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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, November 07, 1886, Image 2

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sure, through her presence. She and Nat and
I made ourselves comfortable on one of the
broad cushioned window-seats, and soon got
into one of the ch ts about everything and
everybody in Whittlesford and out of it, in
■which we were wont to indulge. Lights were
brought in, and Madam, seating herself by the
little work-table in the vicinity of the fire, pres
ently asked mademoiselle if she was too tired
to play. Not at all; mademoiselle would be
charmed.
She moved over to the piano at once, and,
Hot troubling herself about either lights or mu
sic, sat down and be?an to play—to play well,
too, as I should ha e known had I had no ears
to guide me when, hy-and-by, I glanced r-nnd
and caught si. hr of Madam’s satisfied face.
Not, I fancy, that we three paid much attention.
Natalie, like the w 11-u! little puss she was, had
firmly made up her mind to approve of nothing
■which the obnoxious governess did; Alice's love
of music was at best but small, and my taste
was for something sweeter and quieter than
the brilliant fantasia which was now rippling
out from beneath mademoiselle’s Skillful fin
gers. There seemed to be something wanting
in it. Somehow came to the conclusion that,
though mademo selle could no doubt play any
piece of music which might be set before her,
would play it without caring a straw
about it.
The music went on; so did our chatter, though
in subdued tones, in deference to it. The
breeze, blowing in at the open window, made
Nat and Alice shier under their light dresses.
Madam, looking across, noticed this.
“My dears, you will take oold; the evenings
are chilly now. you know. Pray come away.
Close the window, will you, Ned?”
The two girls u raped down from the window
seat and I shut the window.' I was just follow
ing Madam’s^ further directions to draw the
curtains when a sound outside made me pause
and look out.
“ Here’s somebody coming !” I announced.
“Who is it?” asked Alice, turning to peer
over my shoulder. ** Ugh 1 Fraser Froude, I
declare I”
“So late !” said Madam, in a surprised tone.
•‘You must be mistaken, lice.”
J “I am not,” Miss Deeping declared confi
dently. “There’s not another person who
looks like him in all Whittlesford, thank good
ness,!” This last in an energetic whisper in my
ear; then aloud—“ It was he, wasn’t it, Ned ?”
“I think so, but 1 could hardly see,” Ire
turned.
But Alice’s eyes were sharper than mine, it
appeared, for the next moment Mr. Froude was
and his tall, thin, tightly-bnttoned
up figure appeared. He shook hands with me
first—by the way, Ido not think I have men
tioned that his bony white hands were always
cold- then with Nat and Alice, before crossing
to make his bow by my mother's little work
table. Ido not know that he was an especial
lavorite with Madam—a nobody in particular in
the stockbroking way was hardly likely to be;
but she greeted him graciously enough, and in
troduced him to mademoiselle, who had left the
piano by this time.
“ A late visit, Mr. Froude,” Madam said then.
I suppose she lovely evening tempted you
“Yes,” Mr. Froude explained; the lovely
evening had tempted him out. , Holmedean’e
was lonel.v to a solitary bachelor, and be found
fitting 6lone there but dismal work. So, hie
dinner over, he had strolled out with his cigar,
end passed the boundary between his own
grounds and Chavasse almost without knowing
it.
Watching how his dark eyes furtively sought
Nat’s face, I put the last part of the statement
down as more than slightly mendacious. The
master of Holmedeane strolled into Chavasse a
good deal too often to do it by accident, in my
opinion.
‘1 kept apart by the piano, turning over Nat’s
music, intending to ask her for a song present
ly, while ths conversation round Madam’s work
table grew brisk enough, as most conversations
•did in which Miss Alice Deeping took part. It
anight be that the young lady did not like Fra
ser Froude: but she had no objection t<Ttalking
to him if no one better was near. Madam put
in a word now and then, and Nat, kneeling in
her avorito attitude beside her, with her arms
crowed on her knee, contributed a very fair
sir» - e to the chatter.
unlv mademoiselle stood apart and silent. It
might bo because she felt strange, or was not
yet sufficiently sure of her position at the Mount
4o join unasked in the conversation. Yet the
-quick keen glances which now and again she
-cast furtively at the four faces composing the
group did not look much like nervousness, i
-.vaa just thinking so when she suddenly crossed
to the piano and oined me, rather to my con
sternation. I had not said a dozen words to
mademoiselle yet, and was by no means sure
that ] had anything to say to her now. But, it I
was nt a loss, she was not. Starting with the
sheet of music which I was holding, she
branched off in the airiest, easiest way imagin
able into I know not what. One thing I did
"know, and that was that she was trying to
“pump” me. A very poor chance I should
have stood of resisting if she had not suddenly
broached a subject about which I was perfectly
indifferent—to wit, Fraser Froude. Her sharp,
black eyes glanced keenly over to where he sat
bv Madam’s table, h s white teeth gleaming as
he talked and smiled. She looked back again
at me.
“ That gentleman—Mr. Froude, I think—an
odd name ! is he a neighbor, Mr. Chavasse?”
“Yes. His place is Holmedeane. The grounds
join ours.”
“ He is rich then—what you do call a gentle
man, a squire?” she asked, in her pretty fan
tastic English.
“ Oh, no I” and, if I had been a girl, I sup- i
pose I should have turned up my nose. “He
is rich enough, of course, or he couldn’t have
bought Holmedeane, but he doesn’t belong to I
Daleshire. He is a nobody, in point of fact, so '
far as I can make out.”
“Ah, a r<arce.L>tJ” she rejoined. “He is not i
then mademoiselle’s naucw ? ’
“ What—Natalie’s ?” I said indignantly. “Of
course not, mademoiselle. By Jove, it would
be like his impudence 1”
“ Ah, of course—of course !’’ Mademoiselle’s
eyes, meeting mine, had in them a mocking
expression which I did not exactly like, and
which caused me to become uncomfortably red.
•'Your pardon, Mr. Cha\asse; lam foolish. I
shall get used to English wavs in time—what
you do call English good manners. To leave it
—do you sing ?”
No; I did not sing, and said so with what I
am afraid was a strong tinge of undignified
sulkiness. Confound mademoiselle ! I thought.
What on earth did she want to fasten on to me
for? If she wanted to cross-examine anyone
about Fraser Froude or any one else, she
should not, at any rate, cross-examine me. I
could not look so serene as she did, but I tried
jny best when I answered her.
“I really don’t know much about Mr.
Froude, mademoiselle,” I said politely—“ I
don’t think anybody does in Whittlesford—but
I’m sure Madam Chavasse will be glad to tell
you anything that she can, if you are curious.”
It was not a very pretty speech to make to a
lady, and 1 am sure I felt half ashamed by the
time it was out, but what is a fellow to do when
he is being “pumped ” by a woman whom he is
no match for ?
What she would have replied I do not know,
for just then Madam rose and turned toward
the piano.
“ I am anxious to hear your opinion of your
pupil’s voice, mademt iselle,” sho said. “ May
fask you to accompany her ? Come, Natalie,
my dear.”
Nat, who was listening to something whisper
ed in her ear by Fraser Froude, shrugged her
ehoulders, with a toss of her curly head and a
very decided pout, but obeyed. The song was
selected, and mademoiselle had taken her seat,
when there came an interruption. There was
a tap at the door, and, in reply to Madam’s per
mission to enter, Virtue Dent presented her
self. Madam had an objection to men-servants,
and, with the exception of old Styles, the but
ler, nearly all those about the house were wo
men.
“ What is it, Virtue ?” my mother asked.
“Doctor Yorke has come, ma’am, please.
He says do you wish to see him ?”
For Roger was still in attendance upon Bat
terbin’s rheumatism.
([Madam would have gone out to him now,
probably, but for Alice’s interposition. l
“Oh, I have a message to give Doctor
Yorke I” she cried, evidently just remembering
it. “Can he not come in here, Madam? I
shall be sure to forget it again.”
“Certainly, mv dear. Ask Doctor Yorke to
be kind enough to step in here,” Madam said to
the girl.
Virtue disappeared accordingly. Nat, appar
ently glad of the respite, went back to the
hearth-rug, reaching up to whisper something
—no doubt an impertinent something—into
Alice’s ear. Fraser Froude moved across to my
side, making some remark about mademoiselle.
Mademoiselle still sat at the piano, her hands
moving slowly over the keys, but not striking a
note. So we all waited for a couple of minutes
or so, until Yorke was ushered in by Virtue.
