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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, April 10, 1887, Image 2

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85026214/1887-04-10/ed-1/seq-2/

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“Hallo, getting on the war-paint?
Kight. Look here, here's something for you,
with Seymour’s love,” and ho hands in a hugs
bouquet of white exotics framed in soft and
graceful sprays of maidenhair.
“Oh, how beautiful I Look, Lorrie!” says
Greta, bolding it up to her.
She glances at it listlessly.
‘■‘Don’t—don’t put it quite so near.” she says,
faintly. “What is it that smells so? 1 never
could endure flowers that smell in Winter!
And there is something there that makes me
feel as if I were in a hot, stifling room. Put it
sjn the bed, Greta.”
With a sigh Greta lays the costly bouquet on ’
the bed and returns to her tiring.
There is a general stir and bustle in tho ;
house which pertains to tho day. Ann is per- j
petually going un and down stairs with hot '
water; a smell of oooking ascends from the
kitchen to the top bed-room; Sir Christopher’s
valet and the sentimental cousin’s lady’s maid
fcavo had two or three pitched battles already,
and the extra girl, who has been bired from tho
■tillage for the oeccaion, adds to the general ex
citement by breaking wine-glasses and crockery
sat intervals.
Out at the ohuroh the ringers are sitting over
their mugs of hot-spiced ale, stimulating them-
BOlvea lor the task of ringing the wedding peal.
Siverybodv and everything seems to be on the
,«<U4 bine, excepting the bride, who languidly
stares through the window at the sheet of anow,
while Greta arranges her face and furbelows.
Presently Ann knocks at the door.
! “Please,'Miss Greta, the lawyer has come,
Mad will Miss Lorrie please come into the
•study ?”
“Hold out your arm, dear,"says Greta, “and
Kot mo fasten this sleeve. They want you to go
■down end sign something, I suppose. You
know, of course, that Seymour has’ been most
(generous ? Yon will be quite a rich woman,
with an income of your own!” and she laughs.
“ Yes,” says Lorrie, dreamily. “ Quite a rich
woman 1”
“Come, then!” says Greta, frying to speak
uharply, in the hope of rousing her. “We must
mot keep them waiting.”
“I am ready, ” says Lorrie, and they go down.
I The old lawyer from Carshel is in the
•study, with a dee 1 open on the table before him,
mud he makes Lorrie the bow which a keen man
<of the world considers tho due o' a young lady ' :
who in an hour will be the wife of Mr. Melford e ;
non and heir.
“Sorry to trouble you, Miss Dolores,” he ■
<says, “but wo want your signature, ft is the
last time but one that you will have an oppor
tunity ot writing Dolores Latimer.”
She takes the pen, and is about to write whore
tho old man has pointed, when the door opens
•and Seymour Meltord enters.
He is dressed in the costume universally sup
posed to be indispensable to the occasion; there
la a choice exotic in his button hole, and a smile
♦ipon his face; but ths face is very pale, and
there is a strangely anxious look in his eyes i
—the look of a man who is within grasp of his :
{.treat desire and looks for the critical moment
to coma and pass.
As ho sees Lorrie, a flush rises to his face, and <
bis ayes brighten. .
“Dressed already, dearest?” he murmurs, -
taking her hand and raising it to his lips, not- i
. 'Withstanding the presence ot the lawyer. “How | -
Wood of you! I thought that the bride always I
Jkept everybody else waiting.”
“Sho’s not noarly finished yet,” says Grots.. 1
laughing softly; “ although she may seem so to 1
>our masculine eyes. She has come down to 1
eiign something.” i
“ Yee, yos," he says quickly. “It is the set
tlement.” 1
“A very proper and, indeed, liberal settle-
Sment,” says the old lawyer softly, and with an 1
approving nod of his head. “Now, Miss Lor- <
rio.”
Once more Lorrie hesitates, but Seymour puts I
Ifeis finger on the space her name is to fill, and i
with a little quiver of the lips she does as she is <
■bid. i
Then he takes up the pen and writes his name, | t
•nd looks up with a smile. i
“I wish it were the marriage register,” be
nays softly in her ear. “ How beautiful you ‘
look in your pretty dress, dearest!” and his s
■eyes wander over her with eager, passionate ad
kniration. t
“ Yos ?” she says coldly, absently. “ Rather <
like the figure on a Twelfth-day cake, isn’t it ? 1
A m I to d« anything else ?” ,
“ Nothing biit come and finish drossing,” says
Creta, and besrs her off. 1
Seymour Mel'ord walks up and down tho
Iroom tor a minute, while tbs lawyer neatly folds
the deed and puts his spectacles away. Then i
lio goes out into the hall. i
“ Hallo 1” says Jack, coming out of the dining ;
Voom; “ hors you arc, then, Seymour. How do 1
you feel—nervous?” and he gives the grin
jwoper to the occasion. “ Awlul morning, isn’t
Jt?”
“ Yas,” says Seymour. “ I suppose the snow ■
Ins made the post late. Has tho man come i
yet?” i
“ No," answers Jack; “ pot yet. But we don’t 1
miss him. There s too much excitement for lhe I
folks to want their letters. I’m just going up to
put on my war paint. Will you have a glass ot j
wine?” i
“No, thanks.” says Seymour; “I must get I i
back to the Pines. As a matter of etiquette 1 i
suppose I ought not to be hero at all this morn- I I
Ing," and with a soft laugh he goes to the ball i i
»10or. ! i
As he does so the pqstmau is seen trudging
up tho path.
Seymour opens the door and stops out to meat I
Him, giving him a pleasant “ Good morning.” ; ’
“ I’m going back, and I’ll take the letters,” he i
mays affably. ;
The old man chafes his cold hands and fum- 11
foies in his bag. i
"Two for your honor, sir, and one for Miss i <
Meiford ”
“ Yes, yos,” says Seymour; “ and any for the ■ i
rectory ?’’
"One for tho rector, sir,,’ says the old man, I 1
•nd he hands it to Seymour. ■ I
That gentleman glances at the envelope, and |
foil face turns white as the snow itself. With a !
half glance round toward the house, ho elips i
the letter under the others and goes quickly i i
toward the gate. j
Before ha bus taken half a dozen steps, bow
over, the door opens, and Jack’s voice sounds
io its clear, distinct tones.
“ Any letters, Gubbins ?” he yells.
“Ono, Master Jack, for your father. I’ve
given it to Mr. Heymour.”
Seymour’s white teeth catch in his under lip
•nd something like an oath slips out.
“AU right, I’ve got it, Jack,” he says. " I
was going to bring it when I camo back, but you !
may as well take it,”
“AU right,’,; says Jack, and he holds out his
hand.
Seymour puts the letter into it.
“By the way, he says, carelessly, "it looks I
like a business letter. Wouldn’t it be better
not to bother your father with it until after the i
—the ceremony ?”
“ All right,” says Jack again, and, thrusting ;
the letter into his pocket, ha nods and shuts the I
door, and Seymour, with a sigh of relief, goes I
on his way.
Presently the dean who is to perform the ■
mremony, arrives ; he is very fat agd sleek, and,;
is so wrapped up that it takes tho united efforts !
a?Jum and Godding to disentangle him from I
Talflnorias of overcoats and shawls with which
h* is enveloped. He doos hot decline the glass
of wine which Jack offers him ; Jack’s ruling
idea this morning being that everybody wants a
•glass of wine, and that it is his duty to see that I
everybody has it i
Half an hour afterward the bells begin a pre- i
Itmlnary peal. As they strike out on the cold, i
frosty air, the bride, in whoso honor they are •
making music, starts, and seems to rouso from !
ths lethargy which has taken ooseeasiou of .
Her. !
“ Is—is it getting near the time, Grata ?” she i
•ska, and her voice sounds as it she bad sud- ;
dcnly taken cold.
" Very near,” replies Greta, who is only half
dressed, and is still attiring the bride, tho
Bridesmaids hovering near, at a respectful dis
tance and uttering effusive cries of admiration
•nd ■satisfaction, as her wreath and the vail and
the big bouquet are put on. “Yerynear. You
have been very good, dear, and stood very etill
•nd quiet," she adds. “Now wait while Haelen
thia spray of orange blossoms in your bosom.
There I Isn’t that lovely, girls ?” she exclaims,
stepping back like an artist to view her handi
work at propeflUpcus.
“ LovelyJ” exclaims Blush, blushing.
