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I fail in, something that would be quite right if I were a little wiser, if I knew a little more. And I want you, if you can—you, who are so good and so indulgent with mo even as I am— to help me to find out what it is that I miss. You will say that you are satisfied with me as I am—l know that. But I want you to be more than satisfied ; I want you to—to make me more to you if you only can ; to confide in me, and see if I don’t deserve it—not tor your sake —you are a man, and can be sufficient to your self ; but lam a woman, and I can't. David, please forgive me for saying this, but to see you so distant, so shut up from me, is terrible ; I cannot bear it 1” She paused a moment, not yet daring to look up, hoping for some word ot tenderness, of kindness. She had kept her voice so low, so gentle : the thrill ot heartfelt earnestness that rang in ber words only made them softer, sweeter. Now, as she waited, she felt his left hand, on which her fingers were resting, slip gradually from under hers down on to his knee. She felt a chill ot great fear. He had been cold, passive, under her timid caresses before, but never before had ho absolutely repulsed her. She raised her eyes to his face with the dumb agony of a mort illy-wounded animal. David was asleep ! Her soft voice had acted as a lullaby to the tired man, whose faculties bad at once relaxed ou finding that her serious conversation did not concern the subjects just then of most vital in terest to him. As cold and statuesque as David in his most reserved moods, Doris quietly rose, picked up the despised case of jewels to which ber atten tion had been called by her accidentally tread ing upon them, and, without another look at her slumbering lord, swept from the room like another Vasbti. The next morning she returned the jewels to Gussie, sending them by the groom, with a rather formal note, saying that she hoped he would not think her unkind, but that she could not accept a present of so much value ; if she were to keep them, it would be ungracious not to wear them, and, if she wore them, they would excite remark. To her husband that morning she was very cold ; but the change in her escaped his atten tion. She told him of Gussie’s accession to for tune, and that lie, in a frantically generous mood, had ottered ber a Christmas present so handsome that she was obliged to return it. At this David’s face clouded, and his wife watched the uneasy look in bis eyes with some hope that she bad awakened by accident the taint jeal ousy which she had given up the thought of ex citing by design. ■ “ You refused it I” he began, without looking at ber; then, alter a moment’s pause, “I think you are too particular, Doris ; it was scarcely kind to snub poor Gussie for such a very natu ral impulse toward a lady who had been kind to him. When a man, an old friend, too, has been hospitably entertained a great many times at the same house, be welcomes Christmas as an opportunity of relieving himself gracefully from an obligation.” Doris said nothing. For the moment she felt again the name sharp sting of disgust and re bellion against this unimpressionable King Log which she had felt the night before. She could not know that, their thoughts running as usual in separate grooves, her busband’s words were merely an apology to himself for his action of the day before in taking down to the Lawns a pair of diamond solitaire ear-rings as a peace offering to Mrs. Hodson, who was offended by a conscience-stricken excuse he had made when she required his attendance on two consecutive evenings. So both Doris and ber husband remained mute and uneasy after this marital snub, and, as Christmas eve was a holiday at his office in Somerset House, David loafed about the house by himself for a little while after breakfast, and then sneaked oif to the Lawns, trusting to luck and his wife's overrated indifference for her to believe that he was spending the day, as usual, in town. Mrs. Hodson’s society had become a necessity to him now. The settling influence Of marriage had, in his case, resulted in con firming him in domesticity indeed, but by the wrong fireside. Where ha had been tol erated before, he was now welcomed, and Da vid, though be was beginning to feel very acute tortures ot remorse now that the tide of specu lation seemed to have set in unfortunately ior him, found that the feeble efforts he made to escape were quite insufficient to break the chain which the stockbroker’s ingenuity and his wife’s matr nly fascinations had bound se curely round him. By the last post that night Doris received a stiff note irom Mrs. Melton, evidently inspired, if net dictated by Gussie, regretting that their recent bereavement rendered it impossible for them to pass Christmas at Fairleigh, as Mr. and Mrs. Glyn had so kindly invited them to do. So the party was incomplete, and the fes tivities were damped, and the only people who enjoyed themselves with an unalloyed joy were Charlie Papillon and Hilda Warren, who gave some of their time to a very serious discussion of the “ something wrong ” in the young house hold, and ot course disagreed violently as to the cause of it. “ He neglects her, I am afraid,” sighed Hilda sorrowfully. “ She bores him, I am sure," said Charlie promptly. “He sheuldn’t have married her, if he was the sort of man to be bored by a good woman.” “Seven thousand a year blinds one to mere possibilities. Don’t you think it would blind you ?” “ Yes,’' answered Hilda frankly, “ I suppose it would.” “ Now, if I had seven thousand a year, you would overlook my faults.” Poor Hilda 1 She was only too ready to over look them now. But Charlie, with that discre tion which was not only an empty boast, had sought her society lees of late, having no inten tion of burdening his easy liieb y the care of a wile. If he were in Gussie’s place it would be different, and Charlie felt it very hard that he, of the three once-impecunious friends, should be the only one left in poverty. He now check ed the passionate outburst which was in Hilda’s heart and on her lips by reminding her that they must both " ma’rry money,” and the girl, with a pang of jealousy, wondered whether the money were already dazzling his fickle and somewhat mercenary eyes. Christmas passed very quietly, and soon af terward Doris, finding the loneliness of her life in the large house by the river quite insupport able, expressed a wish to live in town, to be near her grandmother. David, who had now, ■under the pressure of business excitement, los ing his usual calmness and growing irritable and almost morose, agreed at once, and they took a small furnished house near Gloucester Hoad Station, a situation which David found very convenient for Richmond and Doris pleas antly near to old Mrs. Edgcombe’s h mo. The old lady was always well-informed con cerning the movements of the society around her, and it was she who put Doris in possession of a piece of information concerning the house hold at the Lawns which the latter imparted to her husband in the evening, with startling affect. “ Do you know, David,” she said, solemnly, at dinner-time, “I have heard such a strange thing about Mrs. Hodson ! I should scarcely like to repeat it, except that grandmamma told it me as a fact -and you know how particular she is about scandal.” “What is it?” asked David, with cold blue eyes that might have been of glass. “Why, it seems that, although her husband is known to be in difficulties, Mrs. Hodson dresses better than ever, wears more jewelry, and has just ordered a new carriage 1 It appears that Mrs. Bramwell, who told grandmamma this, and who is very vulgarly inquisitive, as you know, was having her brougham repaired at the same coachbuilder’s; and, hearing this pretty new victoria was for Mrs. Hodson, she •aid she wondered he was not afraid of sup plying goods to such an extravagant house hold. And the coachbuilder said Mr. Hodson was not the gentleman to whom the bill was sent in.” Some strange change, showing interest, if not curiosity, which came over David s face at her first mention of this gossip caused her to repeat it much more at length than she had intended to do. When she finished, he asked, dryly: “And who is the gentleman?” “ I am airaid to think.” There was a pause be ore he said, in a voice which would have sounded uninterested and stony if he had ever shown vivid interest in his talks with his wife: " Well, you have made some guess, of course ?” “ I am afraid it must be Gussie.” She was watching him, fearful lest he should think her unduly censorious. At this, her an swer, he made a movement with his right elbow, po slight, so very slight that, as he was turning away from her to feed the dog, she might al most have thought it insignificant. But, for some reason or other, that scarcely perceptible motion woke in the young wife’s mind the first faint breath of vague, impalpable suspicion. It frightened her—for the moment, seemed to stop her breath. The next minute David was gently scolding her fbr listening to gossip, as serting his belief