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you see, and it answers very welt so far. I love him better every day, and I think he would tell you something ol the same sort about me.” But Mrs. Edgcombe gave the slender white fingers that crept round her own no responsive pressure—she was shocked, scandalized. This calm, unenthusiastic way of looking at marriage In the very glow of the honeymoon seemed to her atheistic, French, diabolical. Doris’s calm demeanor throughout her engagement she had praised and upheld as well-bred; but this cold blooded acceptance of the possibility of her get ting gired of her husband and of his getting tired of her was carrying good breeding a little too far. , , , . “I suppose this is the modern, fashionable way of looking at marriage, Doris ?” said she, gravely. “At any rate, I never heard anything like it before. It sounds very clever and very shrewd to be talking already about the time when you won’t be quite so young and so hand some and so loving as you are now; and, of course., I know quite well that married people can’t be so enthusiastic about each other when they have grown old and selfish as they are when they are in their bloom. But Ido think I like the old, simple fashion of talk better, when a young wife used to think her love was etrong,enough to keep them always young, and the young husband, even if he knew better, at least said nothing about it, and tried to think so, too.” Doris felt remorseful for her frankness when she saw how deeply her words had pained her grandmother ; and she said quickly: “It is only a new way of talking, granny dear ; we feel ,ust the same as you and grand papa did when you were first married; only lust now it is the fashion to be cynical and to hide one’s feelings away as if one were ashamed of them.” “But you need not surely try to hide them away from me. And I don’t think you could, my dear, if they were as strong as you say. However, I suppose I must be content with what you choose to show me. When is this new-fashioned husband of yours coming back ; or does it depend on what attractions he can find in Paris whether he leaves you to spend the rest of your honeymoon alone or not?” “It is not quite so bad as that yet,” said Doris, laughing. “He will be back to-morrow in time for dinner, and he will bring Charlie Papillon down with him, 1 hope.” But Mrs. Edgcombe’s patience was exhausted. “ Charlie Papillon I” she exclaimed sharply. “ To stay with you lor a week or so and prevent your feeling dull, I suppose? A very proper person to choose I I should think, if he does not succeed in persuading you both that the duty of married people is each to go his own wj# and pay no attention whatever to the tie winch binds them, nobody could.” Poor Doris saw her mistake, but hardly knew what to say in defence of her bright little favor ite Charlie which would not dfcaw down a fresh storm of indignation upon that easy-going phil osopher’s head. Her fondness for him had long been a sore point with old Mrs. Edgcombe, whose principles, though not more rigid than those of an elderly lady ought to be, were buck ram indeed to Charlie’s. She had been in con stant dread of his persuading Doris to marry him, and she was now quite ready to consider him the evil genius hovering about the young household, eager to wreck their domestic hap piness by his Mephistophelian suggestions and influence. She had not thought however, though she had come down prepared with a word of warning against him, that he would begin the work of ruin so soon. “It was my suggestion that David should bring Charlie with him, not for a week, but just for a day or.two,” said Doris diffidently. “ You see, grandmamma, when you and I came down here every Summer and had the house full of people, the boy used to come down here as a matter of course whenever he liked; and I think he must miss his rowing and lawn-tennis and the nice people we used to have here. It seems rather selfish of David and me to keep the dear old place all to ourselves, when there are half a dozen unused rooms that people would be glad to come and fill, and the fruit is getting ripe for nobody to eat, and the boats are Falling to pieces in the boat-house with nobody to null them. 1 hate to go into the billiard-room; it iQoks so desolate now there are no cues lying about and no boys quarreling round the table. I don’t even en oy the flowers on the river so much as I should if there were a lot more peo ple here to them too. I think, and David thinks too, that when one finds oneself in pos session of nice things that lots of other people would like to have, it is wrong not to spread the enjoyment of them as far as one can.” “ Well, I should admire your unselfishness more if I could only persuade myself that it was genuine, my dear. But Ido think that if your love for each other were a little stronger, you would not have quite so much to spare in gen eral philanthropy.” “ But I am philanthropical only to the per sons I like, you know. lam longing to get poor Hilda Warren away for a little change from the nasty hot theatre, just from Sunday morning to Mondav afternoon. That is not unselfish, be cause i like her and she amuses me.” This was another unlucky speech, for Mrs. Edgcombe tolerated the girl only for the sake of her old acquaintance with Hilda’s mother, who was still alive, but who was living uncomforta bly in furnished apartments since the death of her husband. That event, which happened just after Hilda’s final return from school in Paris, when she was seventeen, had changed the whole course of the girl s life. From large houses, pleasant lawns, handsome dresses, many friends, she descended at once to two rooms, as many gowns, about as many friends, and one pot of flowers in the window of the dingy sitting-room. Instead of an introduction into society, balls, concerts, amusements of all kinds, and the ad mirers which her pretty face would surely have attracted, she plunged at once into an existence of hard work for the necesvaries of life, teach ing children in the morning, studying design at night, with tea at the pastry-cook's in the com pany of two or three more girl students as her only recreation and the awkward attentions of their ill-bred brothers as the only homage her fair face could now hope to attract. An ordi nary girl would have sunk gradually into the faded and industrious hack-artist, or the well mannered but affected governess who will never allow her employers to forget that their position is nothing compared to that her father filled. Hilda Warren was not an ordinary girl, and after three or four years of dreary, ill-paid work, she gave up teaching and went on the stage, not making herself the laughing-stock of the critics at a morning performance in some important and difficult part, as she would have done in her ignorance bad she been able to af ford that incompetent display, but speaking two lines as a servant in a modern comedy—speak ing them well, too, so that a good many among the audience could hear them. For more than two years she had now been at the same thea tre, earning a salary that she could almost have lived on had she been by herself, but which was not enough to support her mother upon without the necessity of spending most of her daylight hours poring over her old work of designing. When Doris by accident found out this girl, whom she had often met at children’s parties when they both lived in the same circle, she was struck by what seemed to her the heroism of the S actress and by a deep sense of her own •rity to her. Mrs. Edgcombe, on the other hand, was struck with astonishment and some disgust with Hilda’s choice of a profes sion, and looked upon the girl, with her some what masculine freedom of speech and open preference lor men’s society, as a most unde sirable companion for her own granddaughter, whom she already considered rather too inde pendent in manners and in mind. Doris would not give up her friend, however, especially as Hilda’s sensitive pride made her society a pleasure not too easily got, and the young actress had been among the guests at her wed ding. Mrs. Edgcombe was just wise enough and just simple enough to look upon actresses as the sworn foes of newly-wedded wives, and the introduction of one of them into the scarcely launched household at Fairleigh was just the one thing wanted to make Doris’s willful sacri fice of her own happiness complete. “Ah,” said she, when Doris had remarked that Hilda would amuse her. “And she will amuse your husband, too, I dare say.” “ Hilda amuses everybody,” answered Mrs. Glyn, without taking any notice of the sugges tion implied by her grandmother’s tone. “When she and Charlie are together, one can do noth ing but laugh.” “Is Charlie growing fond of her?” asked Mrs. Edgcombe, less stiffly, scenting a ro mance. “ Oh, you know Charlie is fond of every pret ty girl he meets. I think Hilda shares his very best affection with about two others, though. He is really very much attached to her. Last time she came to see me in town they were in separable.” “ Then why doesn't he marry her ?'