“ Oh, really lovely echoes Giggls, gig
gling.
Even the scornful cousin says something that
•ounds like approval, and if Lorrie Latimer,
dressed in bridal array, is not lovely, then
there is no hope for the rest of her eox. Pale ae
it the face, dark as arc the shadows under tho
•yos, there is tho old girlish beauty still in the
ol early-outlined face and dark, soulful orbs.
It is little wonder that two mon have loved
{isr with a passion that neither can control 1 It
s little-wonder that Seymour Meiford has
•looped to villainy, base and black, to gain her 1
“ I think wo are all ready,” soys Greta, tying
her hat strings hurriedly at the glass, and, as
Usual, quite indifferent as to her appearance.
•‘ Where is Jack ’l”
“ Hero 1 am !"ne says, at the half-open door.
Will anybody have a glass of wine before they
Start? No? Better! Very well, if you won’t!
AU ready ? That’s right 1 The dean’s in the
dining-room, just taking a sandwich end a glass
of sherry after bis drive. I say,” staring at
Lorfte, “what a swell you look, Lorrie I Isn’t
It rather a pity that there’s only going to be one
performance of this piece ? Can’t you repeat it,
fust ‘ lor two days only,’ you know :”
Here Blush and Giggle declare that he is re
ally too bad and make a pretence of pushing
him out of the room.
“ Hadn’t you hotter change your coat ?” says
Grata.
“Coat?” he says; “oh, ah, I forgot; "I’ve
got on my old jacket. I’ll go and change. I
eay I" almost winking at Blush and Giggle,
“ you won’t know me when I’ve got on my new
coat. It only wants brass buttons to be per
fectly killing t Sure you won’t, any of yon, have
m glass of wine and he goes iip the stairs two
•t a time.
In his own room ho slips off the coat he has
tin, and in doing so mechanically feels in the
s-ockets, after the manner of men.
- There are hie pipe and tobacco pouch, of
Bourse, but there is also the letter which came
j>y that morning’s post.
" I’d better give this to the guv’nor, while I
think ot it, notwithstanding Seymour’s injunc
tions, as it’s very likely I shall leave It in the
pocket of the now coat till there’s another wed
uing,” he says to himself, and having struggled
into the now garment he goes down stairs and
ppens tho study door.
In tho bustle «nd excitement the rector has,
Auring the last hour, boon nearly forgotten. He
is sitting in his armchair, hie wan and wrinkled '
face turned to the fire, and he looks up with a I
little start as Jack enters.
“Nearly ready, sir?” he asks.
“ Heady!” absently. “ Yes, yes, Jack; I have
only my hat and coat to get, and they are
here,” says the old man. “ Are—are they wait
ing ?”
“ Not yet, sir,” says Jack. “ I'll tell you when
they ere quite ready ! The dean is in the dining
room.”
"Yos, yes,” says the old man. “I will come
and sec him. I—l am resting a little I I loel
j very tired this morning, Jack; I suppose it is
I the excitement.” He pauses a moment, then ho
i cays, qu&veringly, “Lorrie? How is eho?”
“ First rate, sir,” says Jack. “ Looks like the
: Queen of Sheba.”
i “ Tull her I—l should like to see her a mo
! ment before we go,” says the old man, very,
very quietly.
" Yes, sir. Oh, here’s a letter that came just
now. Perhaps you’d better not open it until
after the affair’s over, sir.”
“No, no 1” assents the rector, and ho takes
the letter and turns it over in hie hands dream
ily.
Jack shuts the door gently and goes out to sec
if tho carriages have arrived, and sees that thoy
are coming up the path.
Then he returns to the dining-room and asks
the dean and Sir Christopher it they will have
another glass of wino, and having dono his duty
most faithfully goes to the bottom of the stairs
and shouts:
"Now, girls, are you ready?”
“ Wait 1 One moment I” says Lorrie, in a low
strange voice, cs Jack’s voice reaches them and
they make a move toward the door. “ Did you
hear anything then ?”
“Hear anything?” repeats Greta listening.
“ No, 1 heard nothing. Did you ?”
Blush and Giggle shake their heads.
“ What was it, dear ?” asks Greta.
“I—l don’t know,” replies Lorrie. “It
sounded as if something had fallen,” and she
turns her white lace toward them, with a look
o! vague dread.
“Ob, it’s Jack I He has dropped his hat I”
says Giggle, giggling.
“He is always dropping something,” adds
Blush, with a flush o! color.
“It is nothing, dear,” says Greta—“ come
along. Stay, let mo hold your tram. For good
ness sake take care how you go I If yon wore
ito step upon the front ot’tho skirt ”
| Horror at the possible consequences render
the remainder of the 'sentence impossible.
Down they go into the drawing-room. Tho
dean comes forward and shakes hands, and
makes the pretty speech ho has been rehears
ing, and there is a general chatter and sup
pressed excitement. Then Ann comes to the
door to say that tho carriages have come.
“ Come on, then,” says Jack. “Why, where’s
father? Oh, Lorrie, I forgot—he wants to see
you a moment.”
Lorrie glides to'flhe door, followed by a warn
ing cry from Greta of “Mind your train, dear,”
apd passes out.
“ Your sister makes a very beautiful bride,
Miss Greta,” remarks the dean, with his benev
olent smile. “ A most charming picture I I
wish we could have had a bettor morning; but
when I went to bed last night I thought we
shetrid have snow before the morning; there
; was a suspicious look about ths clouds
that ”
Ha does not got any further in his meteoro
logical remarks, lor suddenly there rings
through the house a cry, so sudden, so terri
ble, that it goes straight’ to tho heart of every
man and woman of them.
It ie a shriek of agony, oi terror, of despair;
then all is silence.
They stand and look at each other stupidly
for a moment, then Greta rushes to the door,
and the rest follow.
“ The study I” cries Jack, and he rushes down
tho hall. Ho and Greta enter at the same
moment, and see, together, tho bent figure
ot the old man lying back in the chair, and the
slim, girlish form on its knees beside him, her
arms thrown round his neck, her lace turned
up to his with a wild look ot agony.
“Lorrie!” exclaims Grata breathlessly;
“what is it? What is it? Is papa .’’Then
she stope.
There is no need to ask any further ques
tions; one glance at the white, wan face ie
enough. A iresh guest, and an uninvited one,
has come to the wedding and his name is the
Angel ol Death!
A cry goes up from Greta’s heart, and eho
kneels beside him.
“ Papa ! oh, papa, papa !”
“Great Heavens 1” exclaims the dean, shocked
and horrified. “I—l am airaid ” He says
no more, but stoops and vainly tries to raise the
poor girl who, with all her wedding finery about
her, clings to tho still figure.
But Lorrie will not bo moved.
“ Hush! huah!” she says in a whisper.
“ Don’t—don’t disturb him ! Be is asleep ! We
will—wait! You shall not disturb him! You
shall not, I say 1” she cries. Then, with a low
sob, she tails back in the merciful swoon which
for a few minutes will efface tho awlul scene
trom her young heart.
They send lor the doctor, and they carry the
poor o’ld rector up to bis room; and then the
two men, the Dean and Sir Christopher, both
■ pale and trombiing—lor Death, mark you I
; whenever it comes, is s startlwg thing enough,
! but when it comes suddenly to the accompani
i mont ot marriage bells, is ail too terrible!--the
: two mon stand and'etare at each other.
“ Heart disease I” mutters Sir Christopher. I
Tho dean shakos his head and sighs.
“ I fear so ! Yos! It is dreadful! dreadful!
i Those poor children I and that poor young
! thing, too ! Dear, dear J'
i ‘‘±twaa a sudden shtick !' mutters Sir Christo
! pher.
i As he speaks, he looks and sees an
open letter lying beside the chair.
| “ Hero—here is a letter,” ha sr.ye; “perhaps,
; under the circumstances
“ Certainly, certainly!” says the dean in a
i hushed voice, answering the unfinished ques-
■ lion.
j Sir Christopher takes up tho letter.
As he does so the door opens, and Lorrie
: enters. She is still in her bridal array; bar lace
i is white ae the dross itself; there is a look of
wild horror and dread in her eyes.
“My dear,” murmurs the dean in a shocked
whisper; “ will you not go to your room ?’
She shakes her head and puts her hand to her
throat, as it to remove something that prevents
her from speaking.
“No I” she says. “ I—l want to know what—
what k'lled him I”
“ My dear.—” says the dean.