It struck me, when, after his bow to Madam
and the girls, he came to shake hands with me,
that he looked tired. But it was one of old Di
zarte’s days at Market Waxford, and it was only
natural that he should look tired; so I did not
notice that very much. What I did notice was
the frown which darkened his face as his eyes
fell upon Fraser Froude, a look which the other
man reciprocated as a few stiff words of greet
ing passed between them. Then, as Roger
moved across to Alice to receive the message,
which she apparently whispered volubly in hie
ear, I caught a look upon his face, as his eyes
rested upon Nat standing beside her, which al
most sent me off my balance and quite made
me gasp, i had never had the vaguest suspi
cion of it before. Poor old Roger! Was he an
other victim to the golden-black eyes of our
nut-brown maid? The speculation so confound
ed me that I only seemed to come to my senses
io hear Madam say in her most gracious tones:
“ I must introduce you to mademoiselle Val
dini, Doctor Yorke.”
Roger bowed, and followed Madam to the
piano, looking rather curiously at the tasteful
dress, of Parisain make, which mademoiselle
wore, and at the elaborate wreaths and twists
o 2 dark hair, dressed in Parisain fashion, which
crowned mademoiselle’s head. She must have
forgotten everything but the slow, mechanical
movements ot her hands over the unsounded
keys, it appeared, for it was not until my moth
•cr spoke that she seemed to bo awaro of any
one near her.
“ Let me present Doctor Yorke to you, mad
emoiselle,” Madam said graciously.
Mademoisalle Valdini rose with the graceful
eelf-possossion which seemed natural to her,
and slowly turned her head. As her face was
thus revealed Roger started violently and ut
tered an exclamation of disconcerted astonish-
ment. He stared as though he could hardly
• believe his eyes. Mademoiselle smiled.
• “Doctor Yorke and I are old friends, Mad
am,” she said to my mother sweetly. “We met
in Pans more than a year ago.”
i I ■
CHAPTER X.
I “the secret interview in- the lady’s walk.”
“ 1 say, Ned, isn’t is comical ?”
“Eh? What?” I asked, looking down into
Alice Deeping’s blue eyes.
“ What indeed I” She gave my arm a shake.
“As though you didn’t know I f believe you
are thinking about it now. I know I am. i
never saw anything so queer; and I’m sure it
astonished you as much as it did mo, for your
eyes were almost as big as a couple of saucers.
| And now you say, ‘ What?' I wonder if all
| mademoiselle \ aid ni’s acquaintances look as
j disconcerted whoa they see her as Doctor Yorke
; did—that’s all.”
“Oh,’ I returned, comprehensively, “I see !
Yes, it was queer enough, wasn’t it?”
V> o were in tho lane leading from Chavasse to
Whittlesford, Al co and I-I escorting her home
to the rectory. She had thrown a scarlet wrap
of Nat’s over her white -gown, and tied her
broad hat down under her chin with the reck
less indifference to appearances that character
ized her. We had come out through the little
side-gate opening on to the lane, amd were
scarcely outside it when she abruptly pro
pounded the foregoing query.
“Queer?” sho now echoed. “Mora than
queer I”
“ Oh, I don’t know I There’s nothing par
ticularly odd, that I see, in a couple of people
who have met once meeting again.”
“Of course not—l don’t mean that, you stu
pid boy 1” She gave my arm another little
shake. “That in itseL would be merely a coin
cidence. But what in the world did they want
to look so taken aback lor?”
“They?” I questioned.
“ Well, he then ?”
“Surprised, I suppose.”
“ Pooh ! Surprise doesn’t look like that.
But she was cool enough I”
“Mademoiselle, you mean? It strikes me
she would be cool over an earthquake.”
“Oh, yes! She didn’t caro, but ho did. It is
something odd to see Roger Yorke thrown off
his balance.”
I assented with a nod, thinking that her
phrase “ thrown off his balance ” expressed
what had seemed to be Roger’s state of mind
better than any other could have done. Truth
to toll, I had been as much puzzled and sur
prised at the little scene in tho Chavasse draw
ing-room as Alice herself, and was cogitating
over it now. Presently my reflections there
upon produced another puzzle, which I pro
ceeded to unfold.
“ I say, Alice, this is odd ! Roger has known
the. name of Nate governess ever since wo
knew it ourselves. Nat has done nothing but
bewail her fate, you know; it is strange that
he never mentioned that he knew Mademoi
selle.”
“How could he until he had seen her?” Alice
demanded, in her outspoken fashion. “She is
not the only woman of the name in the world, I
suppose.”
“Perhaps not; but I should have thought
he would have said that he knew some one of
the name. I don’t think • Valdini ’ is a com
mon one.”
“It may be abroad. As to mentioning it, I
dare say, if she was only a casual acquaintance,
ho forgot it.”
“ Very likely. Beside, he told us it was a
year since he had seen her,” I said., as we
stopped at the rectory gate.
“Just so. And I’ll tell you something more ;
he would not have been sorry if it had been
twenty years before he saw her again. Good
night, Nod, and thank you for coming home
with mo.”
The gate was opened, and she flitted up the*
path, turning gayly to kiss her hand to mo. I
watched until her white dress, with the scarlet
cloud over it, had disappeared within doors,
and then turned back to walk through the vil
lage to Chavasse again. But I walked slowly,
with my hands in my pockets, puzzling myse’lf
about the recognition of Roger Yorke and Made
moiselle Valdini which had taken us all by sur
prise. Not the recognition itself; that, as Alice
bad said, would have been merely a coinci
dence, odd perhaps, but not puzzling. But
what on earth could have possessed Roger
Yorke to make him look as though he had seen
a ghost at his first sight of that pale, sallow,
composed face? I could not understand it at
the time, and, going over the few words which
had followed mademoiselle’s announcement of
ther previous acquaintanceship, 1 could not
understand it now. Yet mademoiselle had ex
plained the whole matter to my mother with the
most charming ease and readiness. She had
met Doctor 1 orke at his sister's more than a year
ago. She was the friend ot Madame his sister,
and was then staying with her lor her holiday
—her vacation. Butin England she had not
expected the pleasure ot again meeting Doctor
Yorke.
So far so g-ood. All Whittlesford knew that
Roger Yorke had a sister, and knew at least as
well that her place ol residence was Paris ; also
that it was his custom, when he took bis yearly
holiday, to spend it in France with her and her
busband. That he had done so last year 1 knew
well enough, for at the time there had been
some talk of my going with him. All very well,
so far. But, if his acquaintance with mademoi
selle had been merely a casual acquaintance
with his sister’s friend, why on earth had he
looked so disconcerted—nay, dismayed, to see
her in the Chavasse drawing-room ? Surely,
that was odd ! I recalled the change which had
come over him after that bland little speech of
hers, how stiffiy he had bowed to her and how
coldly he had touched her extended hand;
again, bow, by-and-by, when Nat was singing
her delayed song, he had sat apart, silent and
gloomy, the gay debonair manner which always
made him so attractive gone, and with his stern
blue-gray eyes always keenly, almost furtively
resting upon madem. iselle’s per ectly “got-up”
figure. Yes, Alice was right. Roger had
been completely thrown off his balance and he
could not help showing it. An uneasy sense of
being at a disadvantage, of being awkwardly
placed, and of inwardly fighting against it, had
been, in my opinion, at least expressed in his
whole air and manner—nay, in the very attitude
of his figure.
When he abruptly took his departure, with a
muttered apology to Madam about having a pa
tient to see, I fancied that his eyes, when he
shook hands, fell and avoided mine. It might
have been fancy, for I know that I am given to
be fanciful, but it puzzled me for all that. I
was very fond of Roger Yorke-fonder, I really
believe,-than I was of anybody, even Natalie
herself; and it gave me a queer jealous pang to
think tHht he should have a secret irom me.
Another thought came to me as I strolled
along in the September moonlight; a fancy that
I might find a solution of the problem, after
all. I recalled that look from Roger Yorke’s
blue eyes at Nat’s little brown face, a look
which had been a revelation to me—a revela
tion not only of his love lor her, but of the
reason for the barely vailed dislike which he
had of late shown to Fraser Froude. Could it
be, 1 wondered, that that acquaintanceship with
mademoiselle had in reality been a love-affair
which he had grown tired of and got out of, and
that in her appearance at Whittlesford he fore
saw awkwark complications ? And yot—pshaw !
