New York dispatch. [volume], July 17, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
“Oh, no, no, Juliet! Hard, atern, fieroe
looking, with flashing black eyes that make one ?
quail, and a will as inflexible as father’s. They
are not alike in person, but in character they i
might bo father and son, or—or twin brothers; 1
he’s too old to be father a son.”
“ Why—how old?”
“Nearer lorty than thirty, I should say.
Such a contrast to—Randal,” finishes Edith,
mournfully, with a regretful glance at the ring ,
on her finger. ;
“ And is he sorry because you don’t like him, ,
Edith ?”
“ No, not a bit. He is as cool and uncon- (
oerned as it I were a block of wood. He doesn’t ‘
care eo long as he gets Compton Cheney.” •
“But he would like you to ride and walk
With him, you say?” i
“ A mere matter of form, my dear. He doesn’t ,
want me to go; he would far rather ride with ,
father, or go shooting—or anything else, in
fact. He does not afiect girls; he thinks ladies’
society all a bore.” .
“But isn’t he—isn’t he in love with you, .
then?” ,
“ Not he; he doesn’t know how to be in love— ,
it isn’t in him, and I should only hate him the
more if it were.” ,
•‘ Oh, then it is a good thing he is not.”
“ It isn t a good thing that I have to marry
him, Juliet.” *
“ You needn’t if you don’t want to do so.” (
“ How am I to help myself ?”
“ How are you to help yourself ?” exclaims ,
Juliet, loftily. “ Why, say you won’t, o; eourse. J
No one should force me into marrying a man I •
hated. No one can force you, Edith, if you are
firm in vour refusal.” .
“ But’l can’t be firm,” answers the other, half {
erying. "1 never could be, Juliet. Father >
always says I am like my mother in that, if in
nothing else. And poor Randal ” .
She begins to cry in earnest when she reaches
this point. ,
“But if I stand by you, Edith, and help ,
Jon ”
“You can’t help mo, Juliet. When father f
storms at me, and Sir Evelyn frowns, and .
looks as black as a thunder-cloud, my cour- ■
ago all oozes out at my finger-ends, as the say- J
ing is.”
“ Why, Edith,” says the other, unable to keep ,
from laughing, “it is just like a story of the old ;
times, a stern father and a determined lover f
uniting their two wills to overcome the feeble
resistance of a defenseless maiden.”
“it’s all very well to langh, Juliet; but, if ,
you wore in my place, you wouldn’t be quite so ,
merry over it.”
“No; I should go straight up to the pair o’ ,
them, and tell thorn I couldn’t and shouldn’t ,
and wouldn’t marry your Sir Evelyn—not if >
they starved and beat me and kept me shut up
in prison ally my life.”
“ I believe father would do that—shut me up, !:
X mean.” >
“ Well, let him, then. He would soon get
tired when he found you would not yield.”
“But 1 tell you I should yield—l should have .
to do so; I couldn’t help myself,” answers
Edith, dolefully. “ And poor Bandal ” j
Hora she again subsides into fret ul weeping.
'• Why doesn’t Randal Blakey come forward
(Ind ask uncle for you, Edith ?”
“ Because I won’t let him. It would be of no .
Use. and father would behave worse than ever. |
How can you think of such a thing, Juliet? „
You know father as well as I do.”
“ It never struck me that he was such a terri
ble tyrant." >,
“No; because you are his niece—not his
daughter.” ,
“Shall I speak to him for yon, Edith ? lam
not afraid of him or his nephew-or whatever a
ho is—cither.” tl
“Oh, no, no, Juliet I Don’t-there’s a dear 1 c
If ho knew what I wanted you home for he _
■would just send you straight back to Oak
lands." n
“ Then what is it you want me here for ? ’ g
Juliet asks this question a little hesitatingly, a
looking straight into her cousin’s face with her _
beautiful, .'earless blue eyes.
“ Why, to talk to you—l always tell you every- g
thing, you know—and to see it you can’t find
some way out of all this,” 0
“But you say yourself, Edith, that I cannot g
help you—that you must ao as they wish.” ' t
“Bull can’t—l can’t! Ob, Juliet, you must j,
do something—you must think ot something! t
Oh, lam the most miserable girl in the world fl
to-night, I do believe !”
She drops back into the easy-chair amid a „
Storm ot tears. Her cousin kneels beside her. I 8
“Dear Edith, haven't I always been your a
'chum,’ as the boys say ? Didn’t I always take q
your part 1 And I’m not going to desert you a
now. You shan’t be married to that man if Ju- a
liet St. John can prevent it.” 0
“We shall have the usual houseful at Christ- t
mas, I suppose,” goes on Edith, dispir.tedly. i 8
■“ I shall look to you for help, Juliet, in enter- i
taining them all. I shan’t be equal to anything >
by myself—and this miserable affair coming oft’ 8
in March.” ,
“ In March ?” q
“ Yes; they have actually fixed the date with- r
but consulting me. Isn’t it dreadful ?”
The two girls sit in silence for some time, -
Edith leaning back in her chair, Juliet on the t
floor beside her, with one hand holding her 8
cousin’s and her blue eyes gazing at the fire, >.
not sadly or absently, but with earnest thought
in their depths—while the room grows darker
and the firelight tuckers upon the carpet and ®
furniture. J
“ I have an idea,” says Juliet at last, raising 1
her face to her cousin’s; “ but it seems such a
mad scheme. Still, it would be fun, though,” . *
She adds, with a daring little laugh. | 1
“1 don’t care how mad it is, Juliet, if it will I ‘
servo my purpose; and, as to the fun, you must ,
be a clever girl to got any out of sucU a wretch- 1
ed state of things.” I
“ But it would be great, glorious fun,” re- I 1
joins Juliet, with sparkling eye . “I never I ’
could have thought of such a thing mysell; I
saw It acted once at a London theatre. Oh, it ; 1
would be splendid, Edie, if we could only man- '
age it I”
“ What is it ? Make haste and tell me.”
“ Edith, wouldn’t you like to trick this man
Who is in such a hurry to marry you against 1
your will? Wouldn’t you like to lead him as 1
far as possible—and then give him the slip ?” '
“ Of course I should.”
“So did that girl in the play. Let me tell
you all about it. ’
A long whispered conversation follows- so ■
long that at last Juliet springs to her feet with
an exclamation of astonishment as the maid’s
step is heard approaching, and the little clock
on the mantel-shelf chimes out the half hour in
silvery tones.
“ Wo shall be late for dinner, Edith, if yon
don’t make haste. Well—you agree to what I
have proposed ?”
“ Father will be dreadful angry when he finds
It out; and, as for Sir Evelyn, I dare not think
of h m."
“I will take it all upon myself. You will be
beyond his anger, you know.”
“And you had better keep out of his way as
Well, Juliet. Really, between them both, I
don’t know whatever will become of you. Aren’t
you afraid?”
“Oh, no,” laughs Juliet, merrily. “It will
only be a grand joke for me—l shall be let off
with a whole skin after they have expended all
their wrath upon my head; and you will be
happy, dear.”
“It is very good of you to risk so much for
tno,” returns the other, with a touch of com
punction. “ I don’t know ”
“Here is Drescott. My dear, we will con
sider the thing settled.”
CHAPTER 11.
S’ HE-LOOKS LIKE A KNIGHT OF THE MIDDLE AGES”
Juliet St. John is in high spirits as she dresses
for dinner that evening. All her girlish vexa
tions, real and imaginary, are forgotten in this
plot of hors, concocted halt in sympathy with
her cousin’s helpless distress, half in pure love
of fun and frolic. The two cousins have to
hurry down at once, for the second bell rings
as Juliet pauses at Edith's door to see if she is
ready. Old Colonel St. John is a most punc
tual man, and expects everybody else to be as
precise in his or her habits as he is himself.