She puts out her hand and points to lhe
letter.
" When—l camo in, he was reading some
thing ! Is that it? Wbat is it ?”
Sir-Christopher locks down at the letter, but
before lie can reed it the door opens, and Sey
mour MoT.ord enters.
He is pale and breathless, and at sight of
i Lorrie he staggers slightly and stands leaning
I against the door.
“ What in the name of Heaven has happened?"
he gasps. “Is it —is it true ?”
I Lorrie etill stares at the letter, as if «h« bad
! neither seen or heard him.
“ Head it,” she says, hoarsely.
,i Sir Christopher clears his throat.
[ “Mv Deab Sib—l beg to inform you that an
I extensive vain of gold has been discovered in
the Wheal Rose Mine, and that your shares are
now extremely valuable. \Ve await your in
structions.”
There is silence for a moment; the dean end
! Sir Christopher exchange puzzled glances,
i Lorrie stands white as a statue, her arms lying
i limp at her side.
i Then Seymour Meiford clears bis throat,
j “ I—l think I osn explain," lie says hoarsely;
I " but this is not tho time or place. Lorrie, my
■ dearest- —and be makes a step toward her.
1 She does not shrink back, but with a wild i
: look in her face, she elowly tears the vail from i
! her head, and lets it tall from her hands to her i
! feet.
CHAITEH XXIV.
"LOBB KENDALB AXB MISS KIANA SffiLl'OM).”
Winter has gone, and Spring is here ! In the
country you can feel its balmy breath—when it
doesn’t happen to blow from the east, bv tho
way l—whispering soft music through the bud
ding branches of the trees. The birds in the
woods, who have been silent through the hard,
cold months, began to sing their love songs.
The cuckoo turns up—that wicked marauder l—
and sends his one mocking note over hill and
dale. Out in the woods the primroses light up
with patches of pale gold the ferny hollows.
All Nature seems to sing in harmony, "The
Spring is hero, forerunner of Summer; sweet
maiden season of the year—she is here, she ie
. here 1”
Even in London the vernal season makes it
self felt- There are b rde in the trees in the
parks, the shops are selling their winter goods
; at enormous sacrideas, fires are at a discount;
every other house in the West End is in the
nainter’s hands, and already there has actually
■ been seen three horsewomen in Rotten Row 1
1 Even in Manchester square there is a breath
of the divine young goddess to be felt, and
through tho smoke that seems to hang over that
particular square in denser and more obstinate
■ folds than anywhere else, the sun shines like a
! lusty young Olympian, as who should say,
i “Wait a while, and I’ll show what I can do
i when Summer comes ! ’
b In the drawing-room of No. 27 Manchester
i square, sits a thiu, elim young girl, dressed in
> black merino. It is Lorrie Latimer. She ie
thinner even than when we saw her last, and
the black dress makes the sweet, bewitching
- face seem paler even than it is. She eits so
; quietly, that one would find it difficult to realize
that only alow short months ago she was the
■ tomboy of Marshal Rectory, ready tor any piece
of mischief that might come to hand, but for the
5 dark eyes, in which not even laughter-quenching
I sorrow can dim the old light.
, On the opposite side of the fire—for in Man
v chaster square they do not believe much in
- Spring, and keep fires going until June is well
c in-sits Lady Collop.
j Jack s description of her was literally graphic.
Imagine a stoutish old lady in thick corded
s black silk, of so substantial a make that she
e could step out of it and still leave it standing;
with a too palpable “ front, ’’ and a preposterous
>f cap on the top ot it; black silk mittens, and
e cloth boots. Picture to yourself a fat and rather
foolish face, that would be goodnaturod if she
I were not perpetually trying to make it severe,
> and you have a full-length likeness ot Lady
e Cellop.
I- ?.s she holds it a sin to ba idle, excepting on
fl Sundays and when you are asleep, her Ist,
d podgy hands are employed m 'king pen-winars
tor the next bazaar of the Con varied Flycatchers’
i, Institution. Two fat cats are coiled up at her
e test, ami • parrot-torthaatoly half-asleep -
“ and any for tho
NEW YORK DISPATCH, APRIL 10 1887.
nods and swinjzs spasmodically on his perch in ■
a cage in the window.
It is five o’clock—tea time—and the tea-service
I stands on a I tfclo table beside her. There is
also a goodly pile o! muffins -although dinner
will be served in a couple of hours time- stand
ing a hot-water plate on the tiled hearth.
The room is of the “ comfortable ” kind; old
fashioned mahogany that shines like a mirror;
chairs covered with hideous woolwork, “done”
by Lady Collop herselt during tno lifetime of
the late lamented Sir Samuel, whose portrait,
fat and rubicund as it it had been taken im
mediately after a city dinner, smiles oilily from
the wall. Wealth is represented by the collec
tion oi plate that, glitters, in massive ugliness,
from the sideboard, and in the diamond rings
which adorn the fat fingers of her ladyship
Notwithstanding its heaviness it ie a comforta
ble room enough, but ah I how tired Lorrie has
grown of it I It ie now more than three months
since she made its acquaintance, and there is
not a curve in the chairs, not a shining knob in
the sideboard drawers, not a picture that she
has not grown sick and weary ot.
’ Four months ago she and Jack had concocted
their answer to Lady Collop’s note of congratu
lation, little dr.wning that the day would over
come when Lorrie should takeup her residence
with the old lady herself And yet it had come
to pass I Fate* has a queer knack o; twisting
the tangled thread ot lite, aud it is always the
unexpected that happens.
Four months ! yes, oden, she sits
with her hands folded in her lap, £oing back to
that black Christmas when tho dear old father,
so tenderly loved, so deeply mourned, was car
ried into the churchyard iu which he had so
often walked.
Sir Christopher, who had proved himself a
good and a kind friend, as often the most un
likely people do prove themselves, had pointed
out and explained that though,ithanka to that
vein of gold in the Wheal Rose, the rector’s
debts, including that big one to Seymour Mei
ford, could all bo paid, there would be little le t
for the three bereaved ones. That Greta would
have to go out as a governess, and Jack into the
world to fight hia way, was plain enough. But
Lorrie; what was to become of Lorrie ? She
who had persistently refused to learn anything
herself could scarcely hope to be employed as a
teacher to others 1 What was to become of
her ?
One thing she could do—she could marry
Seymour Meiford, and become the mistress of
hia heart and home and weaalth ; but that thing
she would not do.
She was still bound to him, but only on con
dition that there should be no talk of marriage
for months and months to come, and that he
should “leave her alone.” That was all she
cared for, “ to be left alone,” alone with her
great sorrow.
Then, to the surprise of all, Lady Collop had
come forward with the offer of a home, and to
Manchester square Lorrie had come, and if to
be left alone was all she required, she certainly
ought to have been satisfied.
To describe the lie led by the relict of the
late Sir Samuel Collop as quiet, would be a
moderate estimate of the dull and dreary exist
ence which sufficed for that estimable old lady.
From Monday morning to Saturday night the
daily routine went on without a break or change.
So meals ; so many drives in the lumber
ing old landau with its’ pair of fat sna Is; so
many missionary meetings and lectures; so
many afternoon teas and muffins.
But Lorrie “shied,” as Jack would have said
it, at the meetings and the lectures, and so liv«ed
a life which was almost as secluded as th it of
the parrot in his cage or the cat on the hearth
rug.
The old lady was kind to her, was fond of her,
if she would have admitted the possession ot
such a worldly feeing, but she no more under
stood hot than a South Sea islander could un- 1
defstand Shakespeare.
That tho beautiful young girl was pining for
fresh air and fresh scenes, for the sound of
laughter aud the voice of people of her own
age, as well as sorrowing over the past, never
occurred to Lady Collop; and so long as Lorrie
was content to ‘ sit per isctly silent with her
hande in her lap, or road the last report from 1
the missionaries to the Chickeraboos, Lady
Collop thought tilings wore going on. all right.
On this afternoon the report lies open on
Lome’s lap, but her eyes are fixed on the
nearest oat, though she doos not see it, her
mental vision traveling far back into the past.
Presently Lady (. oilop gives a little sniff and
comjh, which she always does when she wants
to ‘‘rouse ” Lorrie, and says:
“ Wouldn’t you like to see what they say
about those dear Chickoraboos this month,
Dolores ?”
She insisted upon calling her Dolores from ,
the beginning, and for the first day or two,
Lorrie used to look round to see whom it was
the old lady was speaking to.