—I thought mademoiselle looked a round half
dozen years older than he did, to start with, not
to speak of her being the reverse of pretty. No;
that could not be it. In fine, I reached Chavasse
at last as far from any satisfactory conclusion
as ever, and feeling inclined to “bother”
mademoiselle as heartily as Nat herself had
done.
Entering, I found the drawing-room deserted,
early as it was, and, ringing the bell, was told
by Virtue, who answered it with her usual quiet
promptness, that the ladies had retired—Madam
because she had a headache, mademoiselle on
the plea of fatigue, and Miss Natalie in a tem
per. Not that the demure Virtue said this—l
gathered it. Obviously there was nothing to do
but to go to bed myself, and I went, taking my
perplexities with me.
Perhaps it was the heat of the night, for it
was unusually sultry for the time ot year; per
; haps it was on account of being bothered, but,
try as I would, I could not go to sleep. I tossed
and turned about, tumbled the bed-clothes, got
up and walked about, tried again, counted as
long as my arithmetic held out—all in vain !At
the end of a couple of hours I thought I had
never been so stanngly wide awake in my life.
In despair I rose, and, going to the window,
pulled aside the blind and looked out.
The full moon was up, its great discehining
out serenely from the dark blue sky, and its
pale light silvering the stately trees of the park.
The contrast to the hot room and the tumbled
bed was too great. I made up my mind to
dress and go out, and try to walk myself into
sleepiness.
No sooner thought of than done. I slipped
on my clothes, opened my door cautiously, and
crept slowly along the corridor and across the
great landing, laughing to myself to think what
a scare there would be if I chanced to encounter
one of the maids. But I reached the hall with
out any such mishap, unbarred a small side
door, and so got out into the air in safety.
Now just at this time I had taken to smoking,
rather to the horror of Madam, my mother, who
had no great admiration for the practice; and so
my pipe and cigarettes were absolutely forbid
den in the dining-room and regarded with dis
favor in the rest of the house.
Not that I minded that much. Roger Yorke
and the vast amount of consolation and enjoy
ment which he appeared to find in his pipe had
first made me begin, and, having once got over
the inevitable preliminary pangs and throes, I
was not likely to leave off.’ So, whenever I got
out ot Madam’s way, I smoked, and enjoyed it.
Nat, I must say, was a little brick, and let me
puff away as much as I liked in her company.
L had my cigarette-case and matches in my
pocket now, and lighted up as I strolled to and
fro in the moonlight, the crisp gravel crunching
under my feet.
I do not knowhow long I had been pacing
there; but it must have beeu some time, and I
was positively half aseep when there rang out
from the Whittlesford Church a loud
deep-toned “one.” So startlingly loud did it
sound on the calm night-air that it brought me
back to realities at once, and lor a moment I
stood staring about me. wondering how on
earth I came to be where I was. Here was a
pretty state ol things ! 1 was wider awake than
ever and further from sleep than I was from
daylight. I decided that I had been a simpleton
not to stay up stairs and not to woo tSomnus
under the bed-clothes. 1 was unpromisingly
cross as I turned toward the house again.
To this day i cannot tell wb»t it was th t made
me turn, while th© door-handle was in my baud,
NEW YORK DISPATCH, NOVEMBER 7 1886.
• and hesitate as I looked back at t e f trees
|in the moonlight. From where I «!<»<a. broad
sweep of gravel stretched away to the edge o'
the park, and w'inding along ’he chimps ot
lushes .nd laurel arches, the Lady’s Walk
looked like a broad yellow-wlrte ribbon.
I looked at it for a moment, thinking that iust
as if was, with the addition, say, oi n figure or
so in the oreground, it would make a pre'ty
picture, and then staffed more violently tlr.n I
had when tho (dock struck one. As surely as !
was standing in mvslippers a figure did cross
the I.adv’s darting suddenly out from be
hind a tall chimb of bushes and then disappear
ing lower down the curving pathway.
If J had been wide awnse be ore, j w .s doubly
so now. 'ihefi ure looked Ike that o f a wo
man; bnt it had appeared and diappeared with
such rapid ty that w-r by no moans sure.
One of the m-dds doing some nocturnal court
ing, I decided, chuckling to think w’-at
Madam’s scandalized horror would bo if she
knew it. As quickly as I could, I crossed the
stretch of gr-vcl and stood in the Lady’s Walk,
peer ng down it. Two figures stood there close
to the doorway oft ! o little arbor I have men
tioned before: but it was no maid philandering
with her sweetheart. No—Mademoiselle Valdini
and Roger Yorke !
In my nstoniahment I dropped my cigarette
end, and stood staring and open-mouthed.
What was to be the next development? I
wondered blankly, feeling inclined to pinch my
self to make sure’that 1 was not asleep without
being aware of it.
Now I declare with all possible solemnity that I
did not mea nfo listen. Of course I did not. Is it to*
bo Htipposed that I, Edward Chavasse, ot Mount
Chavasse, whose ancestors were here in En
gland be ore the Conquest, all ready for the
Conqueror to come over instead of merely
coming over with him—is it to be supposed, I
say. that a person of such distinction would
deliberately play evesdropper? Certainly not—
of course not. And, more than that, I did not
listen—l merely overheard; andloverhe rd be
cause because I could not well get away.
Just where I stood was in shadow, and I well
out of sight, although I could soo them plainly.
Beside, gravel is a nasty, noisy thing to move
upon, and 1 by no means wanted them to turn
round and catch me. Again, their voices, when
they spoke, were loud, or sounded so on the
still night-air, so that I could hardly avoid
hearing; and. anyhow, I did want to know
what on earth it all meant. So I stayed where
I was.
Qu : ck as I had been, I had missed their first
greeting, whatever it was, and they now stood
looking at each other by the two moss-grown
steps leading to the Lady’s Chapel. Mademoi
selle wore the same toilet which she had dis
played in tho evening, and over her head she
had thrown a white shawl, which was hardly
whiter than the thin pale face peering out ot its
folds. As for Yorke, he looked much as he had
looked in the drawing-room—morose, gloomy,
ill at ease, almost sullen. So for a moment I
saw them as clearly as a couple of photographed
figures, standing face to face in the moonlight
by the steps of the Lady’a Cbapel. Then there
was an imperious movement of one of mad
emoiselle’s ’ thin white hands, and slowly, he
with his eyes on the ground, and she with her
face raised, they came toward mo. 1 caught her
first words, sharp and impatient.
“I thought you would have been here before.
I have waited an hour longer. It has struck the
first hour, and you went away at ten. You did
not hasten, monsieur.”
“ No,” was the curt answer.
“And why not—why not?” I ask. “You
knew I should wait here for you. I said so.”
“I know that.”
“But you did not come—why not?”
“Because I would rather be fifty miles away,”
Yorke retorted, suddenly wheeling around upon
her as they came to a halt, and shaking off the
hand which she had laid upon his arm.
Mademoiselle laughed—a little, low, pretty
ripple such as Nat might have given.
“Eh? As you wish I were, monsieur? Is i
not so?”
“ You are right. As I wish you were most
heartily!”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are polite, monsieur. Your manners
were better in Paris a year ago.”
“Was your position—were you the same a
year ago as you are to-day?” Yorke demanded.
“Of a certainty, no. I am in your power now,
Doctor Yorke. Then ”
Thev moved away, and the rest of the sen
tence 1 lost. Peering out from behind my leafy
screen, I saw them again standing by tho steps
of the Lady’s Chapel, Roger still with a down
cast, brooding face,of gloomy anger, mademoi
selle talking eagerly, appealingly. But, al
though I listened intently, not a word could I
catch. Presently they moved up the walk again,
and again stopped at the spot where they had
first baited. Mademoiselle was speaking rapid
ly and bitterly, and constantly gesticulating.
“You ask why did [come here? Need you
ask—you ? Think you that it is more to me,
this Chavasse—this hateful place—than any
other? Think you 1 came because of you,
Roger Yorke? 1 bad forgotten you—you belong
to a year ago. I will not have what you do call
sentimental memories ! I must live—l must
have bread—l must earn it, and for me there is
but one way. Will you strike it from my hand ?
Will you say, ‘Go back- starve ’—you, the only
man in all this England who can do it?”
Yorke seemed about to speak. She checked
him by clasping his arm yet more firmly, and
hurried on vehemently.
“ What difference makes it to you that I am
here —what difference if I stay ? Say you go to
Madame—you tell her what you know o me.