He glances admiringly at his niece as she sits
by herself at one side of the table, and then he ;
looks to the head, where his daughter presides,
as fair and calm as though such things as tears
were unknown to her.
Juliet St. John is the orphan daughter of
Colonel St. John’s second daughter, who died
three months after his wife, leaving their little
daughter, then a mere child, in charge of hie
brother Philip, who has ever since been the
careful guardian of her and of her little prop
erty. which is just sufficient to keep her in com
fort should she not marry.
Undoubtedly, as far as perfect beauty goes,
Edith carries off the palm. Her face might
have served Phidias lor a model; her large
blue eyes are half-vailed by snow-white lids,
and her shining hair crowns with its golden
glory her small, graceful head. But the smile
in Juliet’s fearless eyes, the witchery of the
dimples which play about her' pretty mouth, the
audacity in the decided profile and chin, have
long since won the heart of the stern old man,
and some of the St. Johns’ many relatives say
that Philip's niece comes in for a larger share
of his affection than Philip’s daughter. Cer
tainly Juliet’s high spirits and almost boyish
•• pluck ” are far more to his taste than Edith’s
weakness and languor.
They are not very long over dinner. The
Colonel is not one to linger unnecessarily over
anything, and the girls are too full of their new
scheme to have much appetite. When they
leave him to his wine, instead of returning to
the drawing-room as usual, to sing over duets
together or to gossip by the fire, they go
straight up to the long, dim gallery, where the
pictured faces of bygone Lovelaces look down
upon them from the walls, as if wondering nt
the sight ol these modern intruders.
“ There—that’s the image of Sir Evelyn I ove
lace,” says Edith, pausing before a portrait, and
holding a lamp close up to it.
Juliet looks up, and sees the bold, dark face
Of a man of thirty-five or thereabout, clad in
shining armor, smd grasping his sword in
one powerful mailed hand, while the other rests
upon bis hip. She gazes in silence for eome
minutes, taking in al) the attributes of the
proud, inflexible face, the haughty Homan pro
file, the dauntless eyes, the stern brow—the
very pose of the head seeming to invite danger
and to doty it.
“You did not tell me he was handsome,
Edith,” she says at last.
“No ; because I don’t think ho is. You don’t
call that nasty, cross-looking man handsome, I
hope, Juliet
“I think he is. His features are—in their
dtyle—»» poriwt as
“ Well, if that is yonr taste, I don’t wonde
that Aubrey has no chance,” laughs Edith, who
is in very good spirits to-night.
Juliet returns to the study of the portrait, in
wardly comparing her cousin Aubrey's fair
face and sprouting whiskers with this picture
of manhood in the full pride of strength and
beauty.
“Il your cousin is really like this portrait, he
must be a handsome man," she says again.
“ It is exactly lias him ; but I can't think how
you can admire it. Jnst think of Randal’s beau
tiful eyes and dear little mustache, and then
look at that I” exclaims Edith. “ Why, Randal i
is worth ten of him. But you seem to have
taken a fancy to the picture, Juliet. Suppose
you were to fall in love with Sir Evelyn; it 1
would make matters all straight then.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” answers Juliet, laughing, I
“for he wouldn’t fall in love with me. But I
was not thinking about falling in love at all,
Edie; I was just imagining how terribly angry
such a man as that would be.”
Her eyes are still fixed upon the portrait,
and, seeing the efloot that it is taking upon her
fearless spirit, Edith draws her away from it, 1
walking down the gallery wilh one arm round •
Juliet’s waist.
“Of course the real Sir Evelyn doesn't look
so terrible in ordinary modern dress, ’ she says 1
coaxingly. “It is that suit ot armor which
gives the portrait such a fierce appearance. 1
You won’t give up our plan, Juliet? It is so
capital-and so clever of you to think of it! ;
Indeed, I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I thought 1
you could come to grief over it.”
“ 1 will do it, F.ditb,” answers the girl, sud- '
denly imprinting a kiss upon the other’s cheek.
The next morning the two girls are up stairs
together, looking over some old relics of their '
childhood, when a clatter of horse's hoofs is '
heard below. 1
“There he is!” says Edith, peeping out of I
the window.
And Juliet, standing beside her and looking
down upon the avenue of beech-trees that leads
up to the house, sees a man approaching—a
man whose face is the exact counterpart ot the
face in the picture-gallery—mounted upon a
powerful and spirited black horse, which
prances and chafes under the strong restrain- •
ing hand. .
“He looks like a knight of the middle ages,” 1
she says, almost fancying that she can see him
in that same suit of armor, with a plume of
feathers waving from his helmet, the same j
strong sword grasped in his right hand and a '
shield in his left, going forth to do battle.
“The Black Knight himself!” she continues, 1
half-unconsciously. ’
“The Black Knight!” repeats Edith, laugh
ing. “Do you mean Richard Occur de Lion, ‘
Julie? He was fair, you remember, with yel- J
low curling hair, and—well, your knight has 1
curly hair, io bo sure, but as to complexion, he J
might be a Red Indian. Let us stay here 1
until he has gone—unless, indeed, he stops to
luncheon.” ]
But in a very few minutes a servant comes
with a curt message from the colonel, desiring '
their presence down stairs.
“ On, Edith, I wish we had not to go! ’ says 1
Juliet, directly they are alone again.
“Sodo 1, but I don’t mind so much as I used 1
to - now.”’
“ I dread meeting him !” continues Juliet, ’
shivering. *
“ Come, Julie -you are not going to turn 1
coward? Come—it isn’t as if you bad to go
alone. We shall be together.”
And Edith draws the unwilling girl to the 1
head of the staircase.
“ No: 1 will not be a coward,” she says at last 1
resolutely, and then descends the stairs rapidly. ‘
They enter the dining-room together, and, *
after a short greeting between Edith and the
tall stalwart man who stands near the door,
Colonel St. John introduces him to his pet 3
niece. <
“ Juliet, this ts Sir Evelyn Lovelace, a kins- 1
man and near neighbor ol ours. My niece. Miss
St. John, Lovelace, who makes her home with f
us, but who was absent on a visit to her uncle 1
when you returned toTenham.”
Juliet makes a profound curtsey, he bows s
stiffly, and surveys her with a brief cold scru- I
tiny, turning away almost immediately. The i
ordeal is over, and she breathes a sigh ot relief, i
She is allowed to stand aside from the group 1
then, and she does so, watching them with great f
interest while he makes a few commonplace re- I
marks to Edith, which she, alter a glance at her 1
father's stern face, answers moat civilly.
“ What a pity that Edith should turn from so i
goodly a suitor 1” thinks Juliet. For one minute j
she takes her uncle’s part in blaming Edith as an t
unreasonable girl who has no mind of her own, I
but the next—when she notes the flashing eye i
and inflexible mouth, and hears the stern tones <
ot his voice—her heart soitens toward her
cousin, while she makes up her mind afresh i
that, if it lies in her power to prevent it, Edith 1
i shall not bo sacrificed to this man. t
i “ft would be the death of her,” she muses— ,
“so weak and delicate as she is; and lam much i
stronger; I can bear a groat deal—almost any
thing, I expect -and, after all, Vexing him won’t <
be half ao bad as vexing Uncle Phil, who loves
me. an 1 has boon my best friend ever since my ]
father and mother died. Oh, I don’t like that i
part ot it at all —I never thought of that when 11
planned it I But it must be done; and perhaps
some day uncle will forgive me, when he sees '
how happy she is with Bandal.”