Lorrie gives a little start, and raising the
magazine toward the light, reads in the tone
which so palpably proclaims tho fact that the
reader is paying ho attention to what she is
reading:
“ We era glad to state that the iron soup
kitchen, which our kind friends in England ,
have so bountifully provided, is making good
progress, and that we hope xto have it finished
before the Winter come ou. Our friends will
remember with grief and pain that the last
missionary, Brother Triggins, had almost suc
ceeded m converting tho natives to the use of a
good, plain, and nourishing soup, when he fell
a victim and was eaten on tho very spot where
tho now kitchen stands. Funds are still needed
and will be thankfully received. We are short
ot hairpingfecad small-tooth-combs. Will those
kind friends who revel in luxury in happy Eng
land beaij thrs in mind; and send us of the
superfluity, that the heathen may know and
cherish the blessings of civilization.”
Lady Collop draws a long sigh.
“ Remind me. Dolores, to subscribe to this
‘ Chickeraboo Hairpin and Tooth-comb Fund.’
Ah ’ what a noble work our friends are doing in
heatheu lands 1 I think I’ll take a muffin, my
dear.”
Lorrie hands up the muffins, and Lady Col
lop, arranging her pocket handkerchief in her
lap for a napkin, selects tho richest and oiliest.
“ Won’t yon have one, Dolores?” she asks;
“ they’d do you good, my dear. Doctor Bub
bler sooi-ially recommends them lor the young
and delicate.”
“ I don’t think I am delicate enough for
muffins,” says Lorrie, eyeing them mistrust
fully.
“ Don’t contradict,” says Lady Collop. “ •
must allow me to know best, Dolores ! No one
who eats so little can be anything but delicate.
Food was sent for man ’’—here she takes the
second half of the muffin—“ and it is wicked to
turn away in repining. I remember Doctor
Grimes preaching a sermon ou this very sub
ject; a most able and touching discourse. I
recollect every word oi it! He said .”
What IJoctor Grimes said Lorrio will never
know, for at thia moment the door opens and
the elderly butler cornea in with a letter.
Lady Collop takes it from tho salver, and
after the fashion ot her kind, turna it over and
over, uttering © iclamationa of wonder as to
whom it can bo from.
“ I seem to know the handwriting, Dolores,”
she says, blinking at tho address; “ aud yet I
can’t recollect it. I wonder whose it can bo? ’
“ Perhaps, if you opened it suggests
Lorrie languidly.
“ Yes,” assents Lady Collop, happily Uncon
scious of tho irony. “ Where are my spec
tacles?”
Lorrie get® up and finds the spectacles, and
lights a candle., and Lady Collop screws up
sufficient resolution to open the letter.
“ Dear me 1-how extraordinary I” she ex
claims, after laboring through th© contents for
five minutes, during which Lorrie has forgotten
all about the letter and Lady Collop herself.
“ Now, really I Dear me; I don’t know wh?-t to
say! Such an old friend—of course—l don’t
i think I could retuse; but really I”
! Lorrie looks up listlessly.
“Is anything the matter ? Whom is your lot
i ter from ?”
Lady Collop even then does not answer, but
stares* at the letter, she holds iu one
hand, a thick piece of muffin being in the other.
“ From a very old friend, Dolores. Dear me!
I haven’t seen her for years. Ab, how wonder
ful are the ways of Providence I Our walks in
life have been very different, but still we should
never neglect an opportunity of serving our
brother in distress.”
By this time, Lorrie fully convinced that it is
one of tba dozen begging loiters which the old
lady receives every wook, has returned to her
contemplation o- the cat -and the past; but Lady
Collop meanders ou.
“ See bow important it is, Dolores, always to
have vour house in order. No one can say
thatl*am not always propared. Some people
are satisfied with a ‘ spring clean,’ or at best a
monthly turn-out; but no! I always said, ‘Be
ready, Martha, and tho enemy will not take you
by surprise!’ ”
“ Has any enemy threatened to take you by
surprise ?” sake Lorrie, smiling faintly.
“Enemy! No! Good gracious, what can
have put such a thought into your head?
Didn’t I tell you Lady Farnham is a very old
friend
“Lady Farnham!” repeats Lorrie, and the
rich color, so long absent from the beautiful
face, suffuses it lor a moment. “ What about
her?’
“ Ob, nothing about her much,” says Lady
Collop. “ Only this; she was coming to town to
receive a visit from some people who h|d busi
ness in Loudon, and were going to stay with
her, and—ab, how little we know what is going
to happen to us ’—now the ceiling of her house
in Park Lane has fallen down, and as the work
men are in the house, she wants me to let them
atop here till they have finished.”
“ Who—the workmen ?” asks Dolores, slight
ly confused.
“ Dolores, I am afraid you are inattentive.”
says Lady Collop, surveying her severely over
her spectacles. “ The workmen ’ Do you think
Lady Farnham would ask me to entertain a par
cel of workmen ? No, these two young people,
of course 1”
“ Tina is the first time you have mentioned
any young people.” says Lorrie, smiling, and
struggling with her curiosity. “ Who are
they ?”
! Lady Collop holds the letter nearer the can
; I die.
i | “Lady Farnham never did write a good
‘ hand ’. What a blessing is application to our
• : studies in our early youth ! 1 used tc practice
i ‘ text-hand for two hours a day, and 1 could
, i wish, Dolores, that you could feel the desira-
• i bility ot acquiring a distinct and legible hand
i writing. Nothing is more wasteful of the
i ' precious time that is bestowed upon us than a
; scrawiy hand which no one can read.”
i| “Than you can’t read the names of these
’’people?” says Lorrie resignedly. “Perhaps I
•lean! Let-nfc see!”
“ No; thmk you, Dolores says the old lady
tartly. “I am not blind yet, I hope. If you
would give me time, instead of confusing mo by
talking so much, perhaps I should be able to
manage it.”
She pores over the letter for another minute,
then reads out slowly.
“ My two friends who will be terribly incon
venienced by the accident, as they have no one
in London just now they can go to, unless you
can take them iu for a day or two, are Lord
Keudalo and M.se Diana Meiford, the young
lady to whom he is engaged.”
The poker which orrie has seized to poke
the fire, in the desperate desire to do something
to break the spell, fails witu a clatter on tho
lender, causing the old lady to jump several
inches off her chair, sending tho cat flying to
the other end of the room, and waking tho par
rot, who commences to yell discordantly.
“ Good gracious, child I” gasps Lady Collop,
“Y’ou will be the death of mo !”
“ I—l beg your pardon,” says Lorrfe, stand
ing up, with her lace as red as a rose, her lips
apart. “Did you say she pauses a moment,
for her breath comes and goes in quick pants—
“ did you say Lord Kendale ? *
“ Well, it’s either Kendale or Pensale,” says
the old lady. “But there, read it yourself!”
and she bolds out the letter peevishly.
Lorrie takes it in her trembling hand, and
after the mist which seems to float before her
eyesolears somewhat, she finds tho plaoo in
Which the names are written.
Yes ! It is Lord Kendale ! They are Guy
and Diana who are coming—coming hero to
Manchester Square—to the very house whore
she ie living!
It seems so grotesquely improbable, so out
rageously impoesiible, that, for a moment, she
stands half dazed, staring at the letter as if ahe
had forgotten all about it.
“ Well,” demands Lady Collop, with not un
reasonable impatience —“ is it Kendale, or
what?”
“It is Kendalo,” eays Lorrie, in a low voioe.
Then she plucks up courage. At all hazards
they must not come here. He would not come
if he knew she were here; he must be made to
know.
“ Of course you cannot have them ?” she says,
faintly.
“ Why not!” asks the old lady. “ Why
shouldn’t they come ? Tho house is large
enough, I should hope.”
“But—but-the notice ’ Why,’’ with a start,
as she consults the letter, “it says the fourth !
That is to-day—to-night! It is impossible 1”
gathering hopo and courage from the faint look
of surprise on the foolish, good-natured face.
“There isn’t time to prepare for them ”
But unfortunately she has touched Lady Col
lop iu a sensitive spot-.
“Prepare! I am thankful to say, Dolores,
that lam always prepared. I trust I know my
duty, and 1 trust. [ shall have strength to do it.
Lady Farnham shall not be able to say th d ahe
called upon me in the hour of her need in vain.