that Gussie had nothing to do with Mrs. Hodson and her carriages. “ Why, my dear child, look how often I am obliged to be there on business with Mr. Hod son 1 And I tell you lam sure Gussie is not at the Lawns once a week.” David hated himself for this speech ; but he was too deep in the mire now to draw back from an occasional lie, implied or spoken ; and his wife was in a mood that must be satisfied, be thought. But it was a bad sign that she seemed satis fied so easily ; she said no more on the subject and, if David had understood women better, he would have been alarmed. The next day Mrs. Glyn drove to the Lawns to call upon Mrs. Hodson. That lady was out, but was expected to return immediately; in the meantime, would Mrs. Glyn see the young la dies ? They were both in the drawing-room. Doris decided to remain, and to renew the ac quaintance of Nellie and Ethel, whom she had not seen since they were children. The girls “ took ” to her, and in a few minutes were chat tering to her on very friendly terms. “I wish you would come as often as Mr. Glyn,” said the elder and more impulsive one, when the ice was broken. Doris smiled without pleasure. “ He goes about more than I do.” “ Why, yes, he s always here 1” said Nellie, With a tinge of contempt. Doris saw the younger and shrewder-looking girl give a warning glance at her incautious sis ter, and a sharp pain shot through her heart like a knife. The dull pain of suspense and neglect was over; she was jealous. CHAPTER XV. “she saw him off with a hokhible sense of LONELINESS AND LONGING.” Doris Glyn felt strongly tempted, on feeling the sharp pang which the two little girls had innocently given her, to leave the Lawns ab ruptly and hasten home to prepare for meeting her husband. A tew moments’ reflection, how ever, was enough lor her to remember that she really had no ground for demanding the expla nation she wished from him. He had, never concealed from her the fact that he paid fre quent visits to the Lawns, and the jealous sus picions she had formed in a moment, based upon a few words and a look passed between two thoughtless and ignorant young girls, would not form a very substantial ground for a direct accusation. So she decided, while still listening unintelligently to the prattle of Nellie and Ethel, that she would see Mrs. Hodson; perhaps the meeting would either allay her jealousy or give her stronger reasons lor it. Doris felt, beside, a sudden vi.'id interest in the woman whom she believed to bo her rival in her husband’s affection; she must judge for herself these charms lor which she had been neglected. She had not to wait long. When, at the end of another ten minutes, a loud ring at the bell was followed by Mrs. Hod son’s high-pitched, bright laugh in the hall, Doris's heart began to beat violently. The next moment it seemed to stand still, for she heard her own husband’s sweet, low tones as meas ured as usual, but more cheerlul than those ho kept for domestic use. Mrs. Hodson apparently dashed into the drawing-room before the servant had a chance ot telling her who was there ; for, as the door opened and she sailed in with David in her train, both their faces suddenly changed. Oi course the lady recovered herself immediately and rushed impulsively up to Doris with out stretched hands and such expressions as are usually reserved for friends returning home alter long and dangerous voyages. But David, less experienced, remained a light yellow-green color during the embarrassing interview and kept as much in the background as he could. Both knew that Doris’s unexpected call was more than a regretable accident—both would have guessed it from her manner. She did not express any surprise at seeing her husband and responded to Mrs. Hodson's warm welcome with perfect though somewhat frigid courtesy. But there was an entire lack of spontaneity in every word she uttered, a statu esque stillness about her manner, which could be the result only of a stern fight with emo tions too strong to be allowed the least vent. “ You are looking very pale and ill, Mrs. Glyn,” said the elder lady boldly, resolved not to find her guest’s cold dignity disconcerting. “ That is the worst of these boys,” she con tinued, with a lively and contemptuous nod toward David; “ when they marry they don’t in the least know how to treat a wife. I am al ways telling Mr. Glyn”—somehow Mrs. Glyn’s expression seemed to preclude the use of her husband’s Christian name before her—“ that he doesn’t deserve to have a wife at all.” “ It is very good of you,” said Doris. “ I am afraid you are too indulgent with him,” continued Mrs. Hodson undauntedly. “ I don’t believe in letting a man have too much of his own way. You should have a will ot your own and let him know it. You are spoiled,” she added, turning to David. Dragged,thus by force into the conversation, he said, huskily: “ I dare say 1 am. Most women are too good for their husbands.” A spasm of pain crossed Doris’s face. Her husband’s remark was not made m a sneering tono, but she felt in a moment that it formed the staple of any complaint he would bring against her. She was too good for him, she who had thought herself so much honored by his choice of her I Mrs. Hodson came to the rescue in what would have been an extremely awkward moment. “Most women? All women!” she said, in ber round, emphatic tone. “ Even Bertram would allow that. Now you will stay and dine with me ? My husband will not be home to dinner, and it will be a charity.” Doris made civil excuses, reflecting that but tor her appearance David and Mrs. Hodson would have passed the evening tete-a-tete with the demure little girls playing open-eared pro priety. As it was, when she rose to go, David had no choice but to go too. Mrs. Hodson was very snappish and silent with her little girls when her visitors were goue, dropping at once the brilliant manner for the domestic one, which had in her case few charms. Nellie and Ethel, who, while kicking a little against her maternal regime ot sup pression, worshiped her loyally as the queen of the world, had the little flickerings ot liveliness by which they tried to entertain her promptly extinguished in a most galling manner ; ior in the inopportune appearance of Doris Glyn that afternoon Mrs. Hodson foresaw more than the spoiling of an evening. So did David. He took his seat in the brough am by his wife’s side, intrenched in the sullen silence with which he meant to meet her tor rents oi righteous wrath. She had never given him a “lecture” yet; but David, conventionally minded in this as in other things, cherished a great horror of a woman’s tongue, and a belief that all women were at heart termagants, more or less restrained by good breeding. That the moment was ripe for good breeding to snap in his wife’s case, he did not doubt. So he waited for the deluge. None came. Doris sat beside him as silent as he, until they were very near their home. Then she said, in a voice almost as kind as usual, though there was a break in it now and then: “ Shall I go on to grandmamma’s and ask her if she will come in and dine with us this even ing ? She has not been with us for four days, and she may perhaps begin to think herself ne glected.” “It is very thoughtful of you,” said David, with heartfelt relief at the prospect of a third person to break that ghastly silence or still more distressing dialogue which was all that was possible that evening between himself and his wife. He was not, indeed, without qualms of fear, as he stepped out of the brougham and told the coachman to drive to Mrs. Edgcombe’s, lest Doris should be reserving herself for an on slaught upon him in the presence of a person whom, in the meantime, she would have turned into an active ally. But he had to own to him self that this would be mean and unlike Doris, and he was not surprised, when the ladies re turned together, to find the elder at least as cheerful and affectionate as usual. He had one fright, however, when dinner was over and he was preparing an orange for the old lady. Mrs. Edgoombe cleared her throat and folded her pretty, fragile little hands one in the other, as her custom was when she had anything im portant to say. David quaked, and the knife and the orange remained for a moment still between his fingers. “ I have something to say to you, David, to which I shall be glad if yon will give particular attention. It is a matter on which Doris has just spoken to me herself, and, as it concerns the welfare ot both ot you very nearly, I hope you will not consider that I am taking too much upon myself in mentioning it first.” It was an alarming preamble to listen to with a guilty conscience, certainly, thongh the digni fied manner of it was but a habit of the old lady’s. “ Anything you have to say will, of course, have all my attention,” he answered, very stiff ly, arming himself at all points, and coldly hat ing Dorie for putting him into this intolerable position of being dictated to by an outsider. “1 have been thinking, and Doris agrees with me, that you both want a change, a thorough change. Doris, as you must