A week or two later Colonel St. John is con- 1
siderably startled by a request from young !
Bandal Blakey for the honor of Miss St. John s
hand ia marriage. 1
“ You mean my niece, I suppose ?” says the
I old soldier, gruffly, well assured in his own 1
[ mind that it ia his daughter who is the object 1
of the s’ouug man’s affections.
To his utter astonishment young Blakey
i simply bows in answer.
! “You mean Mbs Juliet St. John? Well,
j’m May I ask if you have spoken to her,
Captain Blakey ?”
i “ She is perfectly aware that lam addressing
| you on this subject, sir, and has signified her
I willingness, subject to your approval. ’
“ The dickens she has !”—with a keen, dis
satisfied glance at the young man’s face.
“ Well, 1 know that your family is unimpeacha
ble, and that your prospects are fairly satisfac
tory ; but—in fact—l was scarcely prepared tor
this. I would prefer to consult with my niece
before giving you an answer.”
“ But, sir, she favors my suit—she does, in-
I deed, it I may say so much,” pleads the young
I fellow, in a voice that sounds wonderfully ear
i nest and truthful in the colonel’s ears ; but he
answers sternly, in his vexation :
“ I don’t know that you may, sir. Such a
very young man like yourself should be slow
to presume on a lady’s hasty preference. I re
peat my answer—l will speak to my niece first,
and let you know the result.”
“It all depends upon you now, Juliet,” says
Edith, a few hours later. “ Father doos not
care about Randal—that is evident—though he
can find nothing against him. I thought he
would object to our marriage merely because
he bad arranged another match for me ; but he
is nearly as displeased as he would have been
if Randal bad asked for me, instead ot for you.
, You must cry and make a great fuss and say
you can’t live without him.”
“ I am not going to tell Any fibs,” replies
■ Juliet, raising her head proudly, as she leaves
the room to go to the library in obedience to
her uncle’s summons.
Half an hour afterward, Juliet .quietly re
enters the room, closes the door after her, and
kneels down at her cousin’s side.
“You see, I am alive, Edith,” she says ; but
she does not smile as she speaks.
“Well, what did he say?” inquires Edith,
impatient to hear the story.
“He said: ‘Juliet, I have had that young
fool of a Blakey dancing round here after you.’
Encouraging, wasn’t it?”
1 “ And what did you say ?” asks Edith, breath-
lessly.
i “Oh, I answered meekly: ‘Have you,
■ uncle?’ and stood with my arms folded. I
> could not look at him, Edith—l could not.”
I “ Well ?”
I “And he went on : ‘You don’t mean to tell
> me you want to throw yourself away on that
t baby faced boy ?’ ’
i “ What a shame! With that lovely mustache,
■ too. Well?”-
> “1 answered, ■ Not if it will displease you,
■ uncle,’ Be looked very sharply at me, and
* said, ‘What’s in the wind now, Juliet? You’re
> | not generally so submissive.’ At that my na-
> live impudence came to my aid, and I answered
8 boldly, ‘ Would you like it better if I told vou
that 1 meant to throw myself away upon him.
f Uncle Phil, whether it pleased you or not ?’ ”
i “Oh, Juliet!”
3 “ He laughed at that, though he was vexed—
s I could see it in hie eyes. • I would, if that is
3 what you really intend to do,' he replied. I
■ told him—and I meant it, Edith-that I would
■ stay with him all my life, if he wished it. He
looked better pleased at that, but asked me
> rather sarcastically if he were to construe it
4 into an announcement that if he did not let me
8 marry Captain Blakey I would live and die an
> old maid, i construe it into whatever best
3 pleases you, I ncle Phil,’ and went up and
e kissed him, because I felt so sorry, and—and—
ell had never loved him so much as just then,
e when he was misunderstanding me so. He
e kissed me back again, and told me I should
'• marry whomsoever I liked, as long as he was a
J decent fellow, and there was certainly nothing
® to object to in Bandal Blakey. But the last
■ words he said were, ‘ It’s a puzzle to me how
II ever the fellow has got round you.’ Heis vexed,
e Edith—very much vexed !”
“ Never mind, dear; it won’t be for long,” re
e turns the other consolingly, trying to raise her
r her cousin’s dejected spirits. “ You have a
v wonderful way with father, Julie; I am sure I
y ought to be jealous, but I amnot ’’—with alight
b kiss upon the girl’s thoughtful brow.
e “ One th ng I would have you think of,” con
o tinnes Juliet, after a long silence—“ if uncle is
e so angry and disappointed at the very idea of
ii my marriage with Bandal, how much more so
it will he be when he discovers the truth! I
don’t ask you to marry Sir Evelyn, Edith, for 1
>- do not believe he could ever make you or any
d girl happy hut couldn’t von give up' Bandal to
please uncle ?. There are others who ”
e But she is interrupted by a flood of reproach
n iul tears.
a “I didn't know you could be so unkind. Ju
is liet,” sobs her cousin. “You might as well ask
,e me to give up my life at once ! Randal is every
o thing in the world to me. 1 could not live with
>- out him, or he without me. Oh, you are cruel
io —cruel! And I thought you were my friend !”
>r “Dear Edith,” protests Juliet, “indeed 1
didn’t mean to distress you so. I did not think
s, you would mind him so much. Indeed, dear,
I am very sorry.”
’t It is some time before she can soothe her
I cousin’s distress, and Edith’s sobs and tears are
only abated upon a solemn promise never again
ir to hint at snoh a possibility.
“ You see, you don’t Saovr what it is to love,
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 17, 1887.
Juliet,” she says presently, with plaintive sweet
ness.
“It’s a good thing I don’t,” Juliet answers
bluntly, “or 1 could not bring myself to do this
thing.”
“ I don’t sea why,” says her cousin, placidly.
“Y’ou could marry him afterward whoever ho
was—when it was all settled and done with.”
“I don’t know—l don’t think I could say
those words it 1 really cared for any one. lam
afraid—do you really think it will be wicked to
eay them, Edith?”
“No, of course not,” is the reassuring an
swer. “It is the merest form. And beside,
you need not say half of them—or a quarter.
You can mumble it all over—nobody will oare
how you say it.”
But Juliet’s heart is heavy that night, and for
many nights after,
CHAPTER HI.
“ the source of joy and wok.”
The time passes on—Christmas is drawing
near, and Juliet’s engagement to Captain
Blakey is a well-known fact in all tho various
branches ol the St. John family.
“Aubrey St. John is coming down for Christ
mas,” says the colonel, entering the drawing
room one morning toward the middle of De
cember.
He looks at Juliet with a twinkle in his eye,
and a blush suffices the pretty face, which has
lost some of its roses lately. Juliet feels that
she, and rot Edith, is expected to reply, and
recovering berself with an effort, she answers.
“ I did not know you had asked him, uncle.”
“ Didn’t you ? I have asked every member
of our family, I think, for Christmas week; but
they are not all coming—l did not expect it—
seme have to stay at home to entertain. I am
glad Aubrey is coming, though—very glad. Is
that twelve o’clock ’’’—with a glance at tho mar
ble timepiece, which is chiming out the hour.
“ Then I must be off. 1 have an appointment ;
with I oveiace at twelve.”
“ I believe he wants Aubrey down hero to try
to divert your affections from Randal,” laughs
Edith when he has lott the room. “He knows
Aubrey is awfully in love with you.”
“1 am very sorry he is coming,” returns Ju
liet gravely.