No I 1 know my duty, Dolores, and I shall not
bo lukewarm.”
“But—but,” says Lorrie, desperately, “they
may be here to dinner I Miss Meiford will
bring a maid—the rooms ”
“ Are ready,” says the old lady, rendered
obstinate by opposition. “As for dinner, Jane
can get a couple of made dishes trom Fort
num’s. Dolores, lam sorry, heartfelt sorry, to
make the observation, but I think you display a
love ot indolence’which is simply shocking in
one so young. At your age, I rejoico to sav, I
should have been ever ready to meet the calls
ot duty. Why”—with a sudden recollection
“ didn’t you say Meiford ? It must be some re
lation to Mr. Seymour Meiford—it must be his
sister 1 Your own sister-in-law, and yoa would
turn her from tho doors !”
“She is not my sister-in-law—yet I” says
Lorrie, growing suddenly pale. “But I will
say no more. It you have made
mind ”
“ Which I certainly have !” says hor ladyship,
with a shake of her head.
“ I—l will do what. I can.”
“That is better I” remarks the old lady ap
provingly. “1 am glad to have roused a better
feeling in you, Dolores. Ah, we need never
despair! Who knows ? This visit may prove a
blessing to you ! It may rouse you and awaken
you to a sense of tho duties of lie; duties,
Dolores, which you seem ” but Lorrie has
left the room and is half way down the stairs
to the kitchen by thia time, and the discourse is
lost.
With a calmness which is born of despera
tion, the girl informs the cook and the butler ot
the sudden invasion, allots the blue room to
Lord Kendale, and the pink with the anteroom
to Diana and her maid should there be ono—
remembers the made dishee to be procured at
Fortnum’s-, and then, with jvsense of unreality,
goes up stairs with the housemaid and secs that
the rooms uro prepared.
Then ahe goes to her own room, and seating
herself on the bed, tries to think, to realize that
in an hour or two Guy and she will meet lor the
first time since he held her in his arms in the
churchyard, and said good-by forever i
But there is no time to think ' They may
arrive at any instant I All will depend upon
the first moment of their meeting—hers and
Guy’s.
She bathes her face, and changes the black
merino lor a soft cashmere, which does duty for
an evening dress, and brushes the eo!t, silky
hair which Guy bad said had twined round his
heart.
Simple as is her toilette, she has not finished
it when there comes a loud ring at the bell.
With fast beating heart ebe forces her face in
to a set calm, which conceals, as does a maek f
the tumult ot emotion which quivers in every
vein, and after a last look at herselt in the glass,
goes slowly down stairs.;
At the drawing-room door she pauses a mo
ment, to brace herselt for the effort, and Diana’s
voice, clear and metallic as of old, floats out to
her.
“So kind of you, Lady CoHop ! Of course, I
was reluctant to trespass on your good nature;
but my father and brother are abroad in the
south of France, and there was nowhere else I
could go. Lord Kendale is staying at an hotel,
but he will dine here to-night if you will be so i
good as to have him. You see, I was obliged to
come to town, for I am preparing for our wed
ding, and one lias so much to see to, hasn’t one?
And are you sure you do not mind our taking
you by storm ? Dear Lady Farnham assured
me that you would be good-natured enough to
overlook so short a notice, or I should not have
dared ”
Lorrie waits no longer, but, softly pushing
open the door, enters.
Diana does not hear her, and is still pouring
out the slow stream of her excuses, when Lady
Collop says:
“Dolores, Miss Meiford has come. Will you
tell Sarah to show her her room ?”
Di&na turns slowly, with tho old, indolent,
languid grace, to greet- with the proper amount
of coldness tho “companion” she expects to see;
then, as tho lamplight falls upon Lorrio’s pale,
bewitching face, she starts and grows pale.
“ Lorrie liatiruer I” she says, and her lipa
close tightly.
“ Yes, it is I,” says Lorna. “How do you do,
Diana?”
Diana recovers herself in a moment.
“ How do you do ?” she says, offering her
smooth, ivory cheek. “I did not know— Sey
mour did not tell me.”
“No,” says Lorrie. “I asked him not to do
so. I wanted to be let alone. Bat it does not
matter ” 1
Before she can go further in her lame and
halting speech the door opens, and the butler
announces Lord Kendale,
Instinctively Lorrie draws back into the deep
shadow, outside the rays ot the lamp.
He comes ;n, blinking a little, and looking as
bored as men do in strange situations.
“How do you do, Lady Collop?” he says.
“I’m afraid you don’t remember me. We met
at Lady Farnham’s when I was a youngster. I
suppose that is the reason why Lady Farnham
considers she has a right to plant us on you in
this unceremonious fashion. I hope you’ll for
give her and us ”
“ I’m sure I’m very glad to see you, I ord
Peasale,’* says the old lady, rather confused by
the suddeiyiesa. “I don’t remember you, but,
as 1 said to Dolores ”
“ What?” he says, with a little start.
Diana touches his elbow.
“ Here is an old friend of yours. Guy,” she
eays, coldly, warningly, as it seems, “lou did
not know Dolores was here, did you ?”
He turns round sharply and peers into the
shadow, an apprehensive look in his eyes; then
hs sees the slim, girlish figure, the pale, beau
tiful face he has kissed, and kisses still in his
dreams, and stands staring at her, motionless
and speechless.
(To ba Continual.?
A School Principal’s Views—America
should be Americanized.
(fi-om the Indianapolis Hews.)
"I am opposed to the teaching of German in
the public schools on the ground that it is in
consistent with the main purpose in view.”
These were the words ot a principal.
“ The theory of our government, ’"he con
tinued, “calls for a judicious exerciso of popular
suflrage. Universal suffrage ought to carry
along with it the condition of universal intelli
gence. That every child may have opportunity
to fulfill this condition schools have been estab
liehed at public expense. But the government
never proposed to give every child a college
education. The necessities are provided at
common expense, because every man’s children
must have these if he have educational ail. We
do not compel child ren te take Garman, because
it ie, aa it were, a fancy study. It is an accom
plishment to know Gorman; it is a necessity to
know English in America. No pupil who attends
the public school is permitted to taka grammar
and omit geography. It is well known wbat the
i necessary branches are, and the lanoy ones
have to be weeded out.”
“ Ie the sentiment ol the German pupils’ par
ents against the abolition ot Gorman ?”
“ Very many insist that German should be
taught, blit there are those who confess that it
is by favor rather than by right that it is taught.
I think the time has come when a national law
should be passed on this subject. Local politics
are controlled often by partisans who are too
cowardly to demand the right if foreign votes
are at stake. I do not know that there is enough
courage in Congress to pass a law which would
meet with some opposition from foreigners, but
it would bo or ought to be difficult for a legis
lator to explain his vote opposing a measure
, designed to Americanize America. It seems to
ma that it is time to say a word tor America. If
we assimilate the foreign element already within
our border wo will accomplish wonders. lam
: i in favor of doing everything that will forward
j tho process of assimilation and lor that reason
■ 1 lam in favor of ceasing to perpetuate GcrnaSa
suggests
as ft public institution and of abolishing all
things essentially foreign. Can foreigners who
have accepted the hospitalities of this good
government take exceptions to thia?”
BY ADA PENLEY.
“Oh. God i it cannot bo true, my love, my
love I”
The hoarse ory rang out upon the solemn
Southern night like the wail of a breaking
heart.
Up beyond a belt of shadowy hills a harvest
moon sailed slowly upward, bathing r woman’s
shape in the valley below in its silver glory.
Gliding to the side ot a man standing in the
shadow, she laid her soft, ringless hand upon
his arm, murmuring:
“ Mr. Allisford—Albert, if I could only soften
this blow. It is so hard to seo you suffer.”
“You must bo mistaken,” he interrupted,
half haughtily.
“ No. ISee. here is the note appointing the in
terview. I found it in the hall not an hour
since, and carelessly read it, not realizing, till
too late, what I had done, or its terrible import.
Would that some one elso had made this dis
covery instead o me. who-—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in strangling
sobs.
Throwing the scented paper she thrust into
his finders contemptuously away, Allisford
looked kindly at his companion. What he saw
was a picture beautiful enough to soften any
man’s heart.
A graceful, fairy-like creature, her white
bosom rising and falling like the ocean’s waves
beneath her black lace bodice. A mass of gold
en hair st.ined with trailing fragments, and
small hands covering her rose-tinted face, as
lovely as a poet's ideal.