see, as everbody sees, is looking like the ghost of what she was a year ago, and you are not the same man at all that you were before you got so much absorbed in the affairs of the city. None of the pretty little attentions you used to pay me six months ago . Why, that is the first orange you have prepared ior me in the careful way I like for weeks 1 You are growing irritable, and your irritability tells on poor Doris; I can see it my self, though she never complains.” Dorie tried to interrupt her, but the old lady put up her little hand, and went on: “ You must get right away from business and eyerything connected with it.” These last words, innocently said, made him wince. “ You have had no honeymoon: you would carry out your new-fangled ideas, and do with out it. But the old-fashioned way is the best. Be entirely dependent upon each other’s society for a little while among strangers, and you will get used to each other and grow into each other’s ways, as you have never yet had a chance ot doing.” Yes, but to be entirely dependent upon each other’s society when each had failed to like it 1 The suggestion was a knell in David’s ears; for he knew by his wife’s silence that she acquiesced in the proposed arrangement, and in the cir cumstances he was not in a position to refuse any proposal of hers. “Where do you want to go, Doris ?” he asked, in a voice which did not sound promising for the threatened lengthy tete-a-tete. “Well, even grandmamma would not propose an absolute wilderness, 1 should think. What do you say to Paris ?” S“I have nothing to say to it—as you please.” “ Paris let it be then, and let us go soon,” said Doris quietly. David’s manner was ungracious, but it could scarcely be expected to be anything else just now. His affairs, while under his own control, having been marvellously ill conducted, were being gently but firmly taken out of his hands; and David the god-like, in the position ot a naughty boy found out, was out ot his element and sufficiently pitiable. Even he did not feel the bitter pathos of the situation as keenly as Doris, who was soon as anxious to get rid ot the innocent old grandmother, whoso shrewdness and ingenuousness were alike dangerous, as she bad been in the afternoon to get her. When David returned from escorting Mrs. Edgcombe home, he found Doris engaged in the drawing-room packing away in cases specially made for the purpose certain bits of valuable china which had been among their wedding-presents. “ What are you doing?” he asked somewhat sullenly. “ Putting these little things out of reach of the servants’ fingers while we are jtway.” “ When do you propose to go then ? ’ “ Can’t we be ready by rhe day a.ter to-mor row ?” David sp’ke “ a bun r ■:'! e wry” from her. “ And what is to « .. • > ’cr-iunss - your burim-ss ’ A «'•■-< ■■ t:i ,-i:y r ■ i-i v.ry cr ticnl “t •* • >1 •’ NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 18 1886. Indeed they were in a state more critical for him than he knew. “ You can leave the business safely in the hands of a man in whom you place such abso lute confidence as you do in—your financial ad viser, surely ? And at your office you have only to ask to get your holiday when you please. Isn’t that so, David ?” He muttered an unwilling assent, and turn ed toward the door. His wife’s heart leaped up. If this were shame at his own conduct, there was hope for them yet. She flew across the room, and stopped him on the threshold with a gentle hand. “David, David, don’t you w a n’t to go away with me? Won’t you try to be happy with me?” David was not hard, though in his weakness he often had to shield himself behind a dull reserve which made him appear so. At his wife's appealing cry he stopped at once; but there was no flood of devoted affection rushing up from her heart to impel her to encircle him with loving arms and win him to her then and for ever. Timidly, appealingly, she crept up to him, and, with modest", humble glances, looked into his face, and failed utterly to read through the cold blank blue eyes the need he felt of some emotion stronger than his own to break through the crust of his daily self and get at the better man within him that had not the courage to break its own bonds of custom. In deed Doris felt no passionate affection for this pretty gentleman, who had treated her in a per fectly calm and well-bred way, as badly as sucha pretty gentleman could do. Her reverence for him had, with scare ly any preparation, given place to a chaotic confusion of feelings in which indignation and contempt struggled with womanly pity and forbearance toward the nun who, after all, was her husband, the companion bound to her for a life which, however one’s ignorant illu sions about it might be shattered, one was sti 1 bound to make the best of. This attitude was of course not tender or emotional enough to strike into an ardent name whatever love he still had for his wife. He only said gently: “Oh, yes, we both want a change—you es pecially, lam sure 1” And then, after waiting for a moment for the outburst which was farther off than ever, he left her to herself. Two days later they started ior Paris. David did not dare to see either Mr. or Mrs. Hodson again, restrained by mingled feelings in which per haps shame and embarrassment at his new po sition had the largest share. He contented him self with writing letters to both-to the former a purely business communication, to the latter a civil note regretting that he was leaving ior Paris without a chance of wishing her good-by; not an affectionate note by any means, but one in which the ingenious Mrs. Hodson could read between the lines that her hold upon him was not relaxed. On the contrary, after the first few days of this deferred mock-honeymoon, David felt more than ever the need of the vivacious society of the broker’s wife. Had he been by himself in Paris, he might have found stimulating distrac tions, but the duet of perpetual good behavior between him and his wife made the boulevards dull, and sight-seeing a bore to both of them. Doris’s natural cheerfulness and ready wit, which had easily earned for the young heiress the reputation of brilliancy, deserted her and left her spiritless and leaden in the never-end ing strain to afford her husband a pleasure which her society seemed incapable of yielding him. He on his side conscientiously tried to meet her half-way, and his forced attention and liveliness made her regret his old taciturnity. So they passed a horrible fortnight of new con straint worse than the old, which the one had not the courage and the other had not the will to attempt to break, until a startling piece of news from England released them irom this galling bondage. It was the announcement, in an English paper, ot Mr. Hadson s failure on the Stock Exchange. David was at breakfast with his wife when he read a paragraph containing the tidings in the Times ot the day be "ore. Doris saw him turn white, and asked timidly what was the matter. “ Mr. Hodson has failed/’ he said, in a tone he could scarcely keep tranquil. “ Oh, 1 am sorry 1” she returned, in a low voice, after a moment’s shy pause. Then, as her husband rose from his chair, she asked diffidently, “ Will it affect you?” “Yes; and that unfortunately includes you,” he admitted, in a dull measured voice. “ Oh, never mind that!” cried Doris, with animation, as, seeing a hope that this might perhaps help to bring them together, she got up and almost ran to him. “ What does that mat ter? You did your best, and money is such a trifling thing between husband and wife, be tween—you and—me. It can’t be helped, and, if we have lost anything, if we have lost a great deal even, it will not trouble me at all.” “ I cannot take the matter like that, Doris,” said he gently, but avoiding her eyes. “ I must go back to London this very day, and see what the position of affairs really is, and what is to be done.”' “ We must go back ?” she faltered, with the slightest possible emphasis on the pronoun. “ No, no, not you. I shall travel in a hurry, and may be back to-morrow. You won’t mind being left by yourself just for a day, will you ?” Doris looked at him imploringly; she dared not venture to plead in words; away from her grandmother, with no one to support her pro posals, she felt timid; and the result of her first move toward complete confidence had been too appallingly barren for her to be bold again. So she packed his things herself, and saw him off with a horrible sense of loneliness and longing. “ You will come back soon, won’t you ?’’ she entreated with all possible sweetness and docility, as he gave her a warm but well-bred hand-pressure in the publicity of the barrier at the station. And he said, “ Yes,” of course he would, smiling at ber much more brightly than he had done since their coming to Paris. But Doris watched him disappear from her sight with fear at her heart. (To be Continued.) A LITTLE MAID OF LONG AGO The Daughter of a King Who Reigned in Greece Once Upon a Time. (From the Philadelphia News.) Away off in the beautiful country of Greece, a long, long time ago, there lived a little maiden, the daughter of a king, Her name was Gorgo —not a very pretty name, perhaps, to us who are used to calling little girls “ Maud,” and “Ethel,” and “Helen,” but a strong name, and therefore quite appropriate to the little maid who bore it, as you shall see. In those old times there used to be many wars, and the country of Sparta, the part of Greece where Gorgo lived, was famous for its brave warriors, who never thought for a moment of their own safety when their country was in danger. Some times these were not good wars, but wars lor spite and revenge, instead of for freedom and for loyalty to beautiful Greece. Some wicked man would wish to avenge an injury he had received, and in order to do this he would go about among the different king doms and try and persuade the rulers to join with him and try to overcome his enemy, and then there would be terrible bloodshed in order to satisfy one wicked man’s revenge. Aristago ras was such a man ae this. He was di: satis fied with his king and wished to become the king himself instead. One day he came to Sparta on this evil errand and tried to persuade King C leomenes, the father of little Gorgo, to help his base project. He talked with the king a long time. He promised him power and honor and money if he would do as he wished; more and more money, and, as the king refused, still more and more money he offered, and at last the king almost consented. But it happened that when Aristagoras had come into the presence of the king, the king’s little daughter was standing by his side with her hand in his. Aristagoras wanted Cleom enes to send her away, for he knew very well that it is much harder to induce a man to do something wrong when there is a dear little child at his side. But the king had said, “No ; say what you have to say in belt presence, too,” and so little Gorgo had sat at her lather’s feet, looking up into his face with her innocent eyes, and listening intently to all that was said. She felt that something Was wrong, and when she saw Ijer father look troubled and hesitate, and cast down his eyes, she knew the strange vis itor was trying to make him do something he did not quite want to do. So she stole her little hand softly into her father’s and said : “ Papa, come away, come, or this strange man will make you do wrong.” This made the king leel strong again, and clasping the little maid’s hand tightly in his own, he rose and left the tempter, and went away with the child who had saved him and his country from dishonor. Gorgo was only ten years old then, but she was worthy to be a king’s daughter ; being good and true herself, she helped her father to be good and true also. When she grew to be a woman she became the wife of a king, and then she showed herself as noble a queen as she had been a princess. Her husband was that King Leonidas who stood in the narrow pass of Thermopybe with his small army and fought back the great hosts of the l ersians until he and all his heroic band were killed. But before this happened there was a time when the Grecians did not know that the great Persian army was coming to try to destroy them, and a friend of theirs who was a prisoner in the country where the great Xerxes lived, wishing to warn the Spartans ot the coming of the Persians, so they might prepare, sent a messenger to King Leonidas. But when the messenger arrived, all he had to show for his message was a bare, white waxen tablet. The king and all the lords puzzled over this strange tablet a long time, but could make nothing out ot it. At last they began to think It was done for a jest and did not mean anything. But just then the young Queen Gorgo said, “ Let me take it,” and after looking it all over, she exclaimed: “There must be some writing underneath the wax 1” They scraped away the wax from the tablet, and there, sure enough, written on the wood beneath, was the message of the Grecian pris oner and his warning to King Leonidas. Thus Gorgo helped her country a second time, lor if the Spartans had not known that the army w s coming, they could not have warned the other kingdoms, and perhaps the Persians would not have been conquered. But, as it was, Leonidas and the other kings called their armies together, and when the Persian host c .me sweeping over the plains, the Greeks were -ea \v to meet r.nem and tq fight and die lor the.r H; mi l‘.i •I' Gt) s . Hi k>;l tt o maid ot hundreds ot years ..go, ; r n -eui and queen, he’pjd to s ive her fa , t . > rum iisgra o and her country from ru ! .a. And we may feel sure that she was strong and true to the last, even when her brave husband, Leonidas, lay dead in the fearlul pass of Ther xnopyl o, and she was left to mourn in the royal palace at Sparta. IMY HOLT’S EMGAmEn. BY CATHERINE OWEN. “ And lam really engaged I I can hardly be lieve it. How often have 1 thought and won dered who my husband would be, or if I ever e should marry. But I suppose all girls have the same thoughts; at all events, my future is now settled. 1 wonder if Tom will always care as much ior me as he does now ?” Mary Holt sat in the bright firefight, watch ing the flickering flames, and thinking of her new position. She was very young and inexperienced, and Tom Cowell s declaration of love and somewhat masterful wooing had taken her by storm. She had hardly realized that ne was dear to her be yond friendship, when he asked her to be his wile, and, in spite ot the suddenness of her be trothal, it the bright dimpling smile and sunny eyes might be taken as a sign, she was a very happy little woman indeed. Tom had not been very long in Mapleton when he met and fell in love with Mary, who, tor her part, much as she liked his groat broad shoulders, and honest, handsome face, was long before she could believe that she, who was said to be the pretiest and most admired girl in that pari of Pennsyivaian,could ever love such a very different man from the one she had pictured as her conquering hero. Her ideal had such a very superior creature—quite unlike good-natured, Hand some, but, to Mary’s eyes, who judged by the Mapleton standard, somewhat commmplace Tom Cowell. He hftd seemed to her, too, to have an un pleasantly good opinion of his own people and his home, which was Limet n—as every one knows, much behind Mapleton in culture and refinement, although it c uld boast of greater wealth, but wealth in such a sooty atmosphere lost all attraction for Mary. Yet he quoted Limeton, and what the limetonians did, thought, and intended to do, and the effect of their intentions on the coming election for President, which was exasperating to Mary, who, like all loyal Mapletonians, was quite sure their own city was the brain of the State, even if Limetone did represent its wealth; so that what the former said and thought was of far more importance to the country, and she would smile at the purse-proud ignorance of Lime ton. Even when she saw Tom’s honest admiration for herself, and found that she enjoyed his vis its and attentions, she belie ed it was only the magnetism of his good humor and breezy, healthy nature that pleased her; she was sure it was nothing more. And yet the day came as we see, when she had been brought to know that she loved him, and to look forward to being hie wife as her greatest good. But then, in his growing affection for her, and his absorbing anxiety as to its being re turned, he had left off quoting “ my mother” and Limeton quite so often; and Mary flattered her self it was because he was beginning to see the superiority of Mapleton, and thus tacitly ac knowledged it. A few days after ber betrothal she received a letter from Mrs. Cowell, inviting her to go and stay with her a lew weeks, in order that they might both become better acquainted. The letter was kind and motherly, and Mary felt that it was so; but although there was no actual faults of spelling, it was evidently not the production ot a cultured woman, and she thought.with some dread of her future mother in-law. It would all be very tolerable it Tom did not think so over-much ot his own kin, but he evidently looked on his women-folk as the most superior of their kind. However, she had to meet them sooner or later, and as Tom was so anxious, it was best to go. Tom was delighted when she told him she would accept his mother’s invitation. His face glowed with satisfaction as he expressed his thanks. “You will like my dear mother so much, Mary, and Louise will be a delightful com panion for you, darling. She is such a sweet, sensible girl, and a prodigious housekeeper. You will learn a great deal from her.” “I have no doubt I shall like your mother,” says Mary, not very enthusiastically, it must be confessed. Tom’s face falls. “ And Limeton, Mary, it’s such a splendid city—quite different from this place.” Mary fancies she detects a slightly depre catory tone in the way he says “ this place.” “ Yes, I suppose it is very different. Hor ridly dirty, isn’t it? ’ “Not more dirty than a prosperous manu facturing city must inevitably be, and within a mile all round there is the loveliest scenery you