“ Oh, I think it will be fun I”
“ Dcn’t say that, Edith I I don’t want to mar
ry him, but I should be sorry to hurt his feel
ings nnneoesssarily. I wish uncle Phil had ta
ken me out instead of going off with Sir Eve
lyn, ” she continues, gazing out at the snow-cov- '
ered landscape.
“ Why, it isn’t fit to go anywhere, Juliet. The
snow is two leet deep in many places, they say.
But it amuses me to see father going round the '
place with Sir Evelyn, planning alterations and
making schemes for the inture which will never
bo carried out.”
“Does it?” answers the other girl wearily,
leaning her head against the window-frame.
“ Oh, I wish it were all over ! I wish it were ,
this time next year I” ,
“Juliet, you haven’t been like yourself lately;
and really it is not my fault; it was you who ,
thought of it—l should never have dreamed ot ,
such a thing but for you.” ,
“I know, dear. I’m only a little low-spirited. ,
It will soon go off—especially when we have got
a houseful of people, and all the Chrismas fun j
is going on.” ,
And it is as she says. As the visitors as- ,
semble at Compton Cheney, her old gayety bo- ,
gins to reassert Itself—her eyes brighten, the
color comes back to her cheeks, and she throws
herself entirely into the enjoyment o! the pres- ,
ent, putting behind all doubts and disagreeable
thoughts of the future.
A- * * * * # *
“Juliet, I wouldn’t say a word if I thought i
you oared ior him, but 1 teal sure you don’t. I i
don’t believe you like him even so much as you i
like me.”
“ Why should you think that?” inquires the
girl, with a pout, trying to disengage her hands i
from the young man’s earnest clasp.
Juliet and Aubrey St. John are standing i
alone in the silent snowy country lane, the bare i
black boughs above their heads, the white bills i
rising around them, while, still higher, the :
winter sky darkens in the early twilight. He <
looks down at her very gravely and sadly—a 1
fair-headed, grav-eyed young fellow in a knick- i
boclter suit, with two pairs of skates slung over
his shoulder -
“Why should I think it ?” he asks, with liis
wistful eyes fixed upon her face. “ I cannot tell
you that, for I scarcely know myself. I don’t
mean to say you act as though you do not care
for him, but Well, look at Burnet St. John
and Cecily. No one could doubt their love for
one another. ’.
“ Oh, you mean because we don’t go and sit
in quiet window-seats to count the stars,” she
laughs, “ nor prefer looking over scrap-books
together to a good round game! I can’t help it,
Aubrey; I’m not made of that sort of stuff, and
it does not seem that he is either, does it ?”
“ You would both feel very differently if you
cared for each other.”
“ 1 think it is very uncomplimentary on your
part to doubt hie love for me,” she retorts, turn
ing away her head to bide the smile upon her
lips.
“ Juliet, I cannot understand you women.
The last time I was here—not lour months back
—he was Edith’s devoted slave, and you and he
never so much as looked at each other. Now I
find him engaged to be married to you, and
Edith handed over to Lovelace, who is a thou
sand times too good for her.”
“Too good for her! That dreadful man!”
exclaims Juliet, opening her eyes wide in her
astonishment.
“I can’t see what there is dreadful about
him. He’s the best-looking fellow I ever set
eyes upon, and as brave as a lion. I can tell
you, whether yon know it or not, the girls here
think a great deal of him.”
“ But he never thinks about them at all,” she
says, laughing.
“No; I suppose that’s why they admire him
so much. I wish I felt like that, Julie; I wish I
didn’t care a button about one girl that I know
—if that would bring her to care lor me. I
should not be long in returning her affection.”
“Well,” she answers demurely, “Sir Evelyn
does not care at all about me, but I am by no
means dying of love for him—perfect though
you seem to think him.”
••“I think heis a man and a gentleman, Juliet
—and that is saying a good deal. It you had
chosen him 1 might have been sorry lor my
own sake, but I should have been glad for
yours.”
“ Why, Aubrey,’’ she cries, laughing and
shuddering at the same time—“ that dreadful,
oold, stern man ! Why, I don’t like him a bit
much less want to marry him ! And he doesn’t
approve of me at aii. He came on to the ter
race the other day, and found me snowballing
with Howard and’ Jeff and Burnet St. John; I
suppose he thought me a tomboy, or else that I
was flirting with Burnet—any way, he looked
very much disgusted, and walked off as stiffly
as possible. I suppose he would think I was
flirting with you if he saw us now.”
At that moment Sir Evelyn Lovelace himself
comes round the turn ot the iane, his approach
ing footsteps rendered noiseless by the snow,
and he stalks by them with a curt salutation.
“ ‘Speak of an angel,’ ” commences Aubrey,
with a laugh, when Sir Evelyn is fairly beyond
hearing.
“ Angel, indeed !” she retorts. “He will be
more angelic than ever alter this. Of course he
has heard every word.”
“ Well, it doesn’t matter much, if you really
don’t pull well together.”
“No,” she says, looking forward to a certain
event which is to take place in March, and
thinking that it is just as well Sir Evelvn should
know that she has no good opinion of him.
“But to return to our subject,” continues
Aubrey. “Jnliet, if you can look me straight
in the face and tell mo you care for Randal
Blakey, I will give you my word never to trou
ble you again.”
“ Aubrey, what right have you to ask such a
question ? If Randal is satisfied, it is no—
She pauses - unwilling to wound him fur
ther.
“It is no business ol mine, you were going
to say. But I think it is—a little, Julia. I love
you very dearly, and you are mv cousih; we
have always been friends since we were quite
little. I don’t like to see my dearest friend and
favorite cousin throwing herself away upon an
i empty-headed boy who isn’t worthy to tie her
shoelace.”
“Then youthink you are ?” she questions
mischievously.
“ 1 think I am more worthy than he,” he
maintains stoutly; “ and I know that I love you
better.”
She is silent, looking absently down the lane
after Sir Evelyn Lovelace’s retreating figure.
Presently she says:
“ What I have begun I mean to go through
with to the end. It cannot be given up-do you
I understand? There, don t say another word,
I or I shall cry, and then Uncle Phil will want to
i know, before a roomful of people, what has
j made my eyes so red.”
. j She finishes with an attempt at a laugh that
■ is almost a sob, and Aubrey draws her arm
j within bis own with a sudden instinct of pro
j tecting her Irom he knows not what.
! “Come, dear, we’ll go home, and I won’t
‘ 1 bother you any more,” he says sadly,
“Aubrey,’ she says, as they near the house,
■ i “ you will be asked to the—the wedding, in
’ March, of course.”
“Yes; but I think I shall stay away, if yon
do not mind.”
“I was just going to ask you not to come. I
, —I should feel much more comfortable it yon
, were not there, at least, I think ” She
pauses, in some distress.
t “I understand, perfectly, dear,” he answers
quietly. “ You would not feel at ease knowing
there was another there who loved you; and I—
I could not bear to see it. No, Julie, I shall not
> I trouble you on that day—nor on any other. I
, I hope I am not going to weary you with my un
[ lucky love, dear; but, if you will Jet me. I will
[ I be your true friend all my life.”
. i “ Dear Aubrey, how good you are ! You shall
> ' be my best and truest friend; and in the time to
come, when I may need true friendship sorely,
. ■ 1 shall look to you.”