* “ Why, he couldn’t afford to, even if she could ! You see, if they were to marry, she would be spoiled for an actress, and he would be spoiled for a—butterfly. Each has a mis sion, whi h each fulfills perfectly, to amuse and please everybody they meet.” “But isn’t their own happiness to be consid ered ?” “ Yes; and that is just what we all consider best when we encourage them to wander about at their own sweet will, and get everybody’s af fection and liking, in return for being bright and sweet and irresponsible in the midst of us dull, staid old married people. I don’t myself think you consider people’s happiness best by tying them up in twos just at the age when they most enjoy their own liberty.” Mrs. Edgcombe looked hard at her grand daughter; but Doris was looking so sweet and bright that she could scarcely think these words were dictated by a feeling that she had given up her liberty too soon. Both ladies began to feel that it was time to turn the talk to other sub jects, since the chance of their agreeing upon points of domestic interest had evidently grown slighter than ever since the marriage of the younger one, and before long they left the house to enjoy the early evening in the shade of the trees on the lawn. The elder lady returned to town before luncheon the next day, unwilling to meet cither the g. and son-in-law whose departure had so much displeased her or his evil genius, Char lie Papillon. She said no more warning words to the young wife; but the last look sh’e gave her as she bade her good-by at the station was elo quent with anxiety and foreboding which made Dons smile when she was alone. “ l oot grandmamma I She won’t believe I am happy. As if a woman could help being happy with David I” CHAPTER IV. “ WHERE WILL THIS EHD I” Doris took all pains in her room that after noon to look her very best. She put on an em broidered India muslin gown of palest yellow tint, and fastened dark red roses on her breast with a diamond brooch. She was too handsome and too young to need much aid from dress, and she disliked elaborate toilets which inter fered with her freedom of movement. But the simple stylo she preferred showed off her grace ful figure, and as the flush of expectancy rose to her cheeks while she wandered about the house, restlessly unable to occupy herseli with any thing until her husband’s return, she looked unspeakably lovely. He had not told her, in the letter she had re ceived from him that day, by what train he should come, but had said he should be at Fair leigh as early as possible, so that she could not go to the station to meet him, but had to con tent herself with listening tor the barking ot the dogs, which would surelyahuounce their mas ter’s approach. But at the last he came upon her ail unex pectedly, as she was standing on a chair in the path outside the drawing-room window nailing up a straggling branch of a climbing rose-tree. She sprang down at the sonnd of his tread,with her face sparkling with pleasure. «It has seemed such a long time to me 1 Has it seemed long to you, David ?” “Very long, mydarling—long enough for you to grow much handsomer than you were before 1 went away.” “Ah I you see solitude agrees with me,” said she saucily. “ Where is Charlie ? Haven’t you brought him ?” Charlie had lagged discreetly in the hall, busy disposing ot his hat and his umbrella, and he now came sauntering through the drawing-room and stood on the steps at the door with an air of much modest diffidence. “ I haven't seen you since you have attained the dignity of wifehood, Mrs. Glyn, and you look so much more commanding than you used to do that I stand quite in awe of you.” “Yes, you have. You saw me at the wed ding.” “Ah I that didn’t count. Then you were only a bride, and looked awfully ashamed of your self. You wouldn’t have me stand in awe ot a bride I Everybody could see you were sorry you had not chosen me; I heard people remark upon it, and say how much they pitied Glyn. So did I.” “If you have quite finished ail the absurd and tedious romances you have been carefully making up all the way from town, you may come down those steps and take in this chair lor me,” said Doris gravely. “ I will; and then I'll make love to you while David gets himself ready for dinner. How glad you must be, David, of an opptfifunity for a wash, after your loug journey I" said he, so licitously. “ And leave the destroyer of my domestic Eeaoe in lull possession of the field ?” asked 'avid, in his sweet, soil voice, laughing. “ Yes; 1 will fight you to-morrow morning be fore breakfast, if you like to get up early, and we’ll choose pistols, because 1 know I can shoot better than you. Or we’ll settle it with boat hooks out in the creek, if you prefer noveltajl” he called out in an obliging tone, as Glyn dis appeared into the house. “ And now that the hated tyrant is no more,” continued Papillon, easily, “we’ll go and sit un der the trees and flirt.” And they strolled across the lawn to a group of garden seats and chairs under a walnut tree, from which they could see the smooth water of the creek and watch the boats and the rapid little steam launches on the broader stream of the river outside. Then, when they had loaned for a few min utes on the iron railing which ran along the top of the bank at Hie edge of the water, and Char lie had scolded her for spoiling her dress, and they had contradicted each other rudely as to the'distam e from where they stood to the op posite bank of the creek, he said, refleotively: “It is against my principiea to praise’the husbands of pretty and charming women to their wives; but what a dear old chap David is 1” Doria laughed, very much pleased. “He really is, you knqc&, I don’t wish to prejudice you, but I must repeat it. As we were coming down in the train to-day, touting about one thing and another, I couldu t help thinking that, if ever a girl had a good excuse for throwing herself away, it was you, Doris.” “ Very neatly put. I am sure David would shed tears ot gratitude it lie could hear you.” “My dear, I don’t expect gratitude. What disinterested good comes in my way to do in th s world I do, leaving it to chance to get paid in a better one. But to hear him prose on in his sweet, grave way about the people he kfcbws, and the beet way of showing them kindness, as u'he were a benevolent old man at the other end of life, instead of a handsome young one at this, made me feel quite sentimentally toward him—it did, really ” “ He is awfully kind-hearted,” said Doris, her mouth softening. “Whom does he want to be kind to now ?” Oh, he talked about Mrs. Edgcombe’s lone liness now she has lost you, and about young Hill’s failure on the Stock Exchange, and even spoke as if he was sorry for that silly young Melton, who was BO rude to him after you had accepted him.” “ Oh, what has become of the boy ?” “He is in very low water, I believe. Things really have gone rather hardly with the boy lately. To begin with—two months ago he thought there was only a cousin of his between him and a large property; now the cousin has suddenly come back from America or one of those places with a wife and a whole boat-load of children. Of course Melton might have expected his cousin to marry, for be is quite a young man; but still it was incon siderate of the other fellow, when onr friend Augustus was ip debt, too I And now hia mo ther is ill, and I believe, when she dies, his in terest in her money ceases ; it is an annuity, I suppose, or an allowance of some kind.” “Then, why doesn’t he do something ?•’ asked Doris, indignantly. “ What is he to do? If he were a mechanic’s son, he might drive a plow, or a water-cart, or do lots of things; but there is very little a gentle man can do without any training.’ “ I should think Gussie could drive a water cart” “ No, he couldn’t,” said Charlie, impatiently. “Now, how should I look driving a water cart i” “ Well, then, he might cut pencils and rule paper in an office like you.” “Oh, you must have interest to get into a Government office. Even your Charlie didn’t get there by the unaided light of hie natural genius. David spoke of introducing him to old Bramwell; he might do something for him, if Melton would go into the city.” “He ought to be glad to go anywhere, in stead of wasting his time,” said Doris, severely. “ Mrs. Bramwell is going to give a garden party ; Til get him to send Gussie an invita tion.” “ Oh, don’t let her forget me, too ! I like Mrs. Bramwell’s garden-parties. I know a path in her garden that everybody but me thinks leads to nowhere; but there is a seat at the end close to a sweet-briar bush and right under a wall covered with apricots. I’ll take you there, and we’ll stay there all the after noon, and Go away, David I I don’t know where you have been brought up; you might know that it is not manners te come and inter rupt. Go away, I say ; we’ll we ll talk to you presently.” Then, turning his back upon his host, who had sauntered up them just as the dinner-gong sounded, he continued to Doris, more effectually than ever, “ And you shall tell me all your troubles, just as you have been do ing now ; and then I’ll comfort you, and we’ll be so happy.” “ 1 snail really have to put yon into the creek, Charlie,” said David. “ Oh, not till after dinner 1” answered Papil lon, with gentle remonstrance, as he gave his arm to Doris, and they.all went indoors. The three had a cosy little dinner in the great room which would hold thirty; and at the close of a very happy evening Papillon found himself installed for the first time in one of the beat bed-rooms. In the old days, when he had been one of the crowd of visitors whom Mrs. Edgcombe and her granddaughter entertained all through the Summer, he had had, as an in significant bachelor, to content himself with all sorts of impromptu couches, very near the roof. He leaned out of the window, rejoicing in his promotion, and smoked a cigar in the moon light. Presently he heard footsteps softly descend ing the stairs, and the stealthy unfastening of the drawing-room window below him; and then he saw that the midnight disturbers of his peace were his host and hostess, who had stolen out for just one more stroll in the sweet Summer night-air. They sauntered to gether up the path on the left-hand side of the lawn, and disappeared behind the shrubs and trees at the end. He waited at the window un til they reappeared from among the tall hedges of yew and guelder roses, and watched them as they slowly returned toward the house, feeling quite poetical. They were such an ideal pair. He was so tall and well built and moved so easily ; she was |a woman of ideal beauty ot face and iorm. Half-way down the path the shawl she bad thrown round her slipped from her head, and her husband stopped to draw it again into its place so tenderly that Papillon turned away hie head, excited to enthusiasm and something like worship. “ Where will this end ?” thought the philoso pher presently. “ They can’t go on like that in this groveling wicked old world of ours. They are too pure, too perfect. They’ll die, and slide off to heaven just as they are, without any cnange to all—except just the wings.” CHAPTER V. “l HAVE AH OBJECTION TO HER BEING DROWNED.” It was in the very last days of July that Mrs. Bramwell’s garden-party came ofi. The weath er was perfect, the grounds, which were next to Fairleigh, were among the most beautiful on that part of the Thames, and all the arrange ments made for that particularly dull form of entertainment were complete. There wae lawn tennis fer the energetic, there were little tents and arbors with seats for the lazy, there were boats, there was a band, and there were two marquess for refreshments. Papillon was there. Having instantly secured an introduction to the prettiest girl on the ground, and having taken her down his favorite paths and satisfied himself that her conversa tional merit was not equal to her appearance, he had generously given way to a rival and taken himselt ofi in search of metal more attractive, carefully avoiding his hostess, lest she should NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 13 1886 pounce upon him and make him do duty at the side of some elderly youug lady whose appear ance was not equal to her conversational merit. Charlie was not a useful young man ; he utterly declined to bestow his devoted but valueless attentions upon any ladies but those most sought after. Mrs. Hodson was there, attracting more at tention and even more admiration than the far lovelier and younger Mrs. Glyn. She wore a dress of some light silk covered with lace, and a daring hat trimmed with loug white feathers and exquisitely-made artific al flowers. She carried a sunshade the lace ou which was worth more than all the lace Doris had ever possessed, mounted upon an ivory handle on which her monogram was carved among delicate trails ot ivy and sprays of lilies. Her husband was not with her ; he would come by-and-by, she said, on his return from the city. “He is such a slave to that horrid city,” she said, with a pretty frown of petulance, to Mrs. Bramwell. And her hostess condoled with her on the fearful fate of having a husband who was a slave to the city : but the matrons near, whose gowns had not come from Paris and whose monograms weienot carved on anything, smiled lightly to each other and wondered how the poor man ever found time to come home at all when he had such extravagance as that to support. That a woman of thirty-five or more -even these severe judges could not add to her age, she looked so much younger—should dress like a duchess and take the attention of the young men away from the girls, their daughters, in stead of submitting to be placed on the shelf, was a scandalous thing. And what were Mrs. Hodson's own daughters doing while their mother was enjoying herself and flirting like a young girl ? But these indignant dowagers overshot the mark when they passed this ceusure upon Mrs. Hodson’s flirtations. She certainly did flirt, but it was with the easy assurance of the matured beauty, and not with the shy tentative coquet ries of the young girl. She attracted more ad miration, sbe got more attention than the very fairest of girls whose cause the elder ladies took up so hotly ; but sbe could scarcely be said to have robbed them of homage which would have fallen to their share if she had not been there. For pretty and bright girls will get tbeir meed of soft words and tender looks, and plain or dull ones such share of attention as must al ways suffice them in a throng, whatever the charms of the sirens who enter the lists with them may be. But much-maligned Mrs. Hod son, who bore the sarcasms of her compeers with great equanimity, fulfilled a social function to which the loveliest of debutantes would have been unequal; her brilliant presence and sunny manner gave life to the whole assembly, she broke up ths knots of listless young men who would have gathered round the refreshment tents and remained there ; she paired off chatty old gentlemen with tattling old ladies; she spied out neglected girls and provided them with partners from the ranks of her own body guard of submissive youths; she flitted about over the lawns and among the paths, pretty, gracious and charming, ensuring the success of the affair by taking half the burden of entertain ment upon her fair plump shoulders, and earn ing the deep gratitude of Mrs. Bramwell, who had indeed reckoned upon her valuable aid at the outset of the undertaking. Dangerous Mrs. Hodson might be, as less brilliant women did not scruple to call her, but her danger was not for the multitude, not in a throng. Doris, in sateen of pale tints ot pink and gray, took admiration less by storm but more surely ; face, figure, dress and movement satisfied every demand of the most critical taste. She had ob tained invitations for Hilda Warren, whose slight figure was conspicuous by the quaint simplicity of her dress, and for Guss:e Melton, a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking young man with a single eyeglass and vacuous expres sion, who lounged with a kindred spirit just outside one of the refreshment-marquees, in a listless and sulky dissatisfaction with the enter tainment provided lor him; he had failed hn an endeavor to get a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Glyn, but be could not keep his eyes from wandering in her direction. Mrs. Hodson, who saw everybody, saw him, bad him introduced to her, swept him off in her train, and he presently had the satisfaction of finding himself in a group of which Doris was a member. She was talking to another lady about a horse-show at which they had both been pres ent. “ Did you get the pair of chestnuts you took such a fancy to, Mrs. Glyn ?” “ No. I haven t got over the disappointment yet. David forgot all about it till it was too late, and somebody else had snapped them up.” “If you know who bought them and would trust me with the matter, 1 would see if it is not possible to get them yet, Mrs. Glyn,” said young Alelton, interposing eagerly. “ Oh, thank you 1 It is very kind of you, but I really don’t know who did buy them, and 1 have resigned myself by this time to doing with out them I” “But 1 have no doubt I could find out who the buyer was, and I should be delighted,” he persisted, with rather too much empressement. Doris cut him short. “ You must not tempt me, Mr. Melton. It is an extravagance I am glad to have been saved from.” It was the very mildest of snubs, delivered with a smile that had no unkindness in it; but Melton drew back sharply, as if stabbed, and instantly devoted elaborate attention to Mrs. Hodson. It was later in the afternoon when Mrs. Bram well suddenly remembered a promise she had made to send for a little boy, the son of a young mother too recently widowed to be present her self at any assembly ot pleasure, “ to see the pretty ladies and hear the music.” “ Shall I go and fetch him, Mrs. Bramwell ?” naked Doris, with whom little Willie Hillier was a favorite. “ No, we can’t spare you, Doris ; I must find some good-natured person who won’t be missed.” “ But I won’t be long; I should like to go. He lives up by the lock, doesn't he ? Well, I will get somebody to row me up, and combine business with pleasure. Who will row me up to the lock ?” Half a dozen young fellows of all degrees of incompetency volunteered eagerly, and a iair baired lad who just knew one end of a boat from another made a rush for the bank. David interfered. “ I can’t let you go with any one who doesn’t know the river well, Doris. The light is going, and you will have to pass the weir. Let me see —who is the best waterman here ? Ah, young Melton knows the river, doesn’t he ?” Of all the men who had heard pretty Mrs. Glyn’s speech, he alone had not stirred in an swer to her appeal. Of course her husband bad not noticed this, and paid no attention to her murmured objection. Melton himself caught her low remonstrance, however, and when Da vid stepped up to him and said, “ You will take care of her, won’t you?” he said, stiffly : “ Er-perhaps-er—Mrs. Glyn may not care to avail herseli of my services.’ 