can imagine. Our place is about a mile from the city, so the dirt will not annoy you; and you will meet such pleasant people there that you will not mind the smoke. lam sure, Mary, you will come away quite in love with Limeton, and pre fer it to this prim old place.” “ Pre r er it to Mapleton ? Never “ Well, well, we’ll see,” and in his proud con fidence he kissed her and left her. Mary felt indignant. “I’m sure we shall never get along if Tom remains so wrapped up in his mother and sister and Limeton. A great deal to learn from Louise, indeed !” Mary could not get it through her little Ma pleton head but that she was about to honor Limeton infinitely by going there, and that her Mapleton manners and dress would be envied and copied by its unsophisticated people, and now to be told that she was to learn from Louise I Of course she had a little cry and made sev eral foolish resolutions, and then set about her preparations for an early departure with a heavy heart. A week later Mary was whirling along to Limeton, wondering what Tom’s relations would be like, and whether they were like him—un polished diamonds. Now that she had left him, she had begun to hope better things of them. Could he think so much of them if they were not very nice ? And though all the people she knew from Limeton, except Tom, had been suggestive ot petroleum to her, they> surely, would be exceptions. Mary’s heart sank within her as the train neared the depot; such miserable shanties formed the outskirts, such gloom hung in the air, that she shuddered at the thought of having to stay even a week in such a place. Her spirits did not revive when she saw Mrs. Cowell and Louise, who were waiting to receive her, and welcomed her with much cordiality. As they rode home in the dusty “ carry-all,” Mrs. Cowell was evidently studying Mary’s ele gant and expensive traveling dress, from her liussia leather satchel to her dainty boots and gloves; while Mary had taken in at a glance the terribly dowdy appearance of Louise and her mother -the old lady’s black alpaca suit, made evidently at home, and Louise’s Scotch plaid dress, and dyed, and too scant, silk over-skirt; and yet, with such toilets, it was a relief to her to find they were not coarse. As they passed through the town Mrs. Cowell and Louise pointed out the lions, which they considered must astonish their visitor, and were evidently disappointed at the equanimity with which she regarded them. Mary, how ever, could be very sweet; and although an idea was forming in her mind that Mrs. and Miss Cowell could never become relatives of hers, she exerted herself to charm them, and succeeded. Thefold lady thought she was a giddy young thing, quite unused to traveling, or she would never wear a dress beautiful enough for gala day attire, on the cars, but that when she became’ toned down by Louise’s example all would come right; but at the same time she de termined herself to give her a few hints on ex travagance, especially on the folly ot wearing an Irish poplin dress to travel in. The Cowells lived in a large, comfortable house, with fine old trees around it, and Mary began to hope, when she saw the wealth of syl van beauty, that her visit might not be so un bearable as she had feared. The interior was not so promising; it was Mrs. Cowell and Louise over again—plain, sensi ble, thrifty, but perfectly unendurable to luxu rious Mary, who was accustomed to elegance, and loved it. She sighed as she sat on the hard hair-cloth “ easy ” chair, and, trying the harder sofa, found it utterly impossible to adapt her round little figure to its angles. No wonder Louise was so prim if she had been brought up amid such furniture! And then her thoughts turned to Tom. He was not prim. But even in that short time she bad come to the conclusion that he was not like the rest of the family. Then why, oh ! why, did he quote them so often ? Could it be possible that he would expect her to live in a similar fashion ? Perhaps that was why he had told her she could learn housekeeping from Louise. Whatever Tom’s idea on the subject may have been, it was evident that his mother meant to make her visit an apprenticeship to the future life she expected her son to lead. Conversation had not been very brisk hitherto, and when tea was announced Mary, determined to make talk, praised the biscuit, the cake, and the delicious butter. “Yes, my dear, Louise’s butter is excellent, although 1 say it. I suppose you know how to make butter? But I could take a hint myself from Louise, and it will do you no harm to learn some of her housekeeping wrinkles. Tom has always been accustomed to fine butter, and I hear in Mapleton they churn up the milk with the cream.” “I am sure I know nothing about it,” eaid Mary, forgetting ber resolve to be amiable. However, Mrs. Cowell seemed almost pleased to know that Louise’s instructions would be given where they were much needed. “ Never mind, my dear; you are quick, I’ll be bound, and we will soon make a good house keeper of you. There's one thing to begin on— if you travel in your handsome dresses you will never have anything decent to wear. Get your self a nice, neat black alpaca, that will never show dirt, and last ior years.” Mary listened for a moment in speechless in dignation, and then said: “But I wish to be as well dressed when I travel as at home—any lady must do so.” “Ah ! you will soon lose that notion when you are married. Limeton ladies are much more sensible. ’ Mary was prudently silent. It was evidently useless to argue with the old lady. After tea Mrs. Cowell went to sleep in her chair, and Louise took h-r visitor to Tom’s own room, showed her his wonder.ul uvenile achievements in drawing and caligrapby, and seeing Mary was somewhat silent, said suddenly: “You must not mind what mamma says, dear Mary; she is old-fashioned in her ideas, and I' have been brought up to be something like her, but we can’t expect every one to be cut out after our own pattern. Tom is not.” The intention was, no doubt, very kind, but the tone seemed to Mary one of tolerance. She fancied Louise meant to patronize her, making allowance for her shortcomings, and she could not brook that in her present mood, so she an swered somewhat tartly: “ I am afraid I should not meet the expecta tions of any of you, not having been cut out by any pattern at all, that 1 know of.” “There, you are offended, and I am sorry. But mamma meant well, and so do I,” she add ed, after a pause. Now Mary prided herself upon being exceed ingly reasonable, and so she reflected that Mrs. Cowell and Louise had acted according to their lights. It was not to be expected that they should understand her, so she graciously said: “Don’t speak of it any more. We see things from such different points of view, that it is' scarcely likely we could agree on such a sub ject. I can see that you are very kind, Louise,” she added, putting forth her little white hand, which Louise clasped in her shapely brown ones, and then they joined Mrs. Cowell, who had just awakened from her nap. “Let us have some music, daughter.” “ With pleasure, if Mary will put up with my simple playing.” Mary protested that she was delighted, liked simple music of all things, and then resigned herself to listen to “ Yankee Doodle ” with vari ations, and perhaps, byway of something su perfine, “ Warblings at Eve.” Louise, however, said, “I must sing mamma’s favorite first, and then you shjll hear mine,” Mamma’s favorite was ‘‘Old Folks at Home,” which Louise sang as correctly, and with far more expression than most of Mary’s fashion able friends could have done ; and then she sang “Auld Robin Gray” with a pathos that brought tears to the eyes of Mary. It was a revelation to her that a girl who con tented herself in a tasteless home and a coarse stuff gown, when she had the means of better, should have soul enough to give expression to the exquisite old ballad. During the next few days Mary learned to ap preciate the character of Louise, without being in the least desirous of emulating her house wifely virtues. Limeton did not meet with her approval. She could scarcely repress her dis gust as she walked the grimy streets, saw the vulgar, over-dressed people, and then thought it might have been her home. To change clean, beautiful Mapleton for Limeton ! Tom had told her that he would like their home to be Limeton, but had said that if she would be happier in Mapleton he would forego his wish. His business permitted him to live in either place. Not to be outdone in generosity, Mary had declared her happiness was to be with him, no matter where. The subject had not been renewed, but Mary had now quite decided that Limeton could never be her home. She had, indeed, balanced whether Mrs. Cowell could ever be her mother-in-law, but as she thought of Tom, she felt that infliction could ba borne—away from Limeton. Tom was to come the following Saturday and spend a few days at home belore she went back to Mapleton, and she awaited bis coming with eagerness. She wanted to let him know that she could never make her home in Limeton, before he could