* * * » »
Boxing Day is given up entirely to the chil
t dren. Most ot the visitors staying at Compton
- take part in amusing, the youngsters, and in the
- course of the evening, much to Juliet’s disgust,
1 some one proposes a game of forfeits. Hoping
’ however to escape by distributing the forfeits
1 herself, she sits down in a corner, with her
i oousin Cecily’s face hidden on her knees. Cecily
, is a bright girl, clever at amusing children, and
much laughter is excited by the odd things they
r are compelled to do and say through her
a agency. At last she pronounces a very com
i momplace sentence.
“‘Bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest,
i, ami kiss the one you love best,’ ” she ones, and
Juliet jingles a bunch of small brightkeys above
her head.
“Whoso is this?” she asks merrily, never
dreaming of the real owner.
“Sir Evelyn’s I” roar out a sumber of small
boys.
“ What have you there of mine ?” asks Love
lace, coming forward on hearing hrs name
called.
“They tell me this is yours," she says, hand
ing tlio bunch of keys to him; “ but I under
stood you were not playing.”
“ But be must do it 1” the children ory.
“Must do it!” he repeats, looking round up
on the laughing childish faces with a smile on
his own grave dark face. “ Well, 1 suppose I
am at your mercy. The keys are mine, Miss St.
John. Whit task has been set me to perform ?”
Every one in the room is looking at him as ho
stands beiore her, tall and stately in his evening
dress—the elder ones in some amusement at
tho sight of the stern grave man forced into such
child’s plsy, tho children all in high glee at hav
ing caught him against his will. Juliet repeats
to him the words ol tho forfeit as shortly as
possible.
“‘Bow to tho wittiest, kneel to the pret
tiest,’ ”he repeats. “ Well, that is not difficult,
so far.”
And, to Juliet's utter astonishmcnt.be bows
low beiore her, and then, crossing the room to
Edith, drops upon one kneee at her feet.
There is a low, irrepressible murmur of ap
proval; and, coming back to the children, he
stands again near Juliet.
“ Whatie the last,” he asks—“kiss the one I
love best, I believe? ’
“ Yes,” she says quietly.
“Kies Ju,” a small boy urges. “She's the
nicest of all, and I’m sure you love her the
best—l do.”
Sir Evelyn looks at Juliet for a moment, then
turns upon his heel, and is going back to the
group at the other end ot tiio long drawing
room, when tho urchin recalls him by shout
ing :
“You haven't finished, Sir Evelyn. You
haven't kissed tho one you love best.”
“Nover mind, Sid; let him alone,” Juliet
says to the child, in a low voice.
But Lovelace has already retraced his steps, i
“ Ob, I forgot," he says, looking rather
vexed. “Well, which is your sister, Sidney ?
I choose her—for your obstinacy,” he mutters. '
“My sister? That’s Cecily. But’—hastily, :
in fear of a private sisterly scolding, as that
young lady shakes a warning finger—“it I were 1
you, I d choose Ada ; she’s a very pretty little I
girl—aud my sweetheart.” I
Amid the laughter caused by this speech, '
Lovelace stoops and brushes with his black
mustache the cheek of the small, white-frocked I
child pointed out to him, and then recrosses
tho room with grave and unmoved dignity. t
“ What a bear!” whispers Edith to Randal I
Blakey, behind her fan.
But the rest of the g rls like him all the bet- i
ter for his general indifference to women’s
charms, and for the haughty inflexibility which I
arousea their fear as well as their admiration, i
Between ten and eleven the children are sent i
off—some to their neighboring homes, the rest i
to bed, and then their elders are at liberty to <
amuse themselves in their own way. Mr. How- I
ard St. John—Aubrey’s father—begs his niece i
Edith to give them a song, but she excuses her- i
self, pleading a bad cold. Juliet, not being
troubled with self-consciousness, is very ready 1
to comply when she is asked, aud her clear, >
ringing voice gives full effect to “Cherry Ripo.” ’
On Aubrey’s left sits little Lucy Burnet, the I
eldest daughter of Colonel St. John’s only 1
sister, who looks up to her tall cousin Aubrey I
with all the lerveut adoration ot seventeen, aud i
who would give her pretty little ears for one ot I
the longing glances which he bestows so lav- i
iahly upon Juliet. Perhaps it is just as well t
that kind-hearted Aubrey is utterly unaware i
of Lucy’s silent worship, or, in his cousinly
warmth and pity for the little thing, he might— i
with tho best of intentions—give her good '
cause to break her heart about him.
Then Randal Blakey gives them “La donna !
e mobile," and very well he sings it; the soft
Italian bacarollo is admirably suited to his i
sweet voice, and his sentimental blue eyes are 1
a good aid to the general effect. Alter that
comes Burnet St. John, with his well trained
baritone voice. They hear every word ot tho
song, in his deep, manly tones :
“ There’s a power whose sway
Angel souls adore.
And the lost obey,
Weeping evermore.
Doubtful mortals prise
Smiles from it above;
Bliss that never dies;
Such thy power, 0 Love t
“ Source of joy and woo.
Eoiler of stern hate;
Lord of high and low.
Woman ouils thee Fate,
Firceneas owns thy spell.
Vulture thou, aud dove;
Language cannot tell
Half thy power, O Love t”
His thoughts are all for Cecily as he sings it,
and his half smiling eyes frequently turn in her
direction, but Juliet looks involuntarily at
Lovelace, standing, dark and atern, by Edith's
chair.
“‘Fierceness owns thy spell,’” she repeats
to herself.
Dare she balk the “vulture” of bis prey? But
lie is under no spell, whether ot love or any
thing else. His face is the face of a man who
stands alone in the world, and who is perfectly
satisfied with hie position.
And so the merry Christmas-time passes
quickly away, and Aubrey St. John returns to
Oaklands even heavier of heart than he left ft,
while Juliet will not think of the future, but
concerns herself only with the present, helping
Edith, and supporting her with her untaiiiug
courage.
CHAPTER IV.
“ TRIUMPHANT LAUGHTER AS SHE I.OOKS AT HER
HUSBAND AND DUPE. ’
The tenth of March is a cold blustering day,
with a bright blue sky aud a bitter east wind.
It ts Edith’s and Juliet’s wedding-day, for the
two cousins are to be married at the same time,
by their own especial desire. Colonel St. John
is very well pleased with this arrangement; he
knows that his daughter and his niece are the
two prettiest girls in the county, and the double
wedding will make a very agreeable sensation.
He would like to put Aubrey St John in the
place ot Randal Blakey, but, since that cannot
be, he resigns himself to the inevitable with a
fairly good grace, considering his warmth of
temper, and the something like contempt which
he entertains for his pink-cheeked nephew-elect.
All the St. Johns are at Compton Cheny who can
possibly manage to leave their homes, as well
as the relatives of young Blakey. Sir Evelyn
has no one that he desires to ask, and be selects
Aubrey St. John for his best man, and, when
the young fellow pleads an urgent journey to
Taris as an excuse for his absence, his choice
falls upon his cousin Burnet, aud there the
matter ends, so far as he is concerned.
Randal Blakey is half wild with excitement,
but hie fellow-bridegroom takes things very
coolly, and Juliet—self-reproachful, and yet
unwavering in her determination—searches' in
vain for any sign of warmth in his immovable
dark face, nor does she detect any tone of affec
tion in his voice when addressing Edith, who is
fairly complaisant, considering how distasteful
this match is to her.
The brides are dressed exactly alike in tho
orthodox white satin and wreaths of orange
blossom, while eight bridesmaids, of whom
Cecily St. John and Lucy Burnet are the chief,
follow in their train, robed in palest pink silk.
“ How thick your vail is I” remaiks Cecily to
Edith, as she throws it over her beautiiul cous
in’s fair head, while in the next room Lucy per
forms the same kind office for Juliet. “ Why, I
can scarcely see you through it, Edith !”