“Do not cry,” ho said gently. “ You are not
to blame, poor child. I presume,” laughing bit
terly, “ l*m not the first man who has had his
heart crushed and his faith destroyed by a wo
man’s treachery.”
Her arms roll to her side and a pair of eyes as
blue as the flowers among her tresses were up
lifted to his.
“Do not say all women are treacherous,” she
breathed in low, thrilling tones. “If I could
cleanse your heart ot this sorrow, with my lite’s
blood I would gladly make the sacrifice. Oh,
what have I said,” she cried, wildly wringing
her hands, shrinking beneath his startled
glance. “ Try and forget lira secret I have be
trayed. I will leave Hollywood, where I’ve
been so happy, und hide my bit er pain far, far
from here. Oh, how can Irene be so base ?”
Allisford caught his breath.
“ Hush I” he said unsteadily. “Do not men
tion her. I—cannot bear it just yet. If what is
written in that letter be true, my life is worth
less. If you care e ough for a man whoso heart
has received its deathblow irom another wo
man-will you meet me here to-morrow even
ing ?” he asked, breaking off abruptly, “ I may
have something to ask of you.’’
For an answer she merely laid her ripe lips
upon the hand he extended.
Lifting his hat he walked quickly away from
the girl who. when his footfalls died into si
lence, laughed a low triumphant laugh, that
merged into a startled scream as a man sprang
from a thicket near.
“How you frightened mo Jack,” she exclaimed
petulantly.
“ What do you mean by making love to that
fellow in such—steam engine lashion?” ho de
manded angrily.
“ Why, didn’t we agree ?” she commenced
innocently.
“ That’s no sign you need make a precious
fool ot yourael ,” he snapped, frowning down
upon her. “By Jove, you looked perfectly
moonstruck, and I suppose yOur words were
just RS SOIL”
She drew a long breath of relief.
“Are you not ashamed to be so cross Jack?”
she coaxed, coming closer to him. “ You know
I love no ono but you.”
“ Well, I hope for your sake you don’t/’ he
said grimly, his broath, heavy with the fames of
liquor, scorching her cheek. * “4 hardly think
you would like that upstart to know had
danced on a tightrope for a living.”
“ Stop i Stop I” ehoicried in a perfect frenzy
of alarm. “ 1 buried that horrid circus-life
and all connected with it, except you, dear,
when I came here as governess to Mr. Allis
ford’s little daughter. ’
“ All right, only don’t let him kiss you. F
can’t stand that,” he growled?. “ 1 presume our
little note did its duty.”
“Yes,” she assented nodding her bright head,
“ he never suspected its being a forgery, and
intends 1 know to witness the meeting.”
“Good,” he laughed, “ while he is away my
chum can work our racket. Do sure you do
your part. The longer he stays the bettor,” he
enjoined, stalking away into the darkness.
“ One might as well put their mouth to a
whisky jug as to kiss him,” she muttered, wiping
her lips. “ Bah' The men are all alike. A
few sweet words dropped from a woman’s
sugary tongue combined with a pair of tear-wet
eyes and a pretty fa e, will accomplish wonders
in the way of softening the masculine heart.”
Laughing softly to herself she tripped up the
gleaming terrace steps, where music ringing
out from the open window’s of a castle-like
mansion, shining like a meteor amid the dusky
trees, was borne faintly oa the air, heavy with
the fragrance of orangs blossoms and mag
nolias.
* r- . * * f- #.-•
Ten minutes before, Allisford, his heart and
senses in a tprmoil of jealous wrath and pain,
staggered rather than walked up .the marble
steps leading to the piazza, whore a girl, her
white arras outstretched over the low balus
trade, was standing in Che glare of numeruos
wax lights streaming out from a crowded ball
room.
Sheltered by the trumpet vines, clenching
his teeth to keep down a groan of agony, he
watched her—the woman he loved and had in
tended asking for her precious love that very
night.
“How pure and lovely she lookfrI” he
thought; “ and to think she would have mar
ried the ‘love-struck widower,’ as Bertha says
she termed mo in her letter to her young lover,
for his money ! And !, Heaven help me, be
lieved every throb ot her heart mino 1”
Drawing her pretty blue wrap about her bare
shoulders, the girl gathered up her long train
; and moved slowly down the broad porch.
A glad cry broke from tier as a man's stal
i wart figure came out from the shadow into the
glare ot light.
“ Where have you kept yourself all the even
ing, Mr. Allisford ?” she smiled, blushing di
vinely.
“ Pardon mo, I am in a hurry to return to my
guests,” he said, coolly, without offering to
touch her little outstretched hand. “Shall I
escort you back to the ball-room, Miss Neil ?”
i A white wave chased the blushes from her
: cheeks.
I “ Thanks, no; my partner will return in a
moment,” she answered quietly, lowering her
eyes, lost he see the tears sparkling on her
long lashes.
“Why did he treat me so unkindly?” she
sighed, watching him as be threaded his way
amid the dancers- a handsome man still, de
spite his forty odd years and a few silver
threads among his dark hair. “He told me the
party wag given in my honor, yet ho haa not
been near mo the whole evening, and—l—l—
thought ”
The rest ot the sentence was smothered in a
sob.
During her brief visit of six weeks to Mr. Al
lisford’s sister she had shyly learned the old,
old lesson that most women are fated to learn,
which also oftentimes brings the bitterness ot
death with its quivering arrow.
Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Irene
hastened down the broad terrace, her long robe
sweeping in a glistening train after her.
“is that you, Miss Neil ?” cried a musical
voice, and Bertha flitted out from a pretty
ehatelet.
Irene, to hide her flushed, tear-stained face,
drew back into the shadow o. a flowering tree.
“I earns out here to escape all those people,”
Bertha went on lightly, pointing toward the
glittering mansion. “It seemed to me it I
stayed longer among them ] must cry aloud my
groat happiness.”
“Haveyou received good news?” Irone asked
kindly, striving to seem interested.
Bertha’s eyes scintillated like stars.
“ Yonder moon never smiled down on a bap
pier g rl than 1,” she said so.tly, coming closer
to Irene. “Mr. Allis ord has asked me to be
his wiie.”
There was a low moan. A pair of wild,
brown eyes flared into Bertha’s, then a heap
of silken drapery lay prone at the blonde’s
feet.
“I think I’ve settled her,” she said, calmly
glancing at her watch. “ Nearly ten, 1 must
hurry. What an imbecile a woman can make o!
herself,” looking scornfully down at the white
unconscious lace pressed against the dew
laden flowers. “ ;’ve no faith in this cant—
about love. A girl who will iaiut because she
imagines a man likes another woman better than
heraelt, must have a soft spot in her head as
well as heart. It will not do to tail now,” she
exclaimed, hastening toward the house. “ Once
the mistress of Hollyw.ood, I know the heart
broken wretch intends tendering poor love-sick
me bis hand and fortune to-morrow. I shall
daiy Jack. Mrs. Allisford can well trample that
circus episode beneath her carriage wheels.
* >? >? x- x»
Tho moon half-hidden by scudding clouds
threw into shade a man striding along a wood
laud path enameled with wild flowers.
“ I must see before I can realize harperrldy,”
he mutered. “If her innocent eyes be false,
then indeed, woman and treachery go hand and
glove.”
Voices came faintly to him. His breath 1 com
ing iu hurried pants, Aliislord stepped stealthily
forward, and parting tire bushes, gazed in
clumb agony upon a eight which would haunt
him tor many a day to corue. The Queen ot
Night sailing out irom billowy clouds flooded
two figures beneath tho spreading branches of
an ample oak, in noonday light. A man holding
a woman’s slight form closely to him, hie head
bent tenderly over her face bidden on his
shoulder. A snake glided slowly across the
! path. The notes of the whippoorwills rang cut
■ from the sweet-gum swamp and the caressing
' whisper, “ Irene, my dearest love,” came dis
tinctly to the halt-maddened listener.
“ Yes. It was Irene, and oh, agony, Irene, in
another man’s arms. How well he remembered
the glistening ball-dress her nut-brown hair
was tailing over. He could distinctly see the
rounded wrist, ho had never dared to touch,
adorned by a turquoise bangle he had lh»t dsy
i ■>iven her clasped around bar lover’s nock. Tec
i golden butterlliea ho tliougbUso pretty, as she
{ stood so shyly before him qa the porch', ql.'uting
from him. Ha turned blindly away, staggered :
one or two paces, then recoiled with a thrilling •
cry, for standing before him in th# narrow walk •
was Irene, looking like some lovely wandering
spirit. Her hair, that had become unfastened
during her swoon, rippling down to the hem ot
her dress.