I go. What then ? You are silent, and I stay
still what then ? It matters not to you what
you call the turning of straws. Why you Bay
you must betray me—eh ? I have suffered—l !
You know that, Roger Y’orke.”
“That you should choose this place of all
others !” Yorke broke out impatiently.
Agaia she interrupted him".
“But I tell you that I did not chooee, mon
nn??’—l did not. Why did I come here ? I saw
Madame’s advertisement. It suited me-I suit
ed it. lam here. I tell to you that my past is
dead. Eh? Did you not see it die? 1 shall
teach the little pretty demoiselle. lam Lucille
Valdini. What would you more? And you
will betray me !”
She uttered these broken, incoherent sen
tences with passionate rapidity and vehemence.
Something in them touched me, 1 must own,
although I was in a labyr nth ot perplexity, and
could not for tho life of me make out what it
was all about. Something in them touched
Yorke, too, it seemed, for he moved away from
her abruptly, with his hands clasped behind
him—a habit of his when he was perplexed.
She followed him, and I lost some further sen
tences.
Presently, after a shorter time than it seem
ed, I dare say, they moved back again, stand
ing closer to me this time than they had stood
yet. Roger was speaking doubtfully and mood
ily, glancing gloomily at the eager, sallow face
and keen, dark eyes which shone from the set
ting ot the white shawl.
“ Yes, there’s something in what you urge,”
he said—“l’ll admit it. Things have been
rough for you—there’s no denying that. But
for my remembering that, I believe 1 should
have spoken out this evening before Madam
and them all. As it is ”
“ Ab, as it is,” she broke in eagerly, laying
her clasped hands on his arm —“ as it is, you
will be Bilent, mon ami.' Is it not so? You
will not betray me? I am Lucille Valdini,
Mademoiselle Natalie’s governess, and you
know nothing. Is not that —as it is ?”
There was a sudden change in Yorke’s low
ering face. He flushed a deep red, turned pale
and Hung off Mademoiselle’s hands almost as
though they had stung him, as he turned awav
from her. Then he seemed to recover himself,
and turned back.
“ Well,” he said, uttering each word slowly,
“ yes, I’ll agree so far; so long as nothing is
done, so long as no questions are asked me, I’ll
know nothing. I’ll pledge myself so much and
no more.”
“ You will not betray me ?” cried mademoi
selle, eagerly.
“ No.”
‘tYou give to me your word, your honor ?”
she went on, peering’up at him. * “ You swear
it?”
“ I say it,” Yorke retorted. “ What good will
swearing do. do you suppose? An oath never
yet tied a man who was worth his salt where his
word wouldn’t have been as good a bond. Don’t
mind thanking me, Mademoiselle Valdini. I
began by saying that I wished vou had never
set foot within fifty miles of this place, and I
wish it now. But you need not fear that I shall
break my word.”
Then, without seeming to see her outstretched
hand, he turned on his heel and strode off down
the Lady’s Walk. The next moment the French
woman, with a light rapid step, passed my place
of concealment, and a few seconds later my
strained ears caught the sound of a softly-clos
ing door.
I passed round my sheltering clump of rho
dodendrons, and looked after Roger Yorke. He
had halted at the steps of the Lady’s Chapel,
and stood there with his low felt hat in his hand,
passing his handkerchief across and across his
forehead, cool as the night air was. For per
haps a minute he stood doing this with a curi
ous bewildered air; then, suddenly rousing him
self, he struck into the footpath leading to the
side gate in the park palings.
1 do not know what impulse urged me, but on
a sudden I darted out and followed him. Ido
not think I meant to speak to him, and, if I had
intended it, 1 was too late. By the time I
reached the gate he had sprung over it, and was
half way down the lane.
I stood there, feeling dazed, and watching his
active figure blankly until it had disappeared in
the gloom.
Then, from a great clump of bushes, bo near
that the leaves touched my face, there arose an
odd crackling and rustling, followed by a sound
as though some one were trying to move away
stealthily among the thick undergrowth. My
heart seemed to jump into my mouth, and 1 felt
an unpleasantly chilly sensation down my back.
Then, with a sudden idea, I parted the bushes,
and put down my hand, feeling among the soft,
crushed, Autumn leaves. 1 withdrew it, feeling
chillier yet, and for a moment stared blankly at
the Lady s Chapel, looking like a little fairy
erection as the moon, which had been obscured
by a heavy cloud, shone out upon it again. The
dead leaves were warm, and shaped by the form
which had been crouching among them. There
had been a witness beside myself of that secret
interview in the Lady's Walk.
(To be Continued.!
Young Lady— “Can you
conceive of anything more sombrely and poetically
solemn than the denouement of •Romeo and Ju
liet'? Could the poet hav t made their fate more
we.rdly tragic?” Cynical Bachelor—“Ob, yes; he
might have married them ”
A WIGBT FRlfiilL
BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETECTIVE.
Bessie Lane was about as nice a lass as ever
I knew She was my “very particular” friend
once upon a time. She used to tell me nearly
everything she could think ol in the way of
nows, and 1 sometimes thought she talked so
much, partly lor the pleasure ot hearing herself
speaking.
1 knew her some time belore I was admitted
to the regular detective force-in tact, my ac
quaintance with Bessie helped me into the force
in a great measure. Wi,en t first knew her I
was a plain-o othes man very often—that is, I
used to do policeman s duty without being in
uniform. Bessie was in a good pla -o at High
gate, and she had lived in the family ot Mr.
Peters for nearly four years. The house was
not nig enough to be called a mansion, but it
was a pretty place, and bad a large garden,
with a tew apple trees growing in it, which ran
down one side and spread out largely at the
back.
1 learned a great deal about the Peter’s
tam ly in the long talks Bessie and I used to
hold at the side gate, and when I could join her
tor a trip or a walk when she took her day out
Indeed 1 think I knew as much ot their private
his’ory as they could know themselves.
Young Mr. Peters had a sound and profitable
business in the city, but all his time was not
taken up by that, it appeared he had been
paying attention to a young lady named Clara
Melling. They were on such intimate terms,
and the young lady visited the house so often,
that the servants began to look on Miss Moiling
as the coming Mrs. Peters. But the courtship
came to nothing in the end, and Bessie soon
after told me the young master bad found an
other love, and had forsaken Miss Mailing
rather heartlessly.
Events that happened a few months after Mips
Melling’s visits to the house had ceased, proved
that the servants were correct in some of their
surmises at least. They also proved thet Mr.
Peters had a heart, nnd that its tenderest spot
had been touched by the beauty and the simple
grace of a young lady who continued to be hie
love even after she had become his wife. There
was a quiet bnt very elegant wedding, followed
by the honeymoon, which the happy pair spent
in Italy.
Immediately after the return of the wedded
ones, the customary visits began, and among
the earliest to cad and tender congratulations
was Clara Melling, who was Baid to have been
treated bo heartlessly. I heard of it from Bessie
Lane a night or two later.
Time went on, as time always does, without
being much atieoted by love matches, love dis
appointments or weddings. I was still a mem
ber ot the same division of police, and .1 was
still on the best of terms with Bessie, from
whom I learned a few things that it is useful
for a man in our business to know. Above all,
I knew everything that happened in Mr. Pe
tars 5 * home, and, among other things, 1 knew
- that Miss Melling had become a constant visitor
and that her company was pri'ed by both Mr.
Peters nnd hie young wife. The two women in
particular had 'become the doeest and tender
est of friends, addressing each other by their
proper names of Cl ra and Gertrude.
It may ba sand all this had no possible bear
ing on Bessie Lane. It had, though. Mias
Melling did not grow in Bessie’s favor. With
out knowing why, and of course without being
able to give any intelligent reason for the fact,
Bessie had conceived a dialike for her young
mistress’s dear friends She thought “dear
Clara” was too fond and too officious, and she
oiten told me that tho stranger appeared to be
as much mistress in the house as Mrs. Peters
herself.
In about a year a little baby-girl came to the
house. 'lbis event had been looked for with
much solicitude by Mr. Peters and Mis» Mel
ling; but when the arrival of a new inhabitant
had become an accomplished fact, anxiety gave
place to joy.
But such times are often very trying times
wi'ch women, even when they are as healthy as
Mrs. Peters was before her confinement. The
lady made rapid progress to convalescence dur
ing the first fortnight, but soon after the doc
tor’s visits ceased she suffered a relapse. It
did not appear to be very serious, however, as
she was up aud able to go about again alter one
day’s illness.