“ We got them thick on purpose,” answers
Hie bride-elect, beginning to pull on her glovee.
“We thought we should be frozen this bitter
March weather, and now, it we are, people
won’t be able to see our blue noses.”
“No, they won’t,” laughs Cecily. “Why
didn’t you wait unlit the Summer, if you are sb
afraid of not looking well ?”
“ Ob, father and Sir Evelyn were both in such
a hurry, and I didn’t think it mattered! Mind
vou, put that pin in well to the left, Cecily.” i
Ten minutes later the bridesmaids are on
their way to the church, behind the prancing
white horses with their satin favors, and soon
after the brides themselves follow in the same
carriage, together with Colonel St. John, who
is to give them both away. His brother How
ard had suggested that Juliet should go with
him in another carriage, to aveid crushing the
delicate bridal dresses, but neither of the girls
would hear of it—they protested that they would
go together to their “ doom,” as Juliet puts it,
with an excited laugh. She is scarcely like her
self to-day, though she laughs and chatters
more than usual, and Edith, too, seems less
apathetic than usual, and sometimes laughs,
and sometimes cries, with hysterical excite
ment.
' Every one declares that the two girls look
“ beautiful ” as they sweep up ths aisle on
either side ot Colonel St. John, whose stern face
relaxes considerably as be looks Irom one
drooping golden head to the other. Sir Evelyn
Lovelace advances on the right, to receive his
kinsman’s daughter, while Banda) Blakey, on
the left, receives the lesser gift oi the niece.
The bridesmaids arrange themselves behind,
Burnet St. John etande at Lovelace’s elbow,
while Randal Blakey is supported by his bro
ther-in-law, Ernest Fortescue, and the service
commences.
Not much of the brides' faces can be seen
under their vails, beside which their backs are
turned to the congregation; but those who do
I catch a glimpse of them, say that they are both
deathly pale throughout the ceremony. Their
) responses are made in very low and trembling
! tones, and they are evidently suffering from
nervousness, but nobody finds fault with them
for that. Captain Blakey is nearly as agitated
as they are ; his small white fingers shake so
that he can hardly pnt on the ring. The least
> affected of the entire wedding-party is Sir Eve
, lyn Lovelace. He stands before the altar as
cool and composed as though he were looking
on at some one else’e wedding. He speaks
- when be is required, without making any blan
i ders, in a deep, unsoltened voice which may be
> heard all over the church, and now and then be
, stares unconcernedly up at the stained-glass
> window over tho altar.
i All is over at last, and the party return home
■ each bride aud bridegroom in a separate car
riage this time. There is a grand breakfast at
1 Compton Cheney, fixed for one o’clock, to suit
j the time of the trains. The respective couples
: are to start within ten minutes of each other,
- though from differevt stations—Sir Evelyn and
Lady Lovelace being bound to their other es
, tate in Yorkshire, Captain and Mrs. Blakey for
I Folkestone, eu retife lor Barte,
Alter tbo breakfast, the brides, followed by
their attendant satellites, leave tbe table to pre
pare for their respective journeys. They still
dress alike, in costumes of dark-green volvet,
trimmed with silver fox.
“ What a pity to put on that ugly thing ! ’ re
monstrated Cecily, as Edith requests her to tie
the ends of the gray gauze vail which she has
arranged over her face. “It spoils you alto
gether, Edie; I declare your own husband
wouldn’t know you I”
“ How silly you are, Cecily I" she answers,
almost pettishly. “ You know I always wear
gauze vails while these bitter winds are blow
ing.”
“I only thought that on this day you would
like to look your best,” returns Ceo.ly apolo
getically.
“ I shouldn’t look my best by the time we
were in the train ; my nose would be red and
my lips blue—a pretty bride I should bo I"
laughs Edith, rather constrainedly.
“I never saw yon with your hair curled in
front before,” goes on Cecily, after a pause.
“It makes you look more like Juliet than you
generally do.”
“Doyou think so? But it suits me, I fancy.
Perhaps I shall always wear it curled—l shall
see.”
The door opens at this moment and Juliet
looks in, with a gauze vail similar to Edith’s
put back over her hat.
“Are you ready, Edie?” she asks, a little
nervously. “I thought I would like to say
good-by to you here, darling, before we go
down stairs.' We have boon like sisters all our
lives, and now ”
Her voice breaks, and sudden tears quench
the unnatural brightness of her eyes.
Cecily kisses both her cousins and goes out of
the room, drawing the other girls with her.
The two brides soon appear and go down
stairs together, followed by their bevy of brides
maids. Colonel St. Jcdin takes a very different
view of the despised vails, drawn closely down,
crossed behind and then brought to the front
and tied round their necks like scarfs.
“A very sensible thing to do,” ho says.
“This east wind goes to one's very bones, and
Edith there always gets the toothache if she
goes out in it. So you mean to be alike to the
last, do vou ?” he continues, address ng them
both. “Well, I’m sure I have no objection—l
am pleased to see such good feeling between
you ; but, really, girls, it is rather confusing—
I’m not sure which is which at this very mo
ment, and I don t believe your husbands can
tell any more than myself. They will have to
take care that they don’t each get hold of the
wrong wife I”
“Just what I said !” exclaims Cecily triumph
antly.
“But we can see if wo can’t be seen,” ob
serves Juliet, “and we shouldn’t be likely to
take the wrong husbands—should we, Edie?”
“Oh, dear, no 1” answers the other, laughing
and shivering at the same moment.
Everybody laughs at this idea, and then, tbo
time being up, farewells are hastily exchanged,
and the ladies, heedless of the keen breath of
March which sweeps in at the hall door, cluster
on the steps to throw old shoes after the two
carriages rapidly departing in opposite direc
tions, and it is not until they are quite out of
sight that ths company returns to the shelter 01
the house.
The drive to Compton station, to which Love
lace and his bride are bound, is not very long—
it occupies little more than twenty minutes —
which time is spent by the bridegroom in look
ing absently out of the window, occasionally
addressing some commonplace remark to his
bride, which she for the moat part answers in
monosyllables. He is not at all surprised
thereat, being well used to Edith’s apalhy when
in his presence, and, indeed, he regards it as
rather a relief, as he has not much to say to her
at any time.
When they get to the station the train is in,
and they have to hasten to their seats, while
Timothy sees to the luggage. In another min
ute they glide away, leaving Timothy touching
his hat upon the platiorm.
She turns and looks at her husband then, and
ho looks at her, but can see nothing except tho
faint outline of cheek and brow through tho
thick vail. There is a silence which lasts until
it grows awkward, but she does not attempt to
break it; she has turned away her face now,
and is looking out of the farther window. It is
Lovelace who speaks first—not without hesita
tion, unusual though it is with him.
“ Edith,” he says, changing his seat opposite
to her lor the one beside her, “ I fear I am ra
ther old and grave for you, but I mean to make
you a good husband. You must put up with
me, and, when 1 offend you by my bearishness
—for I am not much used to ladies’ society—
you must tell me.”
He pauses, waiting tor her to speak.
“ Yea,” she murmurs, very soltly.
“ I hope you will be happy as my wife,” he
continues, gravely. “ I intend to do all in my
power to make you so.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs again.
“Do you think you can be happy, Edith?
Your father had more to do with the arrange
ment of this marriage than yourself, I know,
but he did not leave your welfare out of the
question. 1 think he would not have given his
only daughter to any save one whom he could
trust to take good care of her. Will you try to
be happy with me ?” he repeats, as she main
tains silence.