1 “ Don’t you want to go then ?” asked David simply. “Of course—l should be delighted. I am only airaid Mrs. Glyn may have some objec tion.” “ Nonsense I” said David quietly. “ I have an objection to her being drowned, and I know you can manage a boat.” Melton was making his way to the boats with stiff ungraciousness, and languidly unbuttoning the one glove he had on, when Doris made a movement toward one of the other men, as if to secure his services. With sudden eagerness Melton sprang forward and offered his hand to help her into the boat David had chosen from the rest, as looking the most comfortable and the safest. Two or three rashly officious hands from among the group on the bank unshipped the rudder in giving her the ropes, splashed her dress in helping to push off the boat, and made their presence felt in similar ways. She thanked them good-humoredly, but felt glad when the boat was fairly under way and she was out Of reach of their zealous hands. (To be Continual.! •‘BY GUM I” <7- HE WAS FAT, BUT HE WAS CHEERED. The boat was just casting off from the pier when a man in citizen’s clothes, who appeared to be greatly excited, rushed up the gang-plank and shouted to the captain to wait. Three or four minutes later it was understood that a des perate robber was ou board, and that the excited man was his victim. None of us remembered of seeing “ a ragged, desperate-looking chap ” come aboard, but the man was sure of it, and we began a search. Nobody wanted a robber and a desperado aboard, and the search went on with a will. After about ten minutes the man who had rushed aboard uttered shouts of exultation. He had discovered the arch villain hidden under some furniture on the lower deck, and the mate produced a revolver and ordered the fellow to come out er take the consequences. “Be prepared—look out for him!” cautioned the excited individual, and three or four more pistols came into view, and others secured bolts and bars. The desperado came forth. He was a boy of fifteen, ragged, dirty and frightened. He had something wrapped up in a newspaper, but he had no weapons. “ He’s the one who robbed me—there’s his plunder 1“ shouted the victim, and three or four more closed in on the lad. The package was taken from him and opened. We expected to see bonds or money or jewelry, but instead of that our eyes rested on a half eaten loaf of bread. “ I hadn’t'anytbing to eat for two days I” said the boy as he looked from ftioe to face, and his big blue eyes filled with tears and his chin quiv ered. “ He’s a robber, and I’ll send him to State Prison!” exclaimed the man, as he seized the boy by the collar. "By gum I” growled a voice from the gang way, and a fat, red-faced man, who had armed himself with a heavy stick, threw it down with a crash and pushed into the crowd and asked : “Boy, who are you?” “ Tim Williams.” “ Where’s your homo ?” “ N-nowhere I” “Did you rob this man of that loaf of bread ?” “ I-yes, sir; but I was starving.” “ Oh I you young villain. I’ll stop your thiev ing and robbing I” shouted the loser of the broad. “ Some one help me get him ashore I” “By gum I” said the fat man, as ho felt in his pockets. He fisbed up a nickel, handed it to the baker and continued : “By gum I I guess not I There’s your money and 1 stand by the boy! les, sir—by gum, sir I” “ Ho b a thief !’• “Can’t help that, sir! He’s a boy, and he was hungry and had no other means to get bread. I’m bis friend, sir -by gum, sir ! Any body who lays a hand on that boy has got to climb over me—by gum 1” Fifty men (Sheered the fat man and groaned the baker, and the latter gripped his nickel and walked ashore. “Captain,” said the fat man, “give this boy a chance to wash up and I’ll hunt him up some clothes. I’m going to give him a show, air—by gum, sir I I was kicked and cuffed and stepped on myself when I was a boy, and I can feel for this chap, sir -by gum, sir, yes, sir, and I’ll probably take him home with me. Come, Tim— by gum; but there’s nothing desperate about you, and we’ll have a talk and see how wo can belter your fortunes. Yes, sir—by gum, sir I” And as the boat moved away ev-arybody gave three cheers for “ By Gum 1” and Tim. MimVl’S THIMBLE. BY ETTIE ROGERS. “The new tenants have sent their first load,” said Minerva Lemoine, glancing casually through a curtainless window of thecdismantled drawing-room, from which a brawny truckman was just conveying the last articles of furui ture. “ And our things have all gone—we are leaving nothing behind ns except my thimble.” Miss Lemoine was not like the Minerva of the legend and the marble—she had no place ol majesty, no panoply of power, no resplen dent buckler, no marvelous gifts from the gods I She was only a slim girl with a fair, pals face and innocent, sad brows; she was only a sort of factotum to a somewhat pretentious young kins woman, and her most prized possession was a simple thimble—a dsinty bijou of gold-edged, with a lauoilul rim of sapphires as blue as her own sweet eyes. There was a little romance associated with the pretty thimble—it was the gilt of one who had once been her dear lover, of one who was still her faithfully beloved, although he had passed out of her life and gone his unknown way in mystery and silence; of one in whose truth she still believed, despite all the .time and change between them. This little gift was the ever vivid reminder of the happy days gone by; it was the magic circlet which brought back the bright visions and blissful dreams, the ten der promises and fond assurances of their shadowed love; it was the talisman which re pelled all fears and doubts and kept faith quickening where even hope had perished. “ Ours is the love of a perfect trust,” Cyril Grosvenor had said to her at parting. “Though the whole earth might lay between you and me, still I know you would be true, my darling, and remain mine only. And though I might never again look upon your face, my dearest, still should I belong always to you and never to any other.” But her treasured little souvenir was no longer in her possession. In the turmoil and disorder of packing and moving it had been mislaid or lost, and so sud denly and unaccountably had it disappeared, that even the wise Minerva of old, with all her acumen and her marvelous methods ot re search, might have despaired finding it. “ You can buy another, I suppose,” was the indifferent remark of her young kinswoman—a haughty, showy young lady, who stood taking a final and rather lugubrious survey of the empty drawing-room. “I declare, Min, you are more disturbed about that worthless thim ble than you are about leaving the handsome old bouse. You haven't a bit of sentiment, Min, nor a bit of sympathy for anybody either. 