“ What is tho meaning of this witchcraft?’' he
exclaimed, his voice vibrating with intense joy
at the sight of the sweet secret he read in her
downcast eyes. He drew hor into the open
space beyond, when tho woman who still had
her back to the thicket was saying something in
guarded tones to her companion. When he saw
Allisford, he ground out an oath, and plunged
into the gloom cast by the thick pines.
“ Stop I” Allisford called sternly.
The female uttered a suppressed cry and
sprang alter the man, crashing through the
wood. Catching her foot in her train she stum
bled and fell as Allisford reached her side.
Who aro you? And what 'do you mean by
this masquerading?” he demanded haughtily.
Clapping both hands over her features she
scrambled to her feet and was oft like a flash,
unheeding, in hor terrified flight, that a tree
branch caught and tore a wig of brown hair
from her head, or that, as she epran" into the
dense laurels, the moonlight slanting downward,
struck for an instant full upon her face and a
mass of loosened, yellow tresses.
Irene’s cry of surprise was smothered by
Alts lord s warm kisses as he held her tightly in
his arms.
Half an hour afterward, when be once more
entered tho ballroom, his pretty betrothed lean
ing on his arm, his sister met him with tho start
ling iniormat on that his library had been en
tered during his brief absence and a largo sum
of money stolen from his safe. Lightly con
necting Bertha with the robbery, bo was not sur
prised that she never again made her appear
ance at Hollywood.
Mrs. Allis ord insists upon teaching her little
step-daughter, laughingly declaring herself
to be afraid of governesses, since one, by mas
querading, came so near blasting her happi
ness.
YlTlLffi JhapT
BY MBS. M. L. RAYNE.
Ilia real name was Paul, but before we knew
that, we had fastened upon him the diminutives
by which bo was always known. And he was
just a “ Little Chap,” after all.
He used to play continually about the halls in
tho big hotel whore we lived that Summer, and
always by himselr. Somehow the other chil
dren were not attracted to him ; he could not
roiup as they did, because he was a little lame ;
hip disease, the nurse eaid, caused by a fall in
infancy.
Perhaps it was his lameness, which was very
slight, however, that gave him that odd, old
look, which impelled us to call him Little Chap,
instead of some more endearing name.
He was never morose or peevieii. From
morning until night ho sang and whistled like
any mocking bird, picking up by oar any catchy
tune he heard, and trilling it in a sweet little
voice up and down the long corridors where he
walked and played for exercise,
“liemme mail your letters,’’he would say
cheerily. It was quite a little trip for him down
to the office, and he preserved usually the longer
and more circuitous route by the stairs to the
quick descent of tho elevator.
At first - how ashamed I am to think of it now
—we were afraid to trust him, and ono day,
when he was given some money lor a small pur
chase, we counted the change.
“Is it all right >” ha asked in a little grieved
voice.
“ Of course it is,” I said, quickly, “ only there
will be ten cents too many, unices you take
this,” and I proffered him a bit of silver.
Instantly the small hands were clasped be
hind his back, and his sensitive mouth quiv
ered :
“ I have a bank full of money,” he said,
proudly. “It's on the mantel in our parlor.”
Then we began to understand him. He just
wanted “to do and to do,” like tho little man
in the story, and ha did not want to be paid
for it.
Meanwhile “ wonderment guesses,” who was
his father, who was his mother ? The first we
seldom saw. Ho was a grave, stern man, with
iron-gray hair, who looked as if he had walked
in the valley of disappointment all his life.
.Sometimes he let Paul run by his side, and
halted a little to accommodate himself to the
faltering stop, but he was always iii a solemn
hurry to go somewhere or do something.
His mother was young and very pretty. We
had pitied him, supposing she was his step
mother ; but no, Paul was her very own. Hhe
went out a great deal, to ride, to walk, to even
ing part.es, and when at homo she was either
resting or dressing, or there was company
poor 1 .ittie Chap !
Wherever she went she left a trail of glory in
her wake. Sometimes it was fragments of lea
ther trimming that floated in the air like tbe
Princess Thistledown. Sometimes it was a rain
bow glory of irridoscent beads irom the hem of
her garments, that dropped along her pathway
in shining profusion.
“ Don’t touch me, Paul,” we would hear her
say to Little Chap, “ can’t you see that I am
dressed?”
Alas: when was she not dreseed—armed and
equipped in that cruel panoply of fashion ?
“He is bo tiresome, ’ sue would say, apolo
getically, when she condescended to notice us.
“ He will worry you to death, if you allow him.
You have no idea what a child he is ! Why, be
actually wanted to join the Salvation Army.”
We all laughed, but his mother did not seem
to think it a matter ot mirth.
“ 1 expect something dreadful will happen to
him !” she said one day, as she shook her laces
and ieatuera into a fashionable flutter.
Foor Little Chap ! We thought the worst had
happened to him m having such a mother, and
yet she was not wicked—only weak and thought
less.
“But evil la wrought by want of thought
Aa well as want of heart."
Sh® believed she had done hor duty in giving
him a good nurse. One day she said :
“ When he ia older 1 intend to make a com
panion of him. Mr. Bevere is so busy ho can
not spend much time with me, so Paul will be
very handy as an escort. But now—children
are such little animals They tire me to
death.”
&o gradually it came about that wo nearly
adopted Little Chap. Ils was hungry for musio
and our youngest sung all his favorite pieces.
It was a constant question with him it there
were any new song®.
A new song made him happy for ft week—
then he wanted another.
When not with ua he rehcarsod his songs to
the traveling public he met in tho halls, to the
bell-boys, the porter, anyone who would listen
to him.
Then somebody g«ve him a grotesque little
i book with flags and military shields on the
| cover. It was filled with the songs of the Sal
i vatiou Army. No money could buy it from
him.
“I cannot imagine where the child gets such
plebeian ideas,” said his mother. “ Why, his
lather is one of the Boston Reveres. lam sure
he doean t take it from him.”
No, he did not. It waa more like the tneek
and lowly Savior of men who onco sojourned on
earth than any Boston autoertt whose ancestral
name ha bore, unless indeed it was that Paul
Revere of revolutionary fame.
Dear Little Chap I We tried to answer all the
impossible questions ho asked us about the end
of the rainbow, and what Heaven was like, and
why Jitrlo, children aver died, and how far it w&s
to the sunset, and it angels came down to earth
and other things that we were ignorant of.
Poor Little Chap, if we laughed at'iHm the blue
eyes filled with tears, and we could only make
our peace by singing him a new song.”
One day we were out until nearly night.
When we returned we missed our usual greet
ing from Little. Chap, and there was no scrawiy
letter or other remembrance tied to the door
knob. Wa waited aa long as we could, and
then with a new song as an excuse, tapped at
his mother’s door. -
The nurse opened it; she was crying.
“ Haven’t yofi heard ? Oh, dear, it’s too
dreadful, and, poor little follow, the doctor says
there isn’t any hope '
There had been an accident, and Little Chap
was hurt But not much—oh, surely he could
not lie there smiling if he was going to dio !
Hia mother was not in the room. The doctor
was giving hor an anesthetic and counting her
pulse in another apartment. They feared the
shock would kill her.
His father held one little hand, and from time
to time, as he bent over him, murmured in ago
nizing tones:
“My boy I my boy !”
Ab, it is true I Blessings brighten as they
take their flight.
“ Dear Little Chap, do you know us?”
“Yes”—the words were faintsing me a
new song.”
A new song I when the tears were bubbling
up into our voices and raining down oar cheeks,
for, oh 1 we saw in his face now that look that
once seen can never be mistaken.
But she whom he loved beat raised her sweet
voice and sung ia clear tones tho old new song:
“ Children of the Heavenly King,
As we journey let us sing.”
And when she finished it. Little Chap was
singing ia the choir of God, joining iu the new,
new song.
THE DI OYS DBEBB.
•‘IT’LL JUST FIT MY GIRL IN
WACO. ”
In a city hotel there is a certain lady boarder
i who is in deep mourning. Mourning the loss
; of her best dress. Poor wo*man ! She attempted
; to play a ;oke upon it drummer, and found the
• commercial man too sharp for her.