“No 1” answers a ringing voice, the tones of
which make him start back in astonishment.
“Edith could never be happy with you; she has
gone with the man who loves her I”
And, raising her vail, she discloses, not
Edith’s calm loveliness, but the audacious
beauty of her cousin Juliet, her pretty lips
parting in triumphant laughter as she looks at
her husband and dupe 1
s * * * *
“Ob, liandal, dearest,” half sobs Edith, just
at that moment, “ what a day it has been 1
Even now I dare hardly believe we are safe at
last.”
“My darling. I never was in such an awful
state in my life! That little Juliet’s a jewel
and no mistake. But for her I must have bro
ken down a hundred times. I thought every
minute you were going to taint, and, altogether,
I was on the verge of madness.”
“ What should we have done it we had been
found out ?” she ejaculates, heaving a sigh of
relief.
“Nevermind; we won’t think of that now,”
he answers, fondly. “ We’ve got all our happi
ness before us, and have left all our troubles
behind. Poor little Ju 1 I hope she will get off
pretty well.”
And then they forget all else save themselves
and each other.
(To be Ooutinual.i
PRAYER ANSWERED.
A TRUE STORY.
(from the Albany Journal.)
On the summit of Washington Mountain, over
looking the Housatonic Valley, stood a hut, the
home of John Barry, a poor charcoal burner,
whose family consisted of his wife and himself.
His occupation brought him in but a low dol
lars, and when cold weather came he had man
aged to get together only a small provision for
tho Winter. This Fall, after a Summer of hard
work, he fell sick, and was unable to keep hie
fires going. So, when the snow of December,
1874, fell, and the drifts had shut off communi
cation with the village at the foot of the moun
tain, John and his wife were in great straits.
Their entire stock of food consisted of only
a few pounds of salt pork and a bushel of pota
toes ; sugar, coffee, flour and tea had, early in
December, given out, and the chances for re
plenishing the larder were slim indeed. The
snow storms came again, and the drifts deep
ened. All the roads, even in the valley, were
impassable, and no one thought of trying to
open the mountain highways, which, even in
Summer, were only occasionally traveled, and
none gave the old man and his wife a thought.
December loth came, and with it the heaviest
fall of snow experienced in Berkshire county in
many years. The food of the old couple was
now reduced to a day’s supply, but John did
not yet despair. He was a Christian and a God
fearing man, and His promises were remem
bered, and so, when evening came, and the
| northeast gale was blowing and the fierce enow-
I storm was raging, John and his wife wore pray-
I ing and asking for help.
In Sheffield village, ten miles away, lived
Deacon Brown, a well-to-do farmer, 50 years
old, who was noted for his piety and consistent
deportment, both as a man and a Christian.
The deacon and hie wife had gone to bed early,
and, in spite of the storm raging without, were
sleeping soundly, when, with a start, the dea
con awoke and said to his wife;
“Who spoke? Who’s there?”
“Why,” said his wife, “no one is here but
you and me; what is the matter with yon ?”
“I hoard a voice,” said the deacon, “ saying,
‘Send food to John.’”
“ Nonsense !” replied Mrs. Brown ; “ go to
sleep. You have been dreaming.”
The deacon laid his head on the pillow and
was asleep in a minute. Soon he started up
again, and, waking his wife, said:
“There, I heard that voice again- ‘Send food
to John.’ ”
“ Well, well,” said Mrs. Brown. “ Deacon,
you are not well; your supper has not agreed
with yon. Lie down and try and sleep.” Again
the deacon closed his eyes, and again the voice
was heard, “ Send lood to John.” This time
the deacon was thoroughly awake. “Wife;'”
said he, “ who do we know named John who
needs food?” “No one I remember,” replied
Mrs. Brown, “ unless it be John Barry, the old
charcoal burner on the mountain. “ That’s
it,” exclaimed the deacon. “ Now, I remem
ber, when I was at the store in Sheffield the
other day, Clark, the merchant, speaking ol
John Barry, said: ‘ I wonder if the old man is
alive, for it is six weeks since I saw him, and he
has not yet laid in his Winter stock of groceries.’
It must be old John is sick and wanting food.”
> So saying the good deacon arose and pro
: eeeded to dress himself. “ Come, wife,” said
he, “ waken our boy Willie and tell him to feed
i the horse and get ready to go with me, and do
: you pack up in the two largest baskets you have
i a good supply of food, and get us an early
breakfast, for lam going up the mountain to
> carry the food I know John Barry needs.”
> Mrs. Brown, accustomed to the sudden im
i pulses of her good husband, and believing him
to be always in the right, cheerfully complied,
> and, after a hot breaklast, Deacon Brown and
his son Willie, a boy of nineteen, hitched up the
t horses to the double sleigh, and then, with a
t month’s supply of food and a “ Good-by, mo
i ther,” started at five o’clock on that cold De
, cember morning for a journey that almost any
1 other than Deacon Brown and his eon Willie
■ would not have dared to undertake.
: The northeast storm was still raging, and the
snow falling and drifting fast, but on, on went
the stout, well-ted team on its errand of mercy,
while tho occupants of the sleigh, wrapped up
in blankets and extra buffalo robes, urged the
horses through tho drifts And in the lace of the
storm.
That ten miles’ ride, which required in tho
Summer hardly an hour or two, was not finish
ed until the deacon’s watch showed that five
hours had passed.
At last they drew up in front of the hut whoro
the poor, trusting Christian man and woman
were on their knees praying for help to Him
who is the “Hearer and answerer of prayer,
and as the deacon reached tho door ho hoard
the voice of supplication and then he knew that i
the message which awakened him from sleep
was sent from heaven.
He knocked at the door, it was opened, and i
wo can imagine the joy of the old couple when ’
the generous supply of food was carried in, and .
the thanksgivings that were uttered by the '
starving tenants of that mountain hut.
GUAmHNfFFIEMAILS.
A Pretty Girl Who Pilfered Letters —
Narrow Escape of an Editor,
(From the Utica (N. Y.i Observer.)
In a recent conversation with a veteran post
office inspector 1 learned some very interesting
things about the guarding of the United States
mails.
“ The worst case I ever had,” said ths in
spector, “ was in a country office in Pennsyl
vania. Letters had been stolen on a certain
hack route. I obtained a broad-brimmed bat
and announced that I had come into the neigh
borhood to buy cattle. 1 sent decoy letters and
kept close watch of all the offices. At length I
had things pretty well centered on a single
office. It was kept by an old German who was
noted for his honesty. His deputy was his
eighteen-year-old daughter, a beautiful girl, I
who was engaged to be married to a rich farmer
in the neighborhood. My suspicions were
fastened upon this girl. I waited in the neigh
borhood for a week in order to make a trial
when tho old people were away from home. At
length they left town for a day, and the office
was in the hands of the daughter. I dropped a
decoy letter into the bag just before it came into
the office, and examining the mail after it left
the office found that it had been taken. I
waited till no one was presentexoept the deputy
postmistress, and then, deliberately looking the
door, I stepped behind the cases and said in a
deep, sepulchral voice:
“ ‘ I want tho letter which you took from the
bag to-day.’
“She went into a violent fit of hysterics She
tore her beautiful hair and wept copiously. I
stood calmly before her, looking as much as
possible like a Nemesis. At length she stopped
short, apd throwing her arms around my neck,
she piteously besought me:
“ ‘ You won’t send me to State prison, will
you, my dear, good man ? Please don’t.’
‘“That will depend upon whether you will
tell me everything about tiiis case,’ said I.