1 myself positively feel hysterical now 1 begin to realize the house is actually sold and is to be occupied by strangers.” “They have brought some elegant new furni ture-rose plush and ebony—and some ex quisite statuettes in alabaster,” Min said with out the slightest concern for the imminent hys terics. “Don’t toll me what they are bringing,” was the pettish response. “ They are rich, of course, or they could never have bought such a house as this. If there hadn’t been a dreadful mortgage or something, papa wouldn’t have sold the place. But his difficulties have only just begun, I suppose; we shall be getting poorer and poorer—l am sure of that! This year we can afford to rent something tolerably stylish and to keep our carriage; next year we shall come down to apartments and hired cabs, and the next will ba an attic and destitution, I don't doubt,” sbe added, more iu wrath of present evil than with real apprehension for the future, perhaps. “ 1 shouldn’t borrow trouble, Julie, if I were you,” Min returned gently as she followed the other down the brown stone steps of the abdi cated mansion. “There are losses more sor rowful than those of riches, you know.” “ The loss of a memento thimble, or of an in constant admirer, you mean, I suppose,” Julie said with a peculiar and not altogether agreeable smile flickering around her thin lips. Min was silent; she could not discuss the one memory which she had kept sweet and sacred in the bleak and toilsome desert of her lite. ” 0,1 know all about the affair,” Julie con tinued with her haughty eyes turned for a second furtively upon the fair pale face, which bad flushed almost painfully. “ Cyril Grosve nor made me his confidante, of course I And I think he really did admire you Min; but 1 wasn’t a bit jealous, I assure you.” “No?” Min murmured half unconsciously, as the flush suddenly changed to a startled pallor. . “ Indeed, no! Why should I have been ?” Julie said with a little laugh which sounded cruelly jarring. “ The fancy may stray though the heart is fixed, you know; and he was always frank enough with me about his small follies, He was charmingly candid about the interest ing events ot the Summer spent in your de lightful village.” Min walked on, slim and erect, her eyes strangely brilliant, a crimson flame wavering in each soft cheek, although she seemed almost as undisturbed as ths serene May skies above her. But she was not as composed as she seemed. Though she might live a hundred lives, she would never live to forget the sickening, suffo cating pang of that one brief moment. She saw neither sky nor earth; neither the wails o brick and mortar around her, nor the pave ments beneath her feet; she did not hear the noises of the busy day, nor even ot ths heavy vans rattling past her down the stony street. She saw instead, the village home which had been hsr’s until bereavement and misfortune had forced her into a toilsome dependency upon her haughty relative. She saw again the shady paths and the rippling lake where in moon light and sunlight, two happy lovers had walked and talked or drifted with the breeze and tide; she felt again the clasp ol clinging hands and the touch of clinging lips; sbe beard again the whispered promises, gladdening the sorrow of a parting which she had deemed would be brief but which had been so mysteriously pro longed. “ Ours is the love of a perfect trust. Though I might never again look upon your face, my dearest, still should I belong always to you and never to any other,” he had said. And she had believed him; she had faith in his truth; and so she would have always to the end. That perfect trust had soothed the pang, and calmed the trembling heart, and in a brief moment Min was herself again. “ 1 never doubted that you and Mr. Grosve nor were the best of friends, Julie,” she said at length with a manner gently non-committal. “ We were a great deal to each ottier,” Julia declared with an expression intended to imply much more than the declaration itself. “ I think Qf him constantly, though I have never liked to speak of him to yoq—l thought you might be sensitive about that foolish Summer flirtation, you know 1 I suppose you will scarcely care to see him now he has returned from Europe ?” ■ j ' ~ 7 Again Alin started; the crimson flame Again kindled in her cheeks, and her lips quivered wifh ihe eager question she was too proud to utter. “He is likely to call in a few days,” her tor mentor pursued with another furtively search ing glance at her proud, inscrutable face, “ al though of course you are not obliged to see him unless you wish. But 1 daresay he will scarcely remember you—Cyril has such a hap py knack of forgetting the partners of his flir tatious follies ! He has a generous nature, though, in spite of his little faults; if he had on ly come back sooner we might not have been compelled to sell our handsome house; as it is I suppose when we are once married he will help settle all poor papa’s financial difficulties,” she concluded as it she had finally communi cated everything necessary to a pleasant under standing of the situation and would prefer to dismiss the subject. And at the moment they arrived at the door of the new residence—a house scarcely less ele gant than the handsome old residence in the more fashi-mable avenue a few blocks away. “ There is something left behind after all, Min ! —was there ever anything so careless ?” Julia exclaimed as she abruptly stopped at the top ot the steps. “ I left my bunch of keys— the keys of my writing-desk and bureaus—on the mantel in my old room ! You must go back instantly—l am quite too fatigued myself I But then you won t mind, Min—you will have anoth er chance to look for your invaluable thimble, you know.” Minerva turned back without demur; to be commanded and to obey had been her lot lor all the weary years which she had spent be neath the sheltering roof ot her none too bene ficent relatives I “ And 1 may find my keepsake thimble alter all,” she thought as she walked back through the soft clear sunshine, and again ascended the steps ot the old familiar hoase and so at length entered the chamber designated. “I was us ing it last in this very room, and it may have dropped in some crevice or ether.” Bhe had secnred’the bunch of keys from the mantel, and just then she espied a glitter of something amid a pile of fragmentary papers which had been deposited in the grate. The glitter was that ot the missed souvenir indeed, and as she delightedly seized it, she chanced to draw forth something else—a sealed envelope inscribed with her own name ! The penmanship was that of Cyril Grosvenor and a letter was within the envelope, which was quite intact. The girl trembled from head to feet, and her face became white as death. Instantly she di- vined what had been the sorrowful mystery which had sundered her from her dear lover and shadowed their perfect love. “Julia hints you are but trilling with mo,” she read as she unfolded the letter, which shook and rustled in her startled grasp—“ that there is a prior attachment which precludes the pos sibility of your caring earnestly for mo I lam incredulous; I believe in your truth as I believe in Heaven; I cannot believe my, love was only a Summer pastime for you I And yet, my dar ling. I should like you to send me some sweet assurance to dispel the doubts which at times beset me. ‘The Prince awaits his Lady’s call,’ but he cannot come again, unbidden, to be the target of your merry scorn I I await one sweet, assuring word be.'ore I leave forever the ” She could read no further; everything was a blur before her sight; almost unconsciously she thrust the letter within her bosom and turned away. She felt chilled and blinded as she faintly descended the stairs and again into the street. A huge furniture van at the instant had clashed against the curb; some black projecting object loomed perilously close to her drooping head; but she saw nothing; neither did she hear a sharp warning, shouted too late. For just than the black object toppled from the van and crashed down against her; she felt a thrust and a shock; and then all was blank* oblivion. When she regained her senses, she was lying upon an improvised couch of Persian rugs in the dismantled drawing-room, and a solitary watcher was kneeling by her side, one arm ten derly pillowing her head, one anxious hand holding some reviving draught to her lips. Her eyos unclosed wonderingly, and closed again dreamily as she beheld the taco so near her own. Surely she must be dreaming ! one of the dis torted, chaotic dreams which always haunted her slumbers now I There had been no inter cepted letter discovered among the litter of the grate ! Julie was harsh and haughty but not wicked ! He could not be Cyril; his could not be the arm pillowing her bewildered head, his could not be the face so warm and tender close to her own. “ And he was true—true as my own heart. Ours was the love of a perfect trust,’’ she mur mured. And with the murmur she again unclosed her eyes, now in complete and comprehensive consciousness. Then she uttered a faint little cry of wondering surprise, of unbelieving joy. He was indeed her own Cyril; and his were the arms which impetuously drew her closer and yet more closely to him. “And I should have remained true always, my darling; that perfect trust long ago con quered the doubts which distracted me for a time,” he whispered as he kissed the fair face upturned to his own. “ But it was the fateful thimble which brought me here to you,” Mm smiled through her happy tears, when their explanations had presently been effected. ••It was certainly the mngic thimble which unearthed the letter,” he said with a responsive smile. At the moment a little gasping sound diverted their attention; and both turned to perceive Julia standing by the open door, her attitude and expression suggestive of chagrin and dis comfiture, no less than of amazement. “I desired to know what had happened to Min,” she began, in a tone of curiously com mingled confusion and petulance. “ Several things have happened to her, I be lieve,” Mr. Grosvenor said with a mischievous little laugh and a fond glance at Min’s blushing face. “She has been nearly annihilated be neath an avalanche of carpeting; she has found a somewhat edifying