Still, sffe did not recover her olden strength
so quickly as it was thought she would. Week
after week passed by, and Mrs. Peters appeared
to be as far from her best condition of health as
she was in tho worst hours of her illness. The
doctor was called in several times, and after
examining the patient, only looked puzzled,
and said he couldf not quite understand her
symptoms. 1 hey were new to him, but they
might wear off in a couple of days, as she was
strong in constitution.
During these very unpleasant weeks Miss
Melling was as constant and as devoted in her
attentions as any woman could be. She had
been requested to stay in the bouse until the
lady’s health was restored, and had yielded
more to the pleading ot Mrs. Peters than to the
request ot her husband. The ailing woman, in
deed, appeared to experience more ease from
her euf.erings when Clara Melling was present
than she did at any other time.
Bessie Lane told me all this, but while my
opinion of Miss Melling’s virtues became higher ;
every day, the girl could not overcome her un
reasonable dislike to the lady. I thought a
great deal of that was due to the fact that Miss
Melling insisted upon going into the kitchen,
which Bessie, who was coox, looked upon as
her own special department. She used all the
kitchen utensils as she thought fit, and Bessie
had o ten to render assistance in handing or
holding the materials used m the preparation
of the odd dishes which she made for the sick
lady. Bessie was angry, too, because she was
not allowed to wait on Mrs. Peters oftener. She
had taken a great liking for the young mistress,
and Mrs. Peters appeared to have a high
opinion of her, but the girl was seldom per
mitted to wait on the sick woman personally.
Still, she contrived to be near the room and to
see her as often as she could, and she was not
at all satisfied with the pale, thin, and worn ap
pearance of the young la'dy.
“ Can’t the doctor do anything to make the
missus really better ?” asked Bessie one day,
when she was engaged in the kitchen with Miss
Melling.
“ I’m afraid not, cook,” was the reply. “He
does not know what to make of her complaint,
and he can only recommend nourishment, i
think he is right in that, lor it seems to me
that all Mrs. Peters’s illness arises Irom weak
ness.”
“ But she stays weak so long,” said Bessie—
“ and she was not a bit weak before the baby
was born !”
“ That may be what has found a weak part in
her constitution that was not suspected before,”
said Miss Melling. “I am surp we shall bring
her through her troubles by careful treatment.
Y’ou cannot be expected to understand these
things.”
“ 1 suppose not, I’m ton ignorant, of course,
but Ido understand that missus looks like a
dying woman to me.”
'Miss Melling started and looked into Bessie’s
face intently when she heard those words.
“ Dying woman!” repeated Miss Melling,
starting and looking intently into Bessie’s face.
“ Cook, you frighten me with such talk ! What
makes you think my dear friend’s case is so
hopeless?” , .
“ I can’t siy I’ve any reason for thinking so
that I can put into words,” replied Bessie. “But
it’s a feeling I have and I can’t change it. It
comes over me every time I see her dear,
pinched face, and I say to myself, ‘She’s not
long for this world, poor soul !”
“ But it is wrong to entertain such thoughts,”
said Miss Melling, severely. “If any one
should express such an opinion to Mrs. Peters,
the terrible words would sink her spirits, and
render her recovery far more difficult. You
ought not to take such sad impressions so easily,
and you should not see Mrs. Peters at all while
she creates them.”
“I don’t see her often, but I’d like to see her
a great deal more,” said Bessie, piqued by Miss
Melling’s plain speech. “ I wish master would
bring in another doctor. He might understand
her complaint better, and change the treatment.
It’s plain she doesn’t get better on these fancy
soups and jellies. She doesn’t want so much
seasoning and flavoring, in my opinion, but
plain, wholesome food. I really think I could
do her more good than the doctor. I’m sure
I’d try; and, as I said before, she does look to
me like a dying woman.
“ You should not speak in that manner, cook.
It is ridiculous that you should think you know
more about disease than a learned and experi
enced doctor. Mr. Peters certainly must be
guided by the advice of a professional gentle
man in preference to that of any servant in his
house.”
Miss Melling was so plainly angry when she
said this, that Bessie did not thiuk it wise to
make any reply.
Just then the soup she had been preparing
was ready, and the young lady took it from the
kitchen rather hastily. An under-girl happened
to enter the kitchen at the same moment, to
whom Bessie said:
“The lady hasn’t taken all her things with
her. Give her Sarah. I don’t want any
of her FrancQ-italian flavorings and spicings on
my table.”
As she spoke sho pointed to a small metal
flask that stood on the table near the window,
it was securely fastened with a screw-stopper,
and looked like a little pocket-flask. Sarah took
it as directed, and immediately returned. The
lady had said “Thank you,” but the flask con
tained her tooth-powder, which she had forgot
ten in her haste.
“ Well, she might have left her tooth-powder
in the bedroom instead of carrying it in her
pocket 1” said Bessie. “I suppose she thinks
servants always meddle with such things,
though, and she wouldn’t put temptation in
their way. I m glad she’s gone, at any rate.”
Bessie was as angry as Miss Melling had been,
but she could not repress her feelings so well as
the lady did.
All this, and a great deal more, was told me
that night when I saw Bessie. She and I nearly
had a “tift” on the matter because I said I
thought Miss Melling was right. But we made
up our little difference in a few minutes, and
parted as good friends as ever.
I was put on special duty for two days after
that, and could not see Bessie again until the
third evening, when I was on that walk as plain
clothes man. The poor girl seemed very much
cut up with sorrow then, for Mrs. Peters had
died the night before.
I have no power to describe scenes of sorrow,
■ so I shall not attempt to describe all the young
husband suffered, nor how he looked and acted.
Ho went about like oue whose heart had been
hit too hard t» allow of raving, and he was al
most dumb in his a.i iction.
Miss Melling, too, was sorrow.ul and silent,
bnt she was active through the whole trying
scene. She first removed everything irom tlie
room that could remind the po r man of the
sickness that had ended so terribly. Sho effec
tually destroyed all the things of which the in
valid had partaken, and then directed the serv
ants to make no noise about the bouse—though
lam sure the latter direction was not needed.
Bessie said she never even spoke to Mr. Peters
during the next few days, but appeared to keep
out of his way purposely.
At the request of Mr. Peters and some friends,
Clara stayed in the house to take care of the
baby for a little m >re than throe months. Dur
ing that time, and while Mr. Peters was away
from home, she became actual and managing
mistress ot the house, but failed to improve her
position in Bessie’s favor.
The child died at the end of three months, and
Bessie did not hesitate to affirm that she thought
tho baby w uld have lived and grown if it had
not been almost petted to death by Miss Mell
ing’s mistaken kindness.
The day after this second funeral Miss Mell
ing suoko to the servants.
“ I think 1 ought to tell you that lam going
away from this house in tho morning,” she said.
“But our parting need not be for very long, if
you retain your places in the oKcellont way you
have filled them to the present, .t is necessary
I should go away lor a while, good people, but
I shall return as your master’s wife. I have
promised to marry him. And when Icome back
to you as Mrs. Peters, I hope you will find me
as considerate a mistress as your late one.”
That may be thought a neat little speech, but
the servants did not think it particularly good.
It was too neat, too formal, and too cold. The
lady spoke and looked as if she could not be
greatly concerned about the impression she
made on the three young women and the man
o! middle age who worked in the garden, on
the lawn, cleaned windows, and governed the
stable, just as occasion might arise for h s ser
vices.
Bessie Lane was one of the three, and Miss
Melling’s address was hatelu) in her ears. I
learned that when 1 saw her the next evening.
•‘ The idea I” she said. “ She snoke as if ehe
thought we should be very much obliged to her
for promising to marry Mr. Peters. Much
obliged, indeed 1 When the poor dear soul has
not been three months in her grave I 1 believe
she’s very glad the young missus is there, so
that she can marry Mr. Peters; and I think she
had some notion of that kind all the time she’s
been here.”
“ But she couldn’t marry the man if bis wi!e
were alive!” I urged, in the hope of reducing
Bessie’s prejudice.
“ No, of course she couldn’t. But his wife
isn’t alive now, and I believe she was ready to
marry him before young Mrs. Peters was cold
in her grave. I never did like her, and I like
her less now, because of a midnight fright ehe
gave me.”
“A midnight fright! What did ehedo- to
you, Bessie ?” I asked.