make any plana with his mo ther. When Saturday came, she told Louise she thought of going to the depot to meet Tom, and Louise, with more delicacy than Mary had given her credit for, said : “Oh ! that is just the thing. I have so many things to see to that I would rather not go, and yet we could not let him arrive without some of us going.” bhe also managed to keep Mrs. Cowell at home, feeling sure that Tom would enjoy Ma ry’s company alone better than with them. Mary almost forgot all about Mrs. Cowell in the pleasure of meeting Tom, but after he had asked her a dozen questions about herself, he said : “And bow do you like Limeton, Mary?” “ Oh, perfectly detestable I " I cannot think how anybody can live there.” “Ah I I see you have still those Mapleton ideas, Mary. Now, I hate Mapleton and am always glad to get out of it, the people are such snobs. You are the only pleasant person I ever met there. Limeton people are substantial, true-hearted and-and, in short, Mary, 1 am much disappointed that you don’t like the finest city in the union.” “ Finest city in the Union, indeed!” says Mary, stung by his disparagement of her native city. “It is a most unpleasant place, smoky, grimy and unhealthy, and the people, as far as I have met them, may be substantial enough, but they are dreadfully tiresome and uninter esting. I don’t mean you, Tom,” she adds, see ing him glare down upon her in angry astonish ment. “ I am much obliged, I am sure, that you made an exception in my favor, but 1 cannot take credit to myself at the expense of my mo ther and Louise. “Oh 1 I like Louise.” “ And not my mother, I infer ?” “No.” Mary had not intended to tell him this point blank, but he had taken such a line with her for not liking Limet n, that she felt indignant and not inclined to mince the facts at all. The re sult was what may have been expected : Tom stalked on in solemn silence, while she, full of resentment, held her little head very much in the air. When they arrived at the house, Louise saw, notwithstanding Mary’s unusual animation, that something bad gone wrong between them, but chose the wise part of silence. Mrs. Cowell saw nothing but that her son was not much in love, as she feared he would be, with Mary. She had not found the latter as tractable as she had hoped in the way of imitating Louise, and had discovered that she had not that ad miration of frugality and thrift that befitted the future wife of her son; therefore she was contented to see that son’s cool politeness to Mary, which she took as a proo 1 that he was not likely to be led away by her caprices. The next morning Tom joined M.try in the garden, and said: “ Under the impression that /ou would like Limeton, I had written about a place here 1 wanted to buy, but from what you said last night, I conclude that any plan of that sort is useless.” “ Quite useless,” said Mary, decidedly, “ and I really think, Tom, that you had better decide your future without reference to me. I—that is—there are several things that would, I think, prevent our being happy together.” “In short, you are tired of your engage ment ?” “If you take it that way, yes.” “ Oh, you women, you women!” said Tom, bitterly; but Mary had walked off, and he did not follow her. Later that day Mary said she thought her presence was required at home. Louise looked sad, but no one made any remarks on her sudden leave-taking. Only Tom, when he drove her to the depot, talking painfully small talk as they went, to avoid past and gone top ics, wringing her hand as the train moved off, said: “ God bless you, Mary. I hope one of your Mapleton fellows will make you as good a hus band as I should have wished to be.” “ Thank you; I must take my chance,” says Mary, forcing back her tears till he is gone, then, dropping her vail, she cries her way home. ****** A year later Mary is alone in the world. She has lost her father, and as she sits in her mourning dress she thinks of the past, and is not afraid to tell herself now that but for her own folly she might have had good, true-heart ed Tom Cowell to help her in her trouble; that, grieved asjshe would have been ; at her father's loss, she could never have been alone in the world so long as Tom had lived; and now she would be alone forever, for, disguise it from herself as she had tried to do, she knew she loved Tom still; all other men seemed poor, weak things to her, and for Tom’s sake even Mapleton did not now seem such a very supe rior place as it had done, and, in consequence, Limeton was not so horrible. She knew in her heart she had been somewhat prejudiced, and told herselt that the unpleasantness of it should have counted as nothing compared with Tom’s love. All this she had seen long before she con fessed it even to herself; probably, but tor the grief that had lowered her pride, she never would have so confessed. She sat musing in the firelight, as she had done a year ago, when a card was brought to her. “Mrs. Henry Charlton I I know no one of that name. Show the lady in.” A lady, dressed handsomely, but with Qua ker-like simplicity, then entered, and Mary rec ognized Louise Cowell. After the first embarrassment of meeting had passed, Louise told Mary of her marriage with one of the “ dearest men in the world,” that they had just returned from their wedding trip, and had so timed their arrival as to meet Tom on his return from Europe./ “It was only last night w'e heard of your father’s death, and then, dear Mary, I could not retrain from coming to tell you how sorry I am.” Tears filled Mary’s eyes at the mention of her father. “ 1 am very much obliged to you, Louise, and heartily glad to see you. Are you going to stay here long ?” “ Yes, we shall pass the Winter in Mapleton, and, being a stranger here, I shall o.'ten inflict my company on you, if you will have me.” “The oltener the better, dear Louise,” re plied Mary, sincerely. She liked Louise. At the same time, she thought with some trepidation that these visits from Louise must result in her meeting Tom again, which she felt very reluctant to do; but pride came to her aid, and She asked herself why she could not meet a man with indiffer ence, who could so meet her ? And so she resolved to avoid neither Louise nor him. Perhaps Louise had a little project of her own. At all events, she appeared to have much satis faction when she found Mary did not shrink from the mention of Tom’s name, and accord ingly he became her chief topic of conversation, bhe even hinted at his unhappiness, and her fears that his disa_ polntment would be a life long sorrow. “Ah 1 you dear, innocent Louise. Shake speare know men better than you, and he says : •••Men have died irom time tv time. And worms have eaten th -iu. but not for Jove,’ ” Mary said, w.th .'or<-e 1 g iyety. At last .om and M iry did meet, and then Mary found all her fortitude necessary, for Tom evidently had no intention of carrying matters off with dignity, but rather showed her in every word and look that she was the one woman in the world for him. Can ’t every one guess the end ? That Tom took an early opportunity of calling himself a fool and begging Mary’s forgiveness, and Mary contradicted him, and with many tears shed on his waistcoat, declared herself an unreasonable little vixen, not worth his love, and that she was willing to live in the very heart of Limeton, if necessary. “ Joo late, my dear,” says Tom merrily, “ for I have my eye on a lovely little nest in Maple ton, and am not going to have my plans upset a second time.” Then Louise came into the room. “ ‘ Blessed are the peace-makers,’ ” said Tom, going to his sister and kissing her. NOSES. CONSIDERED HUMOROUSLY AND PHYSIOLOGICALLY. (From Chambers’s Journal.) A popular lecturer in one of his discourses had occasion to speak on noses, and he him self, “ defecive only in his Boman nose,” de clared, had he the ch ice of noses, his face should be ornamented by a “ regular weather cutter.” The desire was commendable and worthy attention, for strangers are instinctively judged by their noses. The nose indeed pro claims the man, and is the outward and visible Symbol of inward mental calibre and intellectual character. Men of note almost invariably pos sess decided and prominent “ leading.articles;” while an insufficient nasal accompaniment not unfrequently donates inanity, lack of moral vig r, and at once negatives qualities which would otherwise give respect and credit. Of course there are extremes and exceptions, but generally, it is, that the more prolonged the probosis the more striking is the countenance, and the more original the force of character. An extreme case is recorded of a Lancashire man, whose prodigious feature became a centre or attraction in the busiest thoroughfares of Manchester, while he was on a visit there. Be coming at length either tired or confused by the inquisitive attention and wonderment of a crowd of admirers, he seized his nose with both hands and gave it a sudden and impatient twist, as th ugh removing an obstruction from the footway, and said sharply: “There—be quick, an-d get past as soon as you can.” A