It appears that the drummer in question ia a
i jolly, good-natured Virginian, who likes to tell
: stories about his “girls” on the road, and
! never returns from a tr-ip-that he-does not have
; a new one on the string. Being a very popular
I fellow among the ladies of his hotel, his stories
; were repeated to them on more than one occa
; sion. The women tried to shut him up by ring
: ing chestnut bells at first, but that racket
! wouldn’t work. They told him one day that
i there was a certain young lady in tho house
’ who was growing weaker every day, and it was
i feared that if he did not “ let up” ha would talk
: her to death.
“Servo her right,” said tho drummer. “I
■ would, indeed, be a curiosity if I talked a wq«
I man to death.”
The same day, while the drummer was out at
tetiding to his customers, the women of the
h uni got their Imds together tp put u» a job on
After Such talk ft scheme was arranged.
They would make a dummy, dress it up and
place it upon the drummer’s bed. When he re
turned, he would be so startled that the stories
would all be frightened out of him. There was
a great deal of trouble as to whose dress would
be used to primp up the dummy, and it fell to
the very lady who proposed the idea. When
the drummer returned that evening all was in
readiness, and the ladies crowded around tho
key-hole of the door wondering “what he
would do when ho saw tho woman on his bod i”
But the drummer was not of the scary kind.
He lighted his lamp and turning around beheld
the object upon his bed.
“Hello, there, old lady 1” he cried, “ain't
you a little out of your district ?” As ho spoke,
he touched the object and discovered tho hoax.
The truth flashed across his mind.
The dress was of splendid material and every
thing about the dummy was first-class.
“ This is a good catch,” said tho drummer.
“By George, this new rig will just fit my new
girl, in Waco.” And tho drummer quietly
packed tho dress in his trunk and tho next day
loft on a three months’ trip, taking th® dross
along with him.
HUMOR OFTHIFfIOUR.
BY THE DSTROLr FREE PRES 3 FIEND.
“ AS THE TWIG IS BENT.”
“ Why, Nellie,” cried her mamma. “ I don’t
know what I am going to do with you; thia ia
the third time you have disobeyed mo within
an hour I”
“ Well, mamma,” replied little fivo-year-old,
“ I’m so small, you musn’t ’sped too much of
me 1”
BLOOD WILL TELL.
“Fvegot the most money !” ho shouted across
the street, as he held up a nickel.
“ I don’t kecr fur that. My father has boon
arrested.”
“ So’s mine.”
“ But they took mine down in tho patrol
wagon, and yours had to walk.”
NEEDY ONES, ANYWAY.
“ It is a good thing to have a friend in neod,”
said Brass thoughtfully.
“Do you think so ?” inquired his chum. “ I
ought to bo happy, then, for all my friends
are friends in need, judging from tho beg
ging letters I get from thorn.” And ho sighod
deeply.
TOO SAD.
“ Say, got any roasted chestnuts ?” he in
quired of a peanut vender on Griswold street
yesterday.
“ Noa. Roast shestnuts all gona.”
“ Got anv chestnut bells?”
“ Noa. Shestnut bella go ail away. No-moar
ringee de shestnut bella. No moar funny. No
moar jokee.”
A VERBATIM REPORTER.
“ Did you tell your mother I was going to
have a new bonnet at Easter ?” inquired a lady
of a neighbor’s child who was visiting her own
children.
“ Yes, ma’am,” answered the little girl.
“ And what did 'she say ?’*
“ Oh, she said the fools are not all dead /et,”
answered the child innocently.
HE HAD A RECOURSE.
“ Who was that lady who smiled at you just
now?” asked Wigwug of Filtrip, at about halt
past six the other evening.
“It’s my wife, and to see her on tho street at
this hour I may expect eupper to be one hour
late 1”
“ And there’s nothing you can do on such oc
casions ?” asked Wigwug, facetiously.
“Oh, yes • I—can wait I”
CALLED IT A HORSE.
“I’vobeen buying a horse,” he said to the
butcher on tho market—“just bought him half
an hour ago.”
“ Yes.”
“ Is it a cow or a horse which has no teeth in
one of its jaws ?”
“ It’s a eow, of course.”
“ Well, then, what kind of an tvatmal is it
which has no teeth in either jaw? 1 looked his
mouth all over and couldn’t, find one.”
MADE A MISTAKE.
“Eve got ’em at last!” he chuckled, in th®
corridor of the post-office.
“ What—who?”
“ The coal men ! I ordered halt a ton the
other day and they sent me up 1,600 pounds.”
“No !’’
“ Sure’s you live !”
He was unlocking his box aa he spoke, and
he took out a letter which ha opened and
glanced at and turned pale.
“It’s the bill for the half ton, eh ?”
“ Alas ’ no ! I take it all back ! He aap h®
made a mistake and sent me a ton !”
A TALE OF OUR BOARDING-HOUSE.
One of Detroit’s popular legal wags is a bache
lor. For several years ho has lived in on®
boarding-house. Not being superior to the or
dinary weaknesses of humanity he baa some
times been known to yield to the faultfinding
temptation when the layout was not quite to his
fastidious liking.
On one of these occasions tho landlord, who is
himselt somewhat prone to bluntaoss, broke
out:
“See here, Mr. 1.-egaloap, I’ve had enough of
your kicking. If you don’t like my table why
don’t you go away ?”
“ Alas, colonel, ’ was th® lugubrious reply,
“I'm too weak to get away—been hers- too
long.”
THE OTHER SIDE.
“Young man i” h» said, as hs foliowd him
out on the steps las. evening, “ I want to have a
talk, with you. You Lave been spatiiag. tuy
daughter ?’’
“ Yes, sir.”
“You think you love her ?”
“ I know I do.”
“ And you would fain bear her off tso som»
woodbine cottage ?”
“That is w'uat I would lainest, sir.”
“ Ah—um ! What’s your salary ?”
“Soven dollars a week, sir.”
“Jess so—take her. I was afraid you eowldn’t
support us all on your wages, but it’s all right.
Hurry up things and get into tho family ia time
to pay the next month’s rent. You don’t know
what a relief it will bo to us old folks to- hava
some one to support us.”
SAVED HIS LIFE.
“Well, what have you baen doing new?” he
queried ol a prominent citizen, who came out of
a clothing-store rubbing hia hands.
“ Rewarding a good action, str. That boy
yon see over there saved my life this morning,
and I’ve just had him measured for a suit ot
clothes.”
“Saved yonrlife? How?”
“ Well, I’ was in the alley behind our factory,
and I noticed that some of the wires were
down. 1 started to take hold of an electric
light wire, to pull it around out of the way, when
this bey yelled to me. in my absent-minded
ness I would have gripped it and been killed by
the ehock.”
“ Y-e-s.”
“ What do you mean?”
“That happens to be on our line, too, yon
know, and the circuit is always shut off at day
light. There was nq-current in the wire.”
He passed on with this, arid, tbq other looked
after him for a long time, and then scowled to
himself.
“ Just mv durned luek I However, I’ll make
the boy believe it, or givejhim an old-fashioned
licking I”
, MYSTERY.
“That was a curious case in Chicago in
1861,” said a Detroit detective the other day. a*
reminiscences of crime were being called up.
“ What was it
“ Some remains were found in an ash-barrel
in a vacant lot. There was a great chance for
real detective work there, as there was not the
slightest clew to start on.”
“ Ths police began to inquire who was miss
ing, ot course
“ Oh, yes.”
“And different parties cams to see if they
could identify the remains ?”
“ Yes. I banpened to be in Chicago at the
lime, and I went to see them myself. It was
a sad sight.”
“ Was ilia body jammed into the barrel ?”
“Yes, crowded right in, and some ashes cov
ered on top.”
“Male or female?”
“ Male.”
“ Wasn’t the barrel traced to any depot or
trackman ?”
“ No, it was traced first to a colored man
who removed garbage, and then to an aristo
cratie reaidonee on the North Side.”
“ Any arrests made?”
f-No. Tho case was suddenly dropped as
soon as tho remains were identified by a rich
lady.”
“ Ah-ha! she bought'em off!”
“Oh, no. The detectives of Chicago were
incorruptible at that time. Money couldn't
buy ’em.”
“ Theo why did they drop the ease
"Because the lady identified toe remains.”
Here there was a long period ot silence, dur
ing which one could kava heard a hair fall to
the ground. Then the detective sighed heavily
and continued:
“ They wave the remains ot her pet dog I”
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