“ Well, she didn’t do anything to me, more
than frighten me. I woke up in the night out
o a dream I had, and when 1 looked out of bed
there was the moonlight streaming into the
room and falling on the bed where I lay 1
thought that had disturbed me, so 1 got up to
let down the curtain when I got my fright. My
room looks out on the garden, and when I got
to the window I saw something moving about
on the ground below. I looked closer, and
there was Mise Melling near the stem ot one of
the apple trees, and stooping down, digging.
That was enough- to surprise one, I should
think.”
“Yes, it was startling,” I replied. “But
did you find why she was digging near the
apple tree ?”
“ You may be sure I did,, and that is the
queerest part of the business,” replied Bessie
“ I was up this morning long before any one
else in the house thought ot stirring, and some
how I couldn’t help going to that apple tree. I
took a little trowel witfi mo, and as soon as I
saw where the soil appeared a bit broken, I
began to turn it over very carefully. And what
do you think I found after all ?”
“ A roll of bank-notes, or a gold,” I
said:
“No: something stranger still. When I’d
dug a bit deep, 1 found the very metal case she
keeps her tooth-powder in. Now why should
she bury it in the ground ?”
“ I don’t know,” I replied. “ Can you let me
see the case ?”
The question was prompted by a swift thought
that something useful iu my business might
arise out of that case,, and all the mystery con
cerning it..
“ les, hero it is,” replied Bessie, drawing the
little flask from her pocket, and placing it in
my hand.
I saw nothing peculiar in the case itself, but J
had become curious concerning its contents. I
prevailed on Bessie to let me keep it a day or
two that I might havo the tootb.powder exam
ined, when, if it was found to be very good. I
should present her with some like that the lit
tle flask contained.
The next morning I took the case to a chemist
and asked him to tell me what it contained; He
went out of his shop and remained away a few
minutes. When he returned he looked sur
prised and serious.
“ Where did you get this ?”
“ The question only confirms my susuicion,”
I said. “ That little flask contains poison. ”
“Yes, it contains arsenic,” he said; “and
it lately held more than it does at present.”
“ Thank you. That wi%l do. I may be the
meins of bringing crime to light by the aid of
that flask.”
The suspicion that had flashed into my mind
while I spoke with Bessie Lane at the gate now
became a settled conviction with as much
rapidity. Here was a deliberate murder, I
thought, perpetrated in the course of many
davs and under the observation of many
people, which had not even aroused suspicion
in any mind. And here was a case that would
have' baffled the ingenuity ot detectives render
ed plain and easy to me, with the causes of the
crime and the proof of its perpetration all made
patent, and all through my acquaintance with
Bessie Lane.
I need not detain you longer with details oi
this story. I soon set the machinery ot the law
in motion by communicating what I knew to
one of the chiefs in the Criminal Department.
The contents ot the little flask were examined in
the proper quarter; the circumstances attend
ing the death of Mrs. Peters and the child were
minutely inquired into; the doctor was inter
viewed, and Bessie Lane was interviewed
and the result ot all was that a war
rant for the apprehension of Clara Melling was
issued and executed.
The body of Mrs. Peters was exhumed, and
the throe surgeons who made the examination oi
the stomach agreed that death had been caused
by slow poisoning with arsenic.
On the trial for wil ul murder, Bessie Lane
was an important witness, and her evidence
fully convinced the jury that Miss Melling, and
Miss Melling only, had possession of the flask
and tho arsenic before the death of Mrs. Peters
was assured.
The jury appeared to realize that the motive
which might actuate a jealous woman would be
sufficiently strong to lead to such a crime.
Aster but a short absence from the box, they
returned with a verdict of “ Guilty.” On hearing
that fatal word, Miss Melling uttered a piercing
scream, and sank in the dock, not weeping,
but pale and rigid as it she had been turned to
stone.
The judge pronounced the sentence, and the
prisoner was assisted from the dock to the
cells.
She subsequently confessed her crime, and
said that her first intention w«8 to poison Mr. Pe
ters as well as his wife. But in his presence
tenderer feelings overcame her desire for re
venge, and she only lived then to destroy the
woman who had supplanted her in his regard.
This she did in the way we have seen.
Before the day fixed for the execution of the
sentence upon the murderess, her mind gave
way under its torture. She was therefore re
moved to au asylum, where, I have some reason
to believe, ehe still lives.
Mr. Peters disappeared immediately alter the
trial, and was not seen in London again for
nearly a year. His solicitors continued in com
munication with him, and his business was elli
ciently conducted during his absence.
My share iu the case brought my name before
the officers of the Detective Department. They
were pleased to think I had acted with coolness
and judgment, and I was advanced to their
force, where 1 gained greater honors during
many a subsequent year.
Unfortunately, I cannot say anything of Bes
sie Lane. When Mr. Peters went away his
house was closed, and the cook disappeared
with the other girls. She was a fine lass, that
Bessie, but I never saw her after the law busi
ness was over; and 1 don’t suppose I shall now,
because all that happened more than seventeen
years ago.
ABOUT BJEF TEA.
Statements which Most People Will
Find Very Surprising.
(From Good Housekeeping.)
Dr. King Chambers gives directions for pre
paring nutritious beef tea : Make the cook un
derstand that the virtue of beef tea is to contain
all the contents and flavors of lean beef in a
liquid form, and that its vices are to be sticky
and strong and to sot like a hard jelly when
cold. Let her take half a pound of freshly
killed beef for every pint of beef tea required,
and remove all fat, sinew, veins and bone. Let
it be cut into pieces under half an inch square,
and soak for twelve hours in one-third of the
water. Let it then be taken out and simmered
for two hours in the remaining two thirds of the
water, the quantity lost by evaporation being
replaced from time' to time. The boiling liquor
is then to be poured ou the cold liquor in which
the meat was soaked. The solid meat is to bo
dried, pounded in a mortar, freed from all
stringy parts and mixed with the rest. This
has been termed “ whole” beef tea.
I can see sundry readers, says Dr. Fothergill,
having been driven past the stage of incredulity
by the hard logic of facts, wringing their bands
in anguish over the thought of departed rela
tives who have been practically starved to death
on beef tea. The mistaken views about the
nutritive value of beef tea have been murder
ous. As a food, it is but the mirage of water
seen by the thirs'ty trader in the desert: there
is no real water. So with beef tea, as common
ly prepared, it is not a food, but a stimulant.
“Whole” beef tea is no doubt a good food;
very good in convalescence from acute diseases
when wasted muscular tissue has to be repair
ed. But in many cases it is open to question
i whether so mucfe'ftlbu.’ninons niatler io either
good or desirable.- Whet? Jhis is not used there
i should bo added a He&spootjtlttl of any baked
I four io a teacuptul (f? ordiniKV boot tea, and
i some s It. Weil-baked’ flour is largely changed
) into soluble dextrine; a.«d beef tea containing
some such addition ia a capital i»od. If the
I baked dour be made from unbolted- dour, then
i some albuminoid matter is present as 1 well an
the salts ot the grain. Such’ will make an ideal
fluid food.
on the road?
ONE WAI' OF EARNING A PASS.
(From Drake's Travellers' Magazine.)
“Hallo, old man, how are we to-day, eh ?”
The superintendent of the road, who- w-s busy
in his private office with a pile oi important pa
pers, looked up in unconcealed surprise, while
a well developed frown on his brow wa’i hung
out as a danger signal.
“ Who are you, sir ?”
“Allow me,” with the grace of a grand Sake,
handing his card as he spoke.
“ I don’t know you, sir.”
“That’s your misfortune,” laughing, “ whish
it shall be my pleasure to rectify.”
“ How did you get in here without being an
nounced ?*’
“Simple enough—told your man I was your
brother just back from California alter an ab
sence of twenty years—wanted to give you a
pleasant surprise, see?”
“ I’ll see that be doesn’t pass any more bogus
brothers ot mine,” grimly. “Now you are
hero, what do you wisu ?”
“ Nothing like a little ingenuity, my boy, eh?
Yon see, if I’d sent in my card, ten to one you
would have re used to see me, or required I
should send in word what my business was;
now, wouldn’t you?”
“ Unquestionably.”
“ Then, if I’d sent word I wanted that pass,
you’d have said no.”
“ What pass? ’
“ The one i came to accept from you; there’s
nothing like a little personal interview in such
cases. I would like a trip pass to Chicago and
return, if you please, for myself ‘and eno/ good
for ninety days.”
“ Are you an editor ?”
“ No.”
“Kailroad man?”
“ No.”
“Theatrical advance agent ?”
“Not any.”
“ And I’ll give my word you’re not » clergy
man ?”