Yorkshire manufacturer whose good living had given him “ a nose as red as a comet,” was told by a wealthy friend very bluntly, “ I couldn’t afford to keep that nose of thine.” Another friend assured him that he had no cause for fear of not living comfortably, lor should ail other means of subsistence fail, he c.mld easily hire himself out as a railway dan ger-signal. Among the South Sea islanders the nose is made to be a medium of expression of affection and amity. Tribes swearing everlasting peace, seal the compact with a promiscuous rubbing of noses against noses ; by the same frictional pro cess, maidens declaim their woes at parting and joys on reunion with other maidens, the action being attended by—so said an eye-witness— “the shedding of a power of tears.” Lovers make their amatory declarations through their noses, their courtship being a protracted series of rub-rub-rubbing of nose to nose. We recall an interruption Dr. Binney had while he was preaching on one occasion. He saw opposite to him, in the gallery, a country man making elaborate preparations for putting his handkerchief to the common usage ap pointed to it. The doctor became interested, and stayed expectant in his discourse just be fore the crisis. The countryman blew a terri ble blast, awakening the echoes, and almost perceptibly shaking the building to its founda tions. The doctor, having Met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow,” waited for the fainting echoes to die, and then said, with impressive gravity : “ Let us now resume.” Charles Lamb’s rebuke to a man who by self assertion pronounced himself devoid of any peculiarity, ought not to be omitted. “ Wh-which hand do you b-b-blow your n-n-nose with ?” inquired Lamb. “ With my right hand, to be sure.” “Ah I” said Lamb, pensively, “ that’s your pe-pe-pe-peculiarity. I b-b-blow mine with my hand-kerchief.” The nose is quite a proverbial topic; for ex ample, “To turn up the nose,” “ Put his nose out of joint,” “Paid through his nose,” and “Putting his nose to the grindstone,” “ Led by the nose,” and many others equally felicitous. “Driving hogs over Swarston Bridge” is a Derbyshire polite way of expressing snoring; and several stories are told respecting pig drivers. A small boy was once asked : “ Is your brother musical ?” “ Yes, sir; ’e is that.” “Can he play? ’ “ O yes, sir ; ’e plays beautiful.” “ On what instrument does he perform ?” “ Why, sir, ’e plays on his nose !” A celebrated divine was preaching before the king and court in Stuart times, when the mon arch and several noblemen “ nodded gentle as sents” to all he said, “for they slumbered and slept.” The divine, wishful to reprove, but fearful to offend, at last summoned courage to shout to One of the somnolent nobles : “My lord, my lord, don’t snore so loud, or you’ll waken His Ma u esty 1” The subject has not commended itself gener ally to poets, yet there are few who would be inclined to say that there is nothing poetical about the nose. Here and there wo do find pointed references in poetry to the homely fea ture more or less poetical in expression. We can easily fancy Cowper’s picture "of “ the shiv ering urchin, with dewdrop at his nose,” while our poet-laureate indulges in a higher flight over a maiden’s nose “ tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,” which sounds very refined indeed. Henry, Lord Brougham, whose nose was some what pt this latter order, did not feel flattered by a similar reierence to it. In conducting a case in Yorkshire, he was bothered in cross-ex amining a witness by a constant repetition of the word “ humbug.” “Humbug,” said Lord Brougham—“hum bug ! what do you mean by humbug ?” “ Whoy,” returned the Yorkshireman, “ If I wer’ to tell ye ’at ye’d getten a nice nose, I should be humbuggin’ ye.” Nursery rhymes are not complete without a nose or noses, and they are constantly being quoted, for instance: ‘•Says Moses to Aaron: * ‘Thy nose is a rare uni* Says Aaron to Moses: ‘Let us swap noses !* And we cannot forget: “ The servant in the garden hanging out the clothes. By came a dicky bird and popped off her nose I” “I am satisfied on every point but one,” said a gentleman to an applicant for service—“l can not get over your nose.” “ That is not to be wondered at, sir,” replied the applicant, “ for the bridge is broken.” This last incident gives us a moral wherewith to adorn our paper, that, out of all noses—col lective, defective, conceptive or reflective—it is better to have an ill-shaped nose than no nose at all. A SINGULAR INCIDENT. HOW AN EARTHQUAKE SHOCK PRODUCED A VERDICT. (From the San Francisco Chronicle.) Many things have been said and written upon the subject of earthquakes and their peculiari ties, but so far no person has ever had the hard ihood to characterize one as being useful and beneficial to mankind. Such is the case, never theless, and has been clearly proved so by a re cent occurrence in one of the criminal courts of this city. The incident is well worthy of being placed on record. It was on the morning of May 26, th s year, that the jury trying Harry Huff for the murder of Matthew T. Eddy re turned into court, alter being out all night, and asked Judge Toohy for further instructions. Just as the Judge concluded the reading of this second charge <nd the jury was about to re tire again, a strong earthquake shock sent a tre mor through the old building, accompanied by a loud rambling noise. Among the first of the many who rushed for the door was Juror Alfred Larsen, a recent arrival from the East, now working as a clerk in a wholesale grocery house down town. A deputy sheriff intercepted his flight, however, and conducted him, with the others, to the jury room for further deliberation. Larseu’s pallid cheeks, trembling lips and bulging eyes were too evident proofs of the fears and misgivings which agitated his timid soul for the other jurors, all old Californians, to resist the temptation of accomplishing a brilliant stroke of combined policy and revenge. Lar sen had been holding out from the first on a verdict of acquittal, the other eleven being all for a conviction of murder in the first degree. Larsen had kept them up all night, refusing to listen to either arguments or pleas, and they were naturally very much incensed against him. This earthquake shock, however, gave them the opportunity which they wanted, and the manner in which they commenced playing upon his fears was something astonishing. “Look there, Larsen,” said one of the jurors, excitedly, as he pointed to a large aperture in the plastered wall. “Do you see that crack ? Well, that was made by the great earthquake of ’6B, when so many buildings were destroyed in San Francisco.” “ Yes,” was the eager interruption of another, “ this old death-trap was so badly shaken up at that time that those iron girders you see up there had to be put in to keep the walls to gether.” “Im getting confoundedly uneasy,” said some one else, “for the first shock is always followed by two or three more, and this rotten pile of masonry is liable to go crumbling and crashing to the ground at any minute. 1 wish I was out of here. ’ “My God I” cried Larsen, almost in tears, “is it so bad as that? Ob, gentlemen, what shall I do ?” “ Come over to our side and agree to a ver dict of murder in the first degree I” was the almost unanimous chorus. Seriously frightened as Larsen was, he would not consent to this, but offered to compromise on manslaughter. To this proposition, how ever, the others would not agree. A short dis cussion ensued, which finally resulted in a com promise on murder in the second degree, and a verdict was rendered to that effect, . bus it was that a sftnple earthquake was instrumental m brin ring about the conv.ction of a murderer, who was afterward sentenced lo imprisonment tor hie.” SHRIMPS. Twenty-two Tons Caught Daily in San Francisco Bay. (From the San Francisco Call.) “Grab him by the throat. That’s it. Turn him over. Now break bis back.” The voice came from an alcove in an oyster grotto, the next to which a Call reporter was frugally regaling himself on a modest Califor nia stew. The voice was that of a man—harsh, guttural and betraying some excitement. He was evidently giving directions to some confed erate. Had some poor rustic been lured into the place drugged and was being robbed ? “Oh, I can’t doit. lean never do it,” came a second voice, evidently that of a woman. “Bosh! Why not?” repled the first voice. “It is the easiest thing in the world. Now see. Bend him over backward until his back breaks. Now I pull him apart and the meat is free, just like a kernel of a nut.” They were only discussing a plate of shrimps. The reporter breathed more freely. “Queer thing it is that a woman can never learn to eat shrimps neatly,” the man’s voice continued: “But aren’t they delicious?” the feminine voice added, after a pause. “ They are nasty looking things, though. A gentleman once toid me that they fed on people who were drowned. Do you think they do?” “Dunno. Good enough for me, anyhow.” And here the conversation relapsed into a dis cussion of