letter which you neglected to mail for me more than a year ago; and the list of accidents and discoveries is to be completed by a wedding. Miss Minerva is to be installed as mistress of your old home, which was purchased for me by my agent, as I sup pose you are already aware.” Julia, however, had not been aware of that fact; and the information did not lessen her embarrassment and mortification. “Everything always does go wrong on a mov ing day,” she soliloquized peevishly, as she wended her disconsolate way back to her new hired residence. “ And only for the losing and finding of that wretched little thimble, things might have ended very differently. p WHICH THEY THINK NOT CRUEL NOR VINDICTIVE. Judical punishments in Persia, says the cor respondent of an English paper, without doubt appear to us extremely cruel; nevertheless the most enlightened governors in those parts will not allow that they are in any way vindictive. In fact they aver that they are necessary, and only used to discourage crime by fear. To take the instance of one of the Shah of Per sia’s brothers, the governor of the province of Tabriz, he used constantly to point out that he had shed less blood from ’ the beginning to the end of his rule than any of his colleagues, while the division of the country under his control was free from crime. “I,” he once said, “take the great criminal red-handed, and punish him then and there in such away that his punishment will not be for gotten, and that his fate will be a terror to evil doers. Unlike you Europeans, I don’t keep the man shut up for years; I have no grudge against him. My punishments are the secret art of governing a nation. I commence my governorship by strict measures toward crimi nals, so that they may see what sort of person they have to deal with. It is true I then exe cute some of them without mercy, consequently crimes of violence cease while I am in office— there are no more dangerous roads, no burglar ies. Murders—generally done without design— there certainly are, and always will be, in every country. I execute these people in a simple way—so do Europeans.” The usual punishments in Oriental countries are the bastinado, fines, maiming, imprisonment in irons (the chain-gang), imprisonment, simple confinement, death. The bastinado is dispensed on the soles of the bare feet Unless by the Sultan or Shah’s ex press order, it is not in these times so often car ried so far as to cause death. The ordinary ap plication of the bastinado means very much what we would call a “ good hiding,” and noth ing more. In the eyes of Eastern peoples there is nothing to lower them in having “eaten stick.” The bastinado is, as a rule, given to all small offenders who are not fined by order of the cadi; just as our metropolitan police magistrates give a prisoner a month’s hard labor without the al ternative of a 40s. fine Those who join in any way in a plot with the criminals are usually bastinadoed till they con fess all they know. Where lesser criminals are concerned, who have not done anything very heinous, they are lightly bastinadoed, receiving fifty er one hundred strokes, and allowed to go away. The sticks used in Turkey are usually heavy staves ; in other countries thin rattan canes, ending in a fine tapering point. The best proof of the value of bastinadoing may be gath ered from what a Persian soldier once said when asked his choice of having either this pun ishment or losing a month’s pay -equivalent to 7s. 6d. of our money—“ Why, the heating, of course 1” When ordinary criminals are given their choice as to their punishment they, too, almost invariably prefer the bastinado. It does not really cause them so much pain as a European would imagine. From the fact that the lower classes in the East always go about everywhere barefooted, their feet become, as it were, case hardened. To a European, of course, this pun ishment would be very awful. As many as 2,000 sticks have been broken over the feet of a criminal—that would mean upward of 6,000 blows. Yet the man lived and thrived after it. Fines vary in the East according to the posi tion of the offender. Simple imprisonment is usually reserved for burglars or those who owe money; imprisonment in irons is the lot of those who commit acts of violence. Maiming is carried out ordinarily only on professional thieves. The method of indicting this punish ment is generally by cutting off the joint of a finger for the first offense, and the hand for the second Sometimes & mail Is lamed by taking away a part of his Achilles tendon. Blinding is sca?Cely ever resorted to, Occasionally the ears are c'dt the criminal in as in other cases, being taken tnroUgh the larg'd CFOWu Cl gazers in the bazaar to the pladd of execution. Surgical amputations in the East are objected to by the authorities because of the loss of caste which attaches to those who are judicially mu tilated. The simple punishment of death is the special privilege of murderers, as well as those guilty of high treason, or even highway robbery. It is inflicted in most cases by simply cutting the throat of the wretched prisoner, much in the way that a butcher slaughters an ox. In cases where men of high rank have been brought in guilty of crimes of violence, the sentence of the law is carried out, as a rule, by poisoning or strangling. There are, of course, exceptional punishments in the East, notably that of being blown from the cannon’s mouth, or from a mortar, or cruci fixion. Then, again, there is burning alive and burying alive. For women, the capital punish ment employed is usually strangling, or being jumped upon when wrapped up in a carpet. Condemned women are also liable to be thrown down from precipices, or drowned in a well or running stream. One man in Persia three years ago went through the valley of the shadow of death twice when led out for execution. He was taken to be fflown rom a gun after seeing a fellow cul prit put to death in this way. The executioners prepared to lash him to the muzzle of the piece; but, in consequence of his being short of stature, stones had to be fetched for him to stand on. Then, all being arranged, the order was given to fire ; but the gun did not go off. It was dis covered that the artillerymen, in their hurry, had forgotten to load it with powder. But, al though urgent requests were made to the gov ernor, he refused under any circumstances to spare the man, who was temporarily unbound while they loaded the gun, and then finally blown aw y. Such are some of the terrors which criminals in the East have to go through. Crucifixion is carried out usually against a wall. The unfortunate culprits often do not die at once; indeed, they sometimes linger for several hours or even a day. One man was not long ago executed in this way for having stolen some article of value belonging to the govern or. His,crime was considered as equivalent to high treason. A large gang of h'ghway robbers in Persia were buried alive in i• 4 bv being wall -<l up inside brick pillars. Even burning to du th is, at the present day resumed to s anetimes. Ac Teheran, the fchah nowadays docs o; appe r in person when an execution takas place, though ' rt was the custom, up to his time, for the Shah (or governor in other cities) to preside at all • executions. All criminals condemned to death are, as a rule, kept in prison, with their doom hanging over them, from day to day, till every farthing has been got from them, as well as from their friends, and from everybody belong ing to them. Alter all this prolongation of ag onv they are finally executed. Groat criminals are now and again executed in prison, and the.r bodies thrown out into the public streets or squares. In cases where this is not done, they are said to have died a nat ural death I Curiously enough, it in no way impedes a man’s advancement in the East to have been a criminal. Indeed, at least one instance is known where a man was at one time a highway robber and once under sentence of death, yet he contrived to become a deputy governor for one of the provinces, and to the time of his death held a high office at court. “Backsheesh,” of course, that royal road to success in Oriental lands, distributed lavishly, was the key of his success. Much as money is said to do in the West, it does far more in the East. HUMOR OF THE HOUR. BY THE DETROIT FREE PRE33 FIEND. CLEARED OF METAPHOR. In the Malden, Mass., High School, not long ago, the principal asked the class in rhetoric to clear the following sentence of metaphor : “ The sanctity ot the laurn should be pre served.” The class set their wits to work, but no one seemed wise. The principal exclaimed: “ Can no one answer the question ?” A bright lad of fifteen threw out his hand. “ Well, Master S.Jyou seem to be the only one in the class to answer. What is it ?” Amid profound silence Master 8. said : “ Keep off the grass I” TOO SARCASTIC. First Dude—* 1 Ole fellah, what do you think of Miss Commonsense ?” “Second Dude—“ Well, ma deah boy, me opinion of her is not vewy fwattwing.” First Dude—“ Thath bad. Wat’s the wesson you don’t wiko her ?” Second Dude—“ Too dused sahcastic, don’t ye know. W’v, the other day we were out wid ing, she and I, and we passed by one of these donkeys, a miswable animal, you unnerstan’, and I asked her the difference between that beast and myself. I thwought she would say she didn't know, and I would tell her that the donkey dwew loads and I dwew pictures. Ye know I am a sowt of an ahtist, and that would be a fwine joke, bah Jove.” First Dude—“ And what did she say ?” Second Dude—" She said the onwi difwouce she could see was in the length of the ears.” STRUGGLE FOR PRINCIPLE. A rainy day had housed us up in the cabin of a Tennesseean, and about nine o’clock in the morning a man. who was addressed by our host as Uncle Billy, came riding up through the steady pour on a mule. The animal was placed in the stable, and as the two men entered the house, our host observed : “ Well, Uncle Billy, how’ll you trade mules ?’ “ Oh, ’bout three dollars tew boot,” was the answer. They returned to the stables and talked until noon. Then we had dinner, and they talked until four o’clock. The rain let up a bit then and we went out to see a cave, leaving them talking mu'e. We returned at six and they were still at it We had supper, and the inter rupted conversation was resumed and kept up until nine o’clock. We went off to bed with Uncle Billy saying: “Tell ye what I’ll dew. I’ll trade fur three dollars tew boot.” It thundered about midnight and I woke up and heard that mule talk still going. At six o clock 1 got up. Uncle Billy was just riding away. “ Well, how did you come out?” I asked of our host. “ Beat him down to two dollars and three bits,” he replied. “ So you saved two shillings ?" “Exactly, though I wasn’t working for that. It was the principle of the thing I looked at.” IT WAS CLOSED. The postoffice was very properly closed on Decoration Day, and the fact that it would be was generally advertised. At noon, however, an eminent citizen entered the corridor, marched np to the curtained stamp window and took a door key from his pocket and tapped on the shelf. “ Postoffice is closed, sir,” observed a man who came in. “What! Closed?” “ Yes, sir.” “ What for ?" “ Decoration Day.” “ Humph! Closed without notice, eh ?” “ I think all the papers gave notice.” “ Well, I didn’t see it, and I want to inquire about the postage to the Canary Islands.” He rapped in a most vigorous manner, and of course no one came. “ It is certainly closed,” remarked the other. “ Then it's an outrage, sir, to dose this place without notice.” “ But notice was given.” “It wasn’t given to me. I can't be expected to hunt over all the papers in Detroit for fear the postoffice will close on me. I demand that this window be opened at once 1” He started the key going again, and kept the racket up for five minutes, during which time seven or eight people passed by and informed him that the office was closed. By and by the eminent citizen turned away with an awful growl, slammed one of the swing doors open, and as he stood on the steps he gritted his teeth and exclaimed: “ If this country isn’t going to the dogs on a gallop then I can’t read the signs of the times aright I” “ She’s closed,” said a bootblack on ths walk. “ Us fellers orter have locked boxes, and then we could git our girl's letters nights and Sun days and holidays. I know how you feel, but she’s closed on us.” PHRENOLOGY AFLOAT. BY M. QUAD. I can't just now recall his name, but he was registered at the hotel at Elk Rapids as from the Chicago Inter Ocean. There wasn’t any thing singular in two newspaper men making up to each other—not when they were both away from home. I liked his looks from the start, and when he realized it he brought out a chart of bis head which Prof. Fowler had given him. According to the chart his leading traits were: 1. Extreme liberality. 2. Utter absence ot selfishness, 3. Strong friendship. I was glad that the chart confirmed my own private impressions, and our friendship was cemented with the blood of the Revolution, for which the landlord charged ten cents a glass. On the fourth day we went out together in a skiff on the bay to fish. He insisted on paying for the bait and in rowing the boat, and that agreed exactly with trait No. 1. We were a half mile off shore, and still going ahead, when the skiff banged against some unseen object, the bottom was stove in, and the next moment she filled to the gunwales. The oars floated away as we floated out, and we settled down to busi ness with the wreck floating full of water and he hanging to one end and Ito the other. It was only then that a suspicion crept into my mind that Fowler hadn’t felt of that chap’s bumps in dead earnest. “ You did it—you infernal idiot—you did it !” be yelled at me as he got Little Traverse Bay out of his mouth. As Fowler hadn’t included Truth in his lead ing traits I felt free to deny the allegation, but he repeated it in a vigorous manner, and add ed: “I’ve got a revolver, and if you don’t let go of this boat i’ll shoot you I” “ For why ?” says I. “Because it won’t float both of us, and I’m going to save myself at any cost I” That was his “ utter absence of selfishness,” as recorded on the chart, and I was surprised and grieved to think Fowler had been so taken In. I 19 r a little grace, and he replied: “ Give you just two minutes to say your pray ers.” I wanted twenty, and he Wouldn’t even com promise on six. That was more of his “ ex treme liberality.” When I saw that he was in clined to hurry the funeral I bounced the boat around and prevented him from getting at his weirpon, which had stuck fast in his wet pock et. Pretty soon he tried another lay. He said: “I am a married man, and have four chil dren. All you've got is a wife, and she’s half dead at that. Have some reason about you.” I offered to argue the case, each side being limited to five minutes, and he charged me with cold-blooded selfishness. If the circum stances were only reversed, he’d die for me in a minute ; but, as we couldn’t reverse’em, he had another proposition. If I’d let go and die qui etly and decently, he’d raise at least SIOO for my widow if he was ed, and would give me a column notice in the Inter-Ocean, describing the details of my heroic act, and winding up with the paragraph : “ We are certain that the public will not let his grave remain unhonored by a fitting tab let.” I wanted to know what sort of a tablet, the cost, etc. ? I had seen so many cheap tablets that I felt like holding out for a Scotch-granite monument with an angel on the apex. He got so mad at the delay that I had to bounce the boat again to keep the pistol in his pocket. When he had calmed down he appealed to my generosity and manly honor. He had just had his salary raised. His father-in-law had just come to appreciate him for what he was. He was the president of a Chicago literary society, and a leading member of a debating club. His future was full of the biggest kind of water melons, and the whole world would miss him. I hadn’t any salary worth mentioning—no father-in-law at all—no hopes beyond fourth floor rates. Wasn’t it better to die a hero than to live on like a thistle by the roadside ? I asked him to put his language in the form of a motion, which he did, and a vote wap |akeu—it wrs a stand-off. His side only got OHO yqte, and that w a half-full o' water. I never saw a chap so full of motifs ind resolutions aa he was for three-quarters of an hour, and 1 never attended a caucus wnere the opposition was so determined to vote them all down. Ho had app rently exhausted his stock an 1 waa hunting for something new, when he lost hia on the wro?k and went down- down—down—about four feet, where he rested solidly on a sand-bar. The water for fifty teet around was Irom two to four feet deep, and t was the end of a sunken spar which had wrecked us. He camo over to me and held oit hia hand, but I waded away from him in a dig nified manner. He said he waa only in fun, and he offered mo three fishhokes, a jack-kni.'e, a ball of string and a big hunk ot Petoskey maple sugar to resume friendly and confidential rela tions. In vain. A fisherman came out and took us off the bar, and we never spoke again. A man whose bumps deceive a phrenologist is no fellow to tie to. WHAT SCIENCE SAT s. The “Fearful and Wonderful ” Mechan ism of the Human System Graphically Portrayed. [ln the editorial columns of the New York Analyst, H. Lassing, M. D,. editor, writes the following beau tiful description of the laboratories of the human svstem. We think we have never read a finer or more trustworthy one.] “ Man is the greatest of all chemical labora torios. Magnify the smallest cell of the body and what a factory is spread before the eyes — countless chambers in which are globes of air. masses of solid matter, globules of dying liquid; a flash comes and the whole is consumed and needful heat is carried into every part of the system. Electrical forces also generate and are conveyed to the brain, the muscles and the va rious