“Hardly I”
“ Then on what, may I ask, do you base your
claim for favors from this company ?*’
“ I didn’t come and lie to you about the circu
lation of some paper that wouldn’t be worth
shucks to you if you had a page puff in it every
week in the year, did I V r
“No.”
“ I didn’t say that I had * company to- take
out over the road that would be worth* thou
sands in fares and extra baggage, get your low
est figures—and a season pass tor myself—and
then go and ship my company over some other
line, did I ?”
“ No—but ”
“I didn’t try to play myself off for a minister
of the gospel on a vacation; when, in fact,! was
running away from my charge to escape arrest
for bigamy, did I ?”
“ Hold on 1”
“ I didn’t try to make*you* think I owned alb
out-doors and a part of Canada, did I ?”
“Stop !”
“ One minute; please. I didn't come in and
tell you, either, that you are the boss railroad’
man of the country, dd I ?— or else, show you
how to run your railroad as it should be run ?”
“No; no. But tell me on what basis you ask
the pass and you shall have it Life is short—
I’ll make an exception in your favor this time.
I won’t insult you by asking if you are not able
to pay your fare ?”'
“ Perfectly able.”
“ But you wouldn’t go it you didn’t get the
passes ?”
“ Should go just the same; and 1 pay my fare—
if I couldn’t stand off the conductor.”
“ Then, in the name of Heaven* why do you
expect me to give you a pass?”
“ Because, old man, as you 11 acknowledge by
this time, I’ve earned it.”
“ Earned it ?”
“ Yee—by my royal good nature and my un
approachably elegant cheek 1”
The superintendent had just strength enough
left to fill out the pass.
“ Oh, I say,” cheerily remarked the man with
the pass, putting hie head back in the door the
moment after it had closed’behind him, “there’s
one thing I forgot—l can make things mighty
interesting for the passengers on your road who
go along the same time I do 1”
A PROMPT SOLDIER..
General Rosecrans’s First Meeting
With a Celebrated Artilleryman.
“By the way, it was at Buckhannon, West
Virginia,” said General Rosecrans, “that I first
met Captain Loomis—a noble man and true sol
dier—and his superb cold-water battery. That
meeting inspired me with a confidence in Cap
tain Loomis and his command, which was never
afterward abused or weakened.”
“ What was the incident ?”
“ It was reported that the enemy was moving
toward us in full force, and I was ordered—this
was before I had command of the department —
to take a regiment of infantry and Loomis’s cold
water battery—which was not attached to my
brigade—and reconnoitre in the direction ot
the enemy. Captain Loomis was in camp about
a mile from my headquarters, and I sent an aid
to request the capta n to report to me lor
orders. He reported promptly* and I showed
him that 1 had received authority to take his
command with ms on the reconnoiter, after
which I asked: ‘How soon, captain, cau you
report your command ready to inarch ?’
‘•‘Fifteen minutes, general,’he replied, with
a salute. .
“‘Do you mean fifteen minutes from the
present time?’ I asked, taking out my watch,
‘ or fifteen minutes from the time you get back
to your camp?’
“‘From the present time, general/ he said,
again saluting.
“I thanked him and told him 1 would reach
his camp on time, and he departed. Mind you,
he had a mile to ride to get to his camp, har
ness and bitch up his horses and get his men
ready to move, while I had the infantry regi
ment already under arms and ready to start.
When he left headquarters he seemed to ride at
an ordinary gait, tailing to exhibit the least ex
citement or anxiety. Well, sir, my orderly
came up with my horse, and in four or five
minutes I started for Loomis’s camp. When I
reached a point where I could see the camp I
took out my watch and observed that I had two
minutes to spare, and I also observed that
Loomis had his horses harnessed and hitched
to his guns all ready for moving, and, as I
entered the company’s tent, Captain Loomis
ordered ‘ Battery, attention I Gunners, to your
posts 1’
“ There they were, fully accoutred and as
fine appearing a battery as I ever saw, on fifteen
minutes’ notice, with a mile for the order to
travel at the beginning and with fully a minute
to spare. I was delighted. It is that kind of
work which makes a commanding officer feel
confident.”
MORESNET.
EUROPE’S STATE.
The smallest state in Europe—six square kil
ometers—is the terr.tory of Moresnet, between
Verviers and Aix-la-Chapelle. It contains rich
zinc mines, which are worked by the Society de
la Viellc Mantagne. In 1815 a commission was
appointed to fix the boundary line between
Prussia and the Netherlands, which was agreed
upon on every point save as regards Moresnet.
Each country claimed the zinc mines, or an
adequate indemnity.
It was finally resolved to consider the miser
able tract of land, which contained only fifty
squalid huts near the mines, independent and
neutral. Since then the condition of the terri
tory has greatly changed. It contains at pres
ent 800 houses, nice, well-stocked shops, and
the inhabitants are quite well-to-do. The ter
ritory has remained neutral and is patriarch
ally administered. Prussia and Belgium have
each appoint a a resident commissioner, who
endeavor to settle amicably any possible diffi
culties arising, but who do not otherwise inter
fere.
At the head of the administration is a Burgo
master, who selects his ten Councilmen ; he
is the keeper of the archives, superintends the
Real Estate Bureau, and is, in fact, the autocrat
ruler. For the past two years this office has
been filled by a peasant named Schmitz, who
has selected as chief Councilman an aged
physician, liked by young and old. These two
men constitute the government de facto—all
the other Councilmen agree to the reso utions
of the Council of two, and all the resolutions
are unanimous! The administration of the
State requires 12,000 francs per annum ; each
inhabitant pays an average tax of six francs.
That suffices to keep the schools and roads in
repair ; there is no military service ; the posse
comitatus consists of only one man, who wears
a uniform as the official badge of the “ Republic
of Moresnet.” The village lies in a lovely val
ley, which boasts of a pretty lake and the ruins
of an old castle ot the t me ot Charlemagne,
and the denizens of Verviers and Aix-la-Chap
elle frequently repair there on Sundays to
make jovial over a glass of wine. This idyllic
“republic” has of la e established a post office
of its own, which issues postage stamps of a
value of one to fifty pfen nge (a treasure trove
for philat lists !) and over the entrance of
which stands in big letters the name ot the al
mighty ruler ol the State.
A NOinVEffiAJJVEDDING.
How the Peasant Bride and Groom are
Costumed for That Occasion.
The bride was about twenty-three, I should
say, with a ruddy complexion, good features,
and (large Line eyes, says a writer in c'g.n.scZ/.’.s
Magazine for November. She had upon her
head the bridal crown, without which lew
peasant women are married in Norway. I
' tried one on my own head on another occasion,
! and found it heavy. There is a brass rim to fit
| the bead, and the open silver work above it is
l oiten gilt in places with patches of gold, and
' embell shed with garners. Such crowns are
I kept as heirlooms; and it is no uncommon
i thing lor the women o: the same household to
be married n? Si crown that hr.s done similar
d itv n the famJy for one or two hundred
1 ho skirt. was o. vfe’ck material, tho bodice wue
snowy white with 9} corset o' red and gre»n
»*nd an apron of wlrl*’, with I antis of embroul
cry hanging in ’rout trf it. Around the neck
nnd the waist were squarely made, dusk/ silver
b nds, looking like an ecurb’ti’Sc collection ftfold
buckles.
The bridegroom wore a “*&op' hat,” wh> h
seemed to ha e been Kept in hi*s- family ihu<4>
alter the fashion of his i u ten dod's* bridal crown.
He has a red waistcoat, very short in the waists
w th brass burtons on it. and a, Bingrn'lar Lind of
coal,_»ery loose, with rental ornament, Thera
was n'a-t a suspicion of piping dowry glv® Hide of
.the trousers. He was a muscular, Kivrjhwrnt,
■hardy ton in* man of about thirty;- fbongh
! probably younger th nhe seemed to bo. The
white bodicew and colored s irb-«, the silver ew
elry of the - girls in the process on, at’d 1 the
snowy headgear of the married women, with
crimped lappets* hanging down the back, V
sh ined, made-a brave show.
Tire second couple looked much elder.
1 he brides had* their wedding rings alreaMy
on their ringers,, and each canned suveral'-flEißtiL
kerchiefs’, folded* «p. of various colors. These
haudkerohie s are usually presents given at the*
betrothal.