the play at the theatre. The reporter's curiosity, however,was aroused, and as ho passed out he inquired of the loung ing proprietor: “ Where do shrimps come from ?” “ Shrimps come from ? Why the bay is full of them. There are eight or ten fisheries "along the bay coast, one at San Rafael, another at San Quentin and several down south. It was esti mated by the Fish Commissioners, a couple or so years ago, that as much as twenty tons of shrimps were daily taken from the bay. The business is now entirely controlled by Chinese —they are the only ones who can make it pay. They bring them around daily to the restau rants. The greater quantity, however, they dry and send to China, where they are esteemed an epicurean dish. I believe a considerable quan tity of the supply is also fed to hogs, which wax fat upon them. The California shrimp, you know, I suppose, is the largest and most edible of its kind. The Fish Commissioners, when they write about them, I see, call them the shrimp franciscorum, or some sort of a jaw cracking term. The shrimps we used to have in New York were not near so large, and they did not have the flavor of the California shrimp. When I first came here, eighteen ago, people did not know the superiority of our shrimps, and there were few of them to be got ten. The Italians first took to the business of fishing them. They used to sell them at two bits a pound. They were found to be so plenti ful that the price went gradually down, sinking to fifteen cents, then to eight cents. This was too cheap to pay for the fishing, and th® Italians gave the business entirely up to the Chinese. We now buy them at the regular price of five cents. They are being received with continually increasing favor, and have spread from a restaurant dish to private tables. They are generally served at all oyster saloons as a prelude to regular dishes.” “Do they live on cadavers ?” inquired the scribe, remembering the -query propounded by the feminine voice. “Nonsense I No, the shrimp is an epicurean in his modest, aquatic way. His principal diet is marine insects, although he is not averse to a piece of raw fish when he gets an opportu nity. However, he is more the hunted than the hunter. Many larger fish esteem him a rare delicacy, and they make bis life a burden to him. When he is not foraging for food tha shrimp buries himself in the sand, and ail there is visible of him are his two long eyes pro truding.” “ How are they caught ?” “ Well, you ought to go down and sea the fisheries. Fishing shrimps is reduced to a sci ence, and is very interesting. The Chinamen stake out nets between two posts in the water. The nets are funnel-shaped, and as the tide comes in the shrimps drift in in regular chan nels. When the tide g es out the fishermen re verse the funnel and catch a new lot. The shrimps when alive are white in complexion. They are then thrown into a vat of boiling salt water, and as they are cooked they assume that rich auburn hue.” “ Is that all the culinary preparation they re ceive before they are put on the table ?” “ Yea, that’s all. They are brought to us al ready choked and we dish them up as they are. As I said, the greater portion of them are dried and sent to China. This process in itself is in teresting. After co king them the Chinese spread them out in the sun, where they remain until perfectly dry and the meat is shriveled up. They then go at them with a flail, as though they were thrashing grain, and the dry shell is broken and beaten off. Those are blown off and the kernels collected and packed in boxes for shipment to China. Now this, I think, is entirely wrong, and the Shipping Com missioners ought to see that the traffic is stop ped. Several tons are shipped on every steam er and the result must end in the extirminatiou of the shrimp irom the bay in time. During tha last few years these shipments as well as the sale of fresh shrimp in the city have largely in creased.” “ Are there any shrimp shipped East ?” “ No. They will not keep. We are obliged to get our shrimps fresh every day, for they spoil in about twenty-four hours and must be thrown out.” TWO BLOSSOMS. BY NELLIEF. O’NEILL. Ou the fourth floor of a large tenement house in one of the poor localities in a great city, in a small, back room, a little child lay ill. She had been ailing irom her birth, and the neighbors said it was a wonder that she had lived so long, she was such a sickly little thing. In the next room a woman toiled wearily over a washtub, rubbing and wringing, rubbing and wringing, while the perspiration rolled down her face. Every little while she would stop, and taking her arms out of the steaming tub, wipe them hastily on her apron, and putting her head into the tiny bedroom, ask : “Do you want anything, dear ?” And the little child, shaking her head, would answer feebly: “ No, ma’am.” Then the woman would go back to tho tub and rub, rub, rub, and think, think, think, till a tear mingled with the perspiration on her face, and then, brushing her eyes quickly, she would sav : “ What is the use of thinking and fretting ; it won’t make things any better.” and she would turn again to the tub, and rub, rub, rub, and think, think, think. Very often the neighbor down stairs camo up to see the child, and watching the woman work ing would say : “ Sure, woman, you’ll kill your self workin’ so hard.” “ I don’t mind it. I’d work my finger-nails off if she was only spared to me,” the woman would answer, nodding her head in the direction of the other room. “Indeed, I hope she will be,” the neighbor replied, but when she was down in her own rooms she would say, with a long drawn sigh : “ It would be well for both of them, if it was tha Lord’s will, if He would take them to Himself, ier I see nothin’ in this world for the poor but hard work and sorrer.” The little child never complained, but lay for hours and hours looking through the window at a small bit of blue sky, just visible between the housetops that shut in the narrow yard. The harsh tones of street peddlers, calling their wares, and the shrill voices of children as they played and squabbled in the yard below, camo in through the window, but she did not appear to heed them, but lay calmly watching the bit of sky and the clouds that passed over it. She was very fond of Howers, and some one gave her a geranium in full bloom ; but, owing to its having been forced in a hot-houae, the leaves soon turned yellow, and it lived only a short time. The child felt so grieved that tho woman obtained a box, and, remembering tho little cottage with the tiny porch in her country home, that she had left years before the child was born, planted some scarlet runner beans, and placed the box on the ledge of the window of the tenement below. Very carefully they were wartered each day, and in a little* while began to show their heads. When told, the child asked : “When can I see them ?” And the woman replied : “In a little while, dear.” So the child watched the blue sky and waited patiently till one day a tiny leaf lifted its head and looked in. Then the little girl was glad. And soon another leaf appeared, and then an other, and she forgot the bit of sky and the clouds floating over it, and watched the vine as it grew. In a short time a bunch of green buds pressed against the pane, and the little child smiled for she knew the blossom was nigh. She seldom turned from the window, unless some neighbor looked in and asked : “Do you feel better, dear?” and she would answer in a weak, little voice, “Yes, ma’am,” and turn again to the window to watch the ripening buds. “I never saw her so taken up with anything before. I think she must be getting better, the woman said. And the neighbor answered, “She does look brighter.” One morning the little child found the buds tipped with scarlet, and her eyes brightened and she thought: “ They will open to-morrow;” but the next day came in dull and cloudy and the buds were no nearer opening. All daylong she watched and waited, but the buds were waiting for the sun before they could burst through their green prison walls. When the day closed and they did not open, tho little child grieved, and turning her face to the wall, listened to the rub, rub, rub in the ne ;t room. In the morning the sun shone out bright and clear, and the buds burst their bonds and, nodding their glowing, scarlet heads, tapped merrily at the window. The curtain was drawn, and the rub, rub, rub in the next room had ceased, and in the small back room the little child lay, with small, thin hands folded and weary eyes closed, for she had found the eternal sun and bloomed in the laud of perpetual Summer. The next day, while the tiny form lay in the small, pine coffin, the woman opened the win dow, and, plucking the bright-hued blossom, placed it tenderly on the pure, little, pulseless heart. To-day, in a cemetery out in the suburbs of a great city, people pause and gaze curiously at a small grave, around wh.ub the scarlet runners run and twine lovin;lv. au.d away up th® fourth floor o: a b-nuim-nt :>• use a w.uuan rnh.s, rubs. rubs, and thinks. Uuuks.