium victim. De Quincy has vividly portrayed it. But who can fitly describe the joy ot the rescued victim ? H. C. Wilson, of Loveland, 0., formerly with March, Harwood & Co., manufacturing chemists of St. Louis, and of tho well-known firm of H. C. Wilson & Co., chemists, formerly ot this city, gave our reporter yesterday a bit of thrilling personal experience in this line. “ I have crawled over red hot bars of iron and coals of fire,” he said, “ in my agony dur ing an opium frenzy. The very thought" of my sufferings freezes my blood and chills my bones. I was then eating over 30 grains of opium daily.” “ How did you contract the habit ?” “ Excessive business cares broke me down and my doctor prescribed opium 1 That is the way nine-tenths of cases commence. When I determined to stop, however, I found I coud not do it. “You may be surprised to know,” he said, “ that two-fifths of the slaves ol morphine and opium are physicians. Many of these J met. We studied our cases carefully. We found out what the organs were m which the appetite was developed and sustained ; that no victim was free from a demoralized condition of those or gans ; that the hope of a cure depended entirely upon the degree of vig )r which could he imparted to them. I have soon patients, while undergo ing treatment, compelled to resort to opium again to deaden the horrible pain in those or gans. I marvel how I ever escaped. “ Do you mean to say, Mr. Wilson, that you have conquered the habit?” “ Indeed I have.” “ Do you object to telling me how ?” “No, sir. Studying the matter with several opium-eating physicians, we became satisfied that tho appetite for opium was located in the kidneys and liver. Our next object was to find a specific for restoring those organs to health. The physicians, much against their code, ad dressed their attention to a certain remedy and became thoroughly convinced on its scientific merits alone that it was the only one that could be relied upon in every case of disordered kid neys and liver. I thereupon began using it and, supplementing it with my own special treat ment, finally got fully over tho habit. I may say that the most important part of the treat ment is to get those organs first into good work ing condition, for in them the appetite originates and is sustained, and in them over ninety per cent, of all other human ailments originate.” “ For the last seven years this position has been taken by the proprietors of that remedy and finally it is becoming an acknowledged scientific truth among the medical profession; many of them, however, do not openly acknowl edge it, and yet, knowing they have no other scientific specific, their code not allowing them to use it, they buy it upon tbe quiet and pre scribe it in their own bottles.” “ As I said before, the opium and morphine habits can never be cured until the appetite for them is routed out of the kidneys and liver. I have tried everything—experimented with everything and as the result of my studies and investigation, I can say I know nothing can ac complish this result but Warner’s safe cure.” “ Have others tried your treatment ?” “Yes, sir, many, and all who have followed ft fully have recovered. Several ot them who did not first treat their kidneys and liver for six or eight weeks, as I advised them, completely failed. This form of treatment is always insist ed upon for all patients, whether treated by mail or at the Loveland Opium Institute, and supplemented by our special private treatment, it always cures.” Mr. Wilson stands very high wherever known. His experience is only another proof of the wonderful and conceded power of Warner’s safe cure over all diseases of the kidneys, liver and blood, and the diseases caused by derangements of those organs. W’e may say that it is very flattering to the proprietors of Warner’s safe cure, that it has received the highest med Peal endorsement, and, after persistent study, it is admitted by scientists that there is nothing in materia medica for the restoration of those great organs that equals it in power. We take pleasure in publishing the above statements coming from so reliable a source as Mr. Wilson, and confirming by personal experience what we have time and again published in our columns. We also extend to the proprietors our hearty congratulations on the results wrought. THE BLACK CAT. A Midnight Visit to a French Drinking Place Where Bright People Go. (Para Letter in Boston Herald.) The Chat Noir is by no means a brasserie where beer is consumed by the gallon. From the day it was opened—then it occupied hum bler quarters on one of the exterior boulevards —it became the rendezvous of yoiwg poets, painters, sculptors and journalists, who, over their pipes and beer, found relaxation after the day’s work in discussing topics of common in terest—the last new book, the coming or past salon, the premier of the night before. They some times talked wildly, and many mad theories in literature and art were started, but what they said was flavored with more