The ceremony was short. The service and>
communion were over before the bridal pro
fessions reached th® church; and as they en
tered tho two couples advanced to the altar,
kne t down, and’then placed themselves, with
their friends, about the altar rails. The pastor,
in* a black gown l , with' an I iizabethan ruff round
his ne de, addressed a fe w words to the groups,
«nd thou questioned br degrooms and brides in
turn, l ack couple then knelt down, with their
hands joined together, and the pastor pro
nounced them min and wi e. A benediction
concluded the servicei— P iston Herald.
A PLUCKY PRIVATE.
HOW A BUCKid'E BOY WON PRO-
MOTION.
( ZVodj. the ChiUicothpy Ohio, Leader'.}
“Speaking about pluck,” said Got Higgins,
of Waverly—of whom a Leader reporter had
. ust been making inquiries in r»:ard to Joseph
Devoss, whose death was* referred to* last week
—“ there goes a lellow whom i saw do a® nervy
a thing as 1 witnessed while I wa» in the
service.”
The Lender reporter looked across the-street,
in the direction in wiii di the cotone-l had nod
ded, and saw Dick Enderlin plodding along,
hands in pocket, in his matSe»-o<-fact,. indiffer
ent sort ot away.
“It was at Gettysburg,” remarked the col
onel, knocking the ashes from his cigar. “*Youi
probably knew that Dick enlisted ns* a drum
mer-boy. He was in my company, and he beat
a drum for all that was out; beat it so bard that;
you couldn’t find drum heads enough* in> tfie
army to keep him supplied, and a B’lort time*
before the Gettysburg fight he came to-me lor
the sixth or seventh* drum-lieadi, and' 1 gave
him a gun. He kicked a- little, but took it,, audi
made pretty good use of it afterward, too.
“ Toward the close of the first day’s fight at •
Gettysburg, our regimental line watt stretched
: along the crest of a ridge, adown the side of
which was a field of wheat almost ripe enough
for the reaper. Much ot it had beew cut that-,
day and more was destined to-be cut on* the
morrow -cut by shot and ebeli—and swept’ by
the musketry of the two armies. On* the oppo
site side of the field and but a frightfully short
distance away, were the rebel lines. Twice that
afternoon we had charged across that wheat
field in the effort to drive the enemy-from- their'
position, and twice had we beendriven back*,
leaving many a dead and! wounded man among
the standing wheat. The wheat was- so high,
that when lying down one* could* not be seen, by*'
tho enemy, and lor some time be ore the charge’
was ordered, we had occupied the position de
scribed, keeping up a sharp tire on*the enemy,
and receiving as good as we sent in return. I
couldn’t help but be amused at Dickv In order
to save tho men as much-as possible; I directed
them to lie down to do tho r loading, and only
rise to deliver their fire; but Dick insisted upon
standing up all the time. Three or tour times I
yelled at him to keep under cover or ho would 1 ,
get hit, and he would attempt to obey me, but
in a lew minutes excitement would*get the bet
ter of him, and he would-be on his feet again;
loading and firing as rapidly as he could handle
his piece.
“AVhen the sun had gone down and the*
shades-of night had checked the firing consid
erably, several of us were standing grouped to
gether. looking over the field of wheat, wonder
ing what had been the result of tho day’s work,
and what would be the result of tho morrow,
when we heard some wounded man way over
in the wheat groaning terribly.
“His groans were sickening to listen* to, and it
got so alter awhile that I couldn’t stand it any
longer. So; taking off my haversack I handed
it to Enderlin, who was standing by, and re
marked that 1 was going after that fellow. This,
as every one knew, was a- pretty ticklish piece
ot business, for, althoughfit was then night, the
moon was shining, and at every rustle of the
wheat that indicated the possibility of its-being
moved by a human being, the Johnnies would
send their musket and rifle balls through it in a.
way that made it very unhealthy for any person*
that might be concealed there.
“ Still I resolved to chance it, and getting
down on my hands and knees, I began to worm,
my way through the wheat in the direction of
tho groan®. I had gone but a few yards, how
ever, when I felt some one grasp me by the leg,
and I heard Dick’® voice:
‘“Look here, Major,’ he said, ‘you mnsn’t go
out there. You might get killed, and we can’t
spare you; let me go ?”
“ Why, I don’t believe you could get the fel
low in, Dick,” I replied; “ he is probably hurt
so bad that he has to carried, and I don’t be
lieve you could carry a mania that way and;
through that wheat.”
“ Well, you just come back and let me try it,’”
said Dick. “ 111 bet you that 1 bring him in.”
Saying which Dick bolted ahead, worming his
way on his belly through the wheat, as carefully
and cautiously as possible, so as to avoid at
tracting attention, while I returned to the Line*
and awaited results.
“ He was gone a long time, so long that I be
gan to grow uneasy, but finally he made his ap
pearance crawling on his stomach through the
wheat, and on his back, with his arms clasped
around his neck, was a poor devil whose hip
had been shattered by a musket ball.
“Where did you find him, Dick?” I asked
him, as we lilted the poor fellow off his back.
“‘ He was within a couple of rods ot the
rebel lines,’ was Dick’s reply, as ho crawled to
his feet and stretched himself after his long
trip.
“Dick,” said I, “you are a sergeant.”
Of course I meant in embryo, lor at that mo
ment there wasn’t any vacancy, but there were
plenty o! them witlXn twenty- our hours.
“There was another little incident which oc
curred at the Gettysburg fight,’ continued tho
Colonel, “and that came d rectly under ob
servation, which will illustrate pretty well the
stuff that was in the men of ’6l and ’62. There
was an officer in the regiment by the name of
John H. Martin. He was a lieutenant then, and
he is living at Waverly now. I was standing in
a group, of which Martin was one, when a
lighted shell came ricochetting across the field
and stopped almost at our feet, the use still
burning, and burned almost down to tho shell.
The situat on was about as critical as you can
imagine, and the group began to scatter with a
rapidity that would do credit to the activity of
each individual member. All ran but Martin,
who, suddenly grasping the shell, flung it over
a stone w.dl which was near by. it had scarcely
touched the ground when it exploded, but for
tunately without doing damage to any of the
group, but few of whom would probably have
escaped had it not been lor Martin’s marvelous
presence of mind.”
THE CARE 08/CHILDREN.
What They Should bo Given to Eat
From One to Three Years Old.
(From Babyhood.)
The management ot the diet of children of
from one to three years ol age is a matter, the
importance of which can hardly be exaggerated.
This is particularly the case if children are
weaned at one year of age, or thereabouts, as is
much more commonly done now than formerly.
The secret of success in this matter is to make
the diet an exceedingly simple one. Though it
is often necessary to„vary the diet of young
children, yet it is likely that mothers more fre
quently err in giving too great variety of food to
such young children, than in confining them to
too simple food. By the time children are a
year old they can generally take undiluted cow’s
milk, and if they are weaned at this period,
milk should constitute much the largest part of
their diet. Oi course, it will be proper to give a
little bread or a biscuit, and many children will
eat milk toast, soft-boiled egg, or bread and
gravy, or a little soup. Potato, or rice with
butter, may also with advantage be given, but
beyond these, and similar simple artiles ot diet,
it is not well to go. This range of diet may
seem to many very wide, but of course only on?,
or at most two, of the articles suggested,
should be given at any one time.
Many infants show not only no desire, but
even a positive dislike, for all sorts ot flesh
food until they are two or more years ot a e,
but will drink milk, taking between one and
two quarts daily, and continuing fat and grow
ing irom day to day. This, in my opinion,
should be a cause for congratnla ion to the
mother, and not of distress, for often they are
very healthy children who show no desire lor
meat until after the teething process has been
completed. Soon it becomes time, at any
period between nine and eighteen month?, to
give some finely cut meat—a chop, or pie eof
steak or roast beef or chicken. Fruit suits
many children alter eighteen months, or better
still a ter they are two years old, but care should
always be taken that if is ripe and that they are
not gis’eu in very large quantities. From those
simplier articles ot diet no departure should be
made until a child is about three years of age,
and it is in the giving of c-uly very simple food
that lies the secret of success in bringing up
children. Until a 01111,1 18 tlire9 - vears ot a «°
bis evening meal in particular should be o:‘ the
plainest description ; the best results will bo
had if nothing is given at night but bread an.l
butter and milk. Breakfast, too, should be a
plain meal, consisting of m‘lk and bread and
butter alone, until an infantis twelve or fourteen
months ol 1, and then a soft boiled e g or a
chop may be added. At the midday meal
should be given the meat and vegetables

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