nerve centres. “ In another set of a million chambers we sea various gases and vapors. By chemical action these are changed and purified in the lungs and the skin. The blood we often say is a great liv ing river. In its curreut are masses which the air in the lungs did not affect; blocks of chalk; slabs of tartar; pieces of bone-ash; strings of albumen; drops of molasses, and lines of alco hol. How are these waste masses disposed of ? Begin where you will in this great stream you must come to the purifying places of the sys tem. Here is all activity and an invisible force reaches out into the stream, seizes and carries this mass of waste into vast trenches, thence into a smaller reservoir, and finally into a larger reservoir, which regularly discharges its con tents. “ Illis separation of lime, uric acid and other waste material Irom the blood without robbing it of a particle of the life fluid, passes human com prehension. In health, this blood purifying pro cess is carried on without our knowledge. The organs in which it is done are faithful servants whose work is silent as long as health remains. “ People strangely wait until pain strikes a nerve before they will realize that they have any trouble. They do not know that pain concerns chiefly the exterior not the interior of the body. A certain set of nerves connect these blood purifying organs with the brain. They may not gnaw and bite as does the tooth-ache or a scratch, but they regularly, silently report. When these organs are lading these nerves in dicate it by drawing the blood from the face and cheek, leaving the lip and eye blanched, by sending uric acid poison into the smallest veins, the skin then becoming gray, yellow or brown. They also prevent the purification of the blood in the lungs and cause pulmonary difficulties, weariness and pain. Who envoys perfect health, especially in this land where we burn the candle in one mass ? The athlete breaks down in the race; the editor falls at his desk ; the merchant succumbs in his counting room. These events should not have been un expected, for nature long ago hung out her “lanterns of alarm.” When the “accident” finally comes, its fatal effect is seen in a hun dred forms ; either as congestion, chronic weak ness, aa wrong actios, as variable appetite, as head troubles, as palpitation and irregularities of the heart, as premature decay, as dryness and harshness of the skin, causing the hair to drop out or turn gray, as apoplexy, as paraly sis, as general debility, blood poisoning, etc. “Put no faith, then, in the wiseacre who says there is no danger as long as there is no pain. Put no faith in the physician, whoever he may be, who says it is a mere cold or a alight indis position. Ho knows little, if any, more than you do about it. He can neither see nor exam ine these organs and depends entirely upon ex perimental tests, that you can make as well as he. “If the output is discolored or muddy, if it contains albumen, lymph, crystals, sweet or morbid matter, is red with escaped blood, or roily with gravel, mucus and froth, something is wrong, and disease and death are not far away. “These organs which we have described thus at length, because they are really the most im portant ones in the human system, the ones in which a large majority of human ailments originate and are sustained, are the kidneys. They have not been much discussed in public, because it is conceded that the profession has little known power over them. What is wanted for such organs is a simple medicine, which can do no harm to the most delicate but must be of the greatest benefit to the afliicted. Such a remedy, tried and proved by many thousands all over the world is Warner’s saiecure. With those in whom disease is deep seated it is the only specific. For those in whom the seeds are sown and the beginning of illness started it is au unfailing reliance. It may be recommended to the well to prevent sickness and the sick to pre vent death. With its aid the great filtering en gines of the system keep on in their silent work without interruption; without it they get out of gear and then disease and death open the door and cross the threshold.” Such writing ought not only to please but to carry conviction that what Editor Leasing, M. D.,—so high an authority—says is true, and that his counsel is worthy the attention and heed of all prudent, right-minded people. TAMING A BULLDOG, AND HE MADE A GRAND SUCCESS OF THE ATTEMPT. (From the Detroit Tribune.) When Mr. Fred Justlikailalns, ot Columbia street, reached home from the office a tew even ings ago, he looked very much as if ho had been dallying with a young but healthy West ern cyclone, or had just been run through a large-sized corn-sheller. He was decidedly tat tered. That part ot his ooat where the tail usually hangs resembled nothing more than lambrequin fringe of new and peculiarly eccen tric design. His shiny beaver hat had lost its shine, and looked like a tin can which had been bandied about by sportive boys in the royster ing game of “ shinnyonyerownside.” The lower part of his left trouser leg had renounced alle giance to the upper part, just below the knee. There was a stellated daub of mud as large as the new comet on his usually immaculate shirt front, and his cuffs seemed to have been en gaged in a spirited rivalry to see which could contract the greater quantity of dust and dirt in a given time. Under one of his eyes was a dado of dirt, and the other eye bore the blue mark of violence. There were scratches on the back of one hand that evidenced the somewhat hasty removal of patches of cuticle, and ths other hand hud apparently been trying itself at the popular pastime kuown as baseball and got badly left—it was the left hand, anyway. When this sorry spectacle, almost spectre, of the personally neat and trim Mr. Justlikallaius, appeared at the door of the pretty little homo on Columbia street, in the doubtful half light of the waning day, young Mrs. Justlikallafus, who happened to be in the iront parlor at the time, gazed at it just long enough to take in the hor rible reality that it was in fact her husband, and then threw up both her delicate white hands, uttered a dainty melodramatic skriek, and fainted. It took fully one hour to restore her to consciousness. All the help applied restora tives, several neighbors were called in, a doctor summoned, and poor Fred himself danced around among the rescuing party with an ago nized look on such portions of his face as were not covered by the daubs and blotches of mud. It so happened that, when Mrs. Justlikallafus’ eyes finally struggled open again with returning consciousness, the first object on which they alighted was Mr. Justlikallafus, still in bis be draggled and battered state, “Oh, Fr-r-ed-die 1” she gasped, “wha-a-t” —-but the rest of the remark was lost in the feathers of the pillow in which she buried her head, preparatory to another lainting fit. The prompt attention of the attendants prevented a renewal of her attack, however, and Fred knelt down by the bed and in tones of touching ten derness implored her to calm herself and speak to once more. ‘‘O-d i vb l F;f-!re-ed-die!” she moaned at length, without Again raising her head, the words coming from the pillow in muffled sylla bles. “ H-how c-can I-I e-ever look at you a gain ?” “ Why not, my darling, why not ?” cried the unfortunate Justlikeallafus, frantically. “ O-oh, F-lreddie I You’ve been drinking, I know you have 1” “No!” exclaimed Fred, with an emphasis that reached clear across the street. “ No, my darling I I swear I have not touched a drop to-day.” “ Then you’ve had a disgraceful street fight!” “No, no! my beloved, how can you believe such a thing ? Look up, my life’s life, look up into my face once more.” Mrs.'Justlikallafus raised her head with a shudder. “ Oh, Fred, what have you been domg then?” she exclaimed. “ Calm ymirself, pet,” he said. “ It’s noth ing serious.” “ How can yon do so ? It looks serious enough; your clothes almost torn off your body, and—and yonr face and hands—vh, b-r-r. [Another shudder.] But how did it riappen ?” Fred looked the picture of despair painted in mud and trimmed with rags, as he fumbmd in his vest pocket and finally pulled out a small clipping from a newspaper. “ Read that,” was all he said. Mrs. Justlikallafus took the clipping and read : “ The power of the human eye over the dumb brute creation is wonderful. Any one can keep at bay the fiercest dog by simply gazing steadily into the eye of the animal. The dog w.Il at length go away completely tamed," “ I tried it on a bull-dog,” said Fred, dole fully. “ Oh, yes, I tamed him—at last,’’ said Fred. Then he added : “But it was not simply by the power of the human eye. He resisted till i got hold of a rock and smashed his head. But I tamed him all the same.’’ “ Mr. Jones,” said little Johnny to the gentleman who was making an afternoon call, "can whisky talk?” “No, my child; howev-r c n you ask such a question ?” “Oh, nothing! Only ma said whisky was beginning to tell on you. "