or less witty bon most, versos were recited, comic chansons sung, and thus a sort of modern cafe Prooope came into existence. In tbe public room with which we begin our inspection, the eye is fairly dazzled by the number and variety ot bibelots of all kinds, many of them very valuable. There are stained glass panels, old china, ancient arms and armor, statuettes in marble and bronze, pieturee in oil and in water colors, etchings and engrav ings. Most of these are sketches by artiste of the impressionist school and by habitues of the place. We followed the sound ot mandolins into a back room arranged to resemble a largo arbor. There is growing ivy on the walls, and the ceil ing is of green lattice work. Here we find a troupe of Spanish mandolin players executing those airs, now slow and solemn, now quick and lively, now tender and caressing, which Spain has inherited from the Moors. Then we are taken up-staire and ushered into the editorial sanctum of the Chat Noir. Yes, the editorial sanctum; for Rudolph Salis, ths intelligent and shrewd patron of tho cafe, the “cabaratier gentilhomme,” as he calls himself, hit, some years ago, on the happy thought of starting a comic paper, which he named after his establishment. The illustrations are by real artists, the letter-press is contributed by mon many of whom write well, and the general man agement is looked after by Salis himself, who can on occasion wield a pen right cleverly. The Chat Noir is already in its third year, and you will find it for sSle at all the kiosques on the boulevards. While we are looking over two albums filled with curious and funny autograph poems and sketches, a tall fellow, wearing a swallow-tail coat, ornamented with wide green embroidered palm leaves and a dross sword— the livery of the waiters at the Chat Noir is the uniform of the members of the French Academy —came to tell us that supper Was ready. While eating it, I point out to my friends certain celebrities of Parisian Bohemia at neighboring tables. One of these is Willets, chief artistio contributor to the Chat Noir, a man who, in his particular line, ranks as a master. Ho has a long, thin, pale face, with a tired look about him, and a pair of sharp eyes. His work is not of a kind calculated to attract the general pub lic, but artists admire the way he draws, and also his coloring, iu which the black, white, metallic grays and pearly pink tints predomi nate. Here at the Chat Noir he is a sort of a demi-god, and that panel over yonder is con sidered his chef d'ceuore. It represents a skele ton on horseback, galloping over a stretch of snow dyed blood-rod by the rays of a setting sun, that barely hides the ghastly corpses ol a battlefield. a strange" eight. A HORSE AND A NEWFOUNDLAND DOq ATJVAR. A desperate battle between a horse and a dog took place at Louisville last Sunday aiternoon. Both animals belong to a livery stable man, and were confined under the same roof. Tho horse broke his halter strap and wandered about the stable. He stopped at the stall occupied by the dog, which is a large, handsome Newfoundland, and began nipping hay. The dog growled at the intruder and made a feint as if about to pre cipitate an attack. The horse resented the af front, and laying back his ears nipped the dog on one ot his tore legs. This challenge seemed to be accepted with great alacrity, and in a jiffy the representative of the equine family found himself in a helpless condition. The dog had fastened a set of strong teeth in the horse’s jaw and held on as if determined to end all differ ences without delay. By a great effort the horse shook the dog loose and then began a vicious attack with his fore feet, cutting and stamping the handsome New foundland in a terrible manner. The dog even tually got the horse by the throat and hung on until he was forced to release his death-like grip by a number of men who had been at tracted to the spot by the disturbance. It was found that the horse was so badldy torn and lacerated that he will probably have to be killed, while the dog did not fare much better. The latter animal is the one whose intelligence and strength rescued his master from a couple of foot-pads last Winter, who had begun to in flict a terrible punishment by the use of billies and clubs, and is known to be one of the best bred brutes in the State. Buemese-wise. —The Burman marries early, and, though polygamy is permitted, has only one wife, whom, with the other females of the family, he compels to do all the work. Di vorces by either party are easily arranged, and are very common occurrences. It two persons are tired of each other’s society, they dissolve partnership in the following simple but conclu sive manner. They respectively light two can dles, and, shutting up their hut, sit down and wait quietly until they are burned out. jha one whose candle burns out first leaves tho house at once and forever, taking nothing but the clothes he or she may have on at tbe time, all else becoming the property of the other 1 jparty.