“ ‘l’ll tell you everything. I have taken the
letters, every one of them. Father is not to
blame, and his heart will be broken. I couldn't
get anything decent to wear, and I thought I
ought to have money, so I took the letter. Oh,
mister, you won’t send me to State prison, will
you? lam engaged to bo married. Oh, dear--
boo hoo I what shall I do?"
“ I told her that I would do the best I could,
and perhaps it mtght be fixed up without her
going to prison.
“ When the postmaster and his wife returned
they immediatelg saw that something bad hap
pened. They at first believed that I had in
jured their daughter in some way, and were
disposed to attack me. But the young lady was
fast to explain:
“‘This is the best man that ever lived. Ho
has saved me.'
“This was more unintelligible than over to
the old people. But at length all was explained
and understood. Under the circumstances, I
decided not to arrest the girl. I could see uo
good that would come o: it, and much evil. I
made the old gentleman promise that she should
never again touch the mails. A few months
later she was married, and is now the mother of
several children, and is much respected iu the
neighborhood. »
“About the funniest case I ever had anything
to do with,” the inspector continued, “ was that
of a country editor.”
“Delate it,” said I, still interested.
“ Well, there were some circulars put iu my
hand, which read as follows :
•“GREENBACKS! GREENBACKS!
“ •! will furnish money as good as genuine for 10-
per cent, of face value. Send JI for sample lot.
Strictly confidential. John Adims.*
“I saw immediately that the circular was
printed in a country office, and I knew that
there was only one office in the vicinity. I knew
this printer well, and had not the least suspicion
that he had anything to do with getting up the
circulars. I decided to call on him, as I felt
sure he might be able to help on the case. I
accordingly visited the printer, and, showing
him the circular, inquired :
“ ‘ Can you throw any light on that?’
“ ‘l’ll tell you how that was,’ said tho editor,
visibly confused. ‘That was all a joke.’
“ ‘ Please explain the joke,’ said I.
“‘Well, now, let me say that no one hates
counterfeiters so badly as I do. I simply
detest anything of the kind. I don’t th : nk there
is anybody who hates lying so badly as I do,
either. I wouldn’t lie for anything in the world.
Now, I printed those circulars and decided to
send them out and see if I couldn’t find out
some fellows who would like to be counterfeit
ers.’
“ ‘ Well, how is it about this fictitious name,
and what did you propose to do when they sent
you the. dollars ?’
“ ‘ Well, I’ll tell you about that. As I said be
fore, I hate lying. Now my initials are J. A, and
my first two uames are John Adams. You see that
was no lie. When I got the money I expected
to send them some good advice. Now, if my ad
vice is worth anything it is worth a dollar, and
1 intended to send themja dollar s worth. So, you
see, it was all a joke. You can keep it ail quiet
if you have a mind to, can’t you ? You won’t
make any scandal, will you ?’
“‘ I shall be obliged to lay all the points o ■
this joke before the District Attorney. He may |
consider it of no consequence and dismiss it,
but I can do nothing less.’
“ The editor was a leading ehuroh member,
and was considered one of the big men of the
town. He consulted a lawyer, and the two de
cided not to wait for the District Attorney to
send for them, but to go to him immediately.
“ The editor was indicted for defrauding
through the mails, but finally escaped the peni
tentiary, and is still publishing hie paper.”
THE HUNGRY LEECH.
A Little Creature Once Extensively
Used by all Regular Physicians.
(From the Pittsburg Dispatch.)
In the olden days, not so very far away, near
ly everybody was familiar with the appearance
of a leech. It fever ran very high, or inflamma
tion severe, if any one was so unfortunate as to
get a black eye, or, in fact, it there was any
excuse whatever for doing so, the blood-hungry
leech was applied and plenty of blood extract
ed, so nearly all knew the leech by sight it not
by personal acquaintance. At the present time,
however, comparatively few are used, and the
leech has nearly retired from active practice.
Naturalists say that the leeeh is a red-blood
ed, footless, smooth-bodied abranchiate anne
lid, of the family hirundinel; genius sauguisuga
or hirudo of Linmeus. This is pretty tough on
the leech, and many will think it is a mean ad
vantage which naturalists take of the beast to
call it hard names. However, tho leech will
have to stand it. A pretty good definition ot it
is: A very large stomach surrounded by a very
elastic skiu.
They have as large stomachs as New York Ai
dermen. and as great capacity for blood as the
aforesaid gentry have for “ boodle.”
Although formerly so much used in medi
cine, they are now comparatively scarce. Not
one physician in a hundred keeps them, the
business being almost entirely relegated to the
barbers. It is owing to this that the tonsorial
fraternity is said to have a red and white pole
to indicate the location of the shops. It is said
that they used to smear blood and lather on a
board and stand it outside to herald to the
community their dual capacity. After a while
they discontinued the substantial evidence and
substituted the figurative, in the shape of a
board painted red and white, from which was
evolved the present spirally striped barber
pole. Many barbers to this day carry on
blood-letting, but they combine it with shaving,
accomplishing both acts at the same time, and
without the desire being at all expressed by the
patient.
The natural home ol the leeeh is in the wa
ter, or in wet, marshy places. They are born
from eggs inclosed iu a little ooeoon, out of
which they make their way and fatten upon
grubs, worms or fish, and thus increase in
size. They grow very slowly, and several years
elapse before they reach maturity. They are
not fit lor medicinal purposes until they are one
year or eighteen months old.
The mouth ot the leech is armed with three
rows of fine saw-like teeth, which cut through
the skin and leave a mark shaped like the let
ter Y. When applied to the skin they select a
spot, cut through, and by an undulating move
ment start the blood Sowing down their rapa
cious gullets. Soon this motion ceases and the
body fills up until the creature, which origi
nally was long, flat and thin, swells up often
like a ball, reminding one of the newsboy’s ob
servation after having had a good dinner.
When the leech becomes fully gorged, it lets
go its hold and falls off. The blood runs from
its mouth and from the wound. Intact, it is
sometimes difficult to get it to stop. The leech
will then fast lor a iong time, digesting what it
has eaton. The process of digestion often re
quires a prodigious time, possibly from six
months to two years. They will live a wonder
fully long time without lood.
Leechers, in order to have their leeches ready
for the next victim, make a practice of “strip
ping ’ the beasts, that is, drawing them through
the thumb and fingers until the good meal they
have taken so much pains to secure, is all
forced out of their mouths again. This is also
accomplished by putting salt on them. Their
skins are very sensitive to salt, and directly it
is applied the leeches become seasick and dis-
> gorge. All such proceedings must be very dis
. couraging to his leechship.
The Sauguisuga midwinalis, or medicinal
leech, is usually from two to lour inches long,
' green or gray in color and swims in water with
i a vertical, undulating motion. On land they
move by means of their suckers, reaching far
> out with the loose end, which fastens, and the
i other is hitched along with a bump in the back
like a measuring worm, or the hinder parts are
slowly gathered along toward the bead by the
body crowding up on iteelf. They are slimy,
misty, slippery beasts and the wonder is not
great that they have been supplanted by tho
lancet and cun. Their fashion of reaching out
for a new hold gives them a very snaky look,
and very much frightened a very brave soldier
in the late war. He bad gathered up soma
muddy water in an old tin cup, and as lie drank
It nearly to the bottom a big leeeh suddenly
stretched out its thin body and struck him oik
the nose. Ho dropped the cup with a yell, and
said he was “durned near as bad scared as if
he had been shot.”
The best leeches are imported from Europe.
The demand nearly exhausted the supply in
the marshes of England, where they were very
common, and nearly all of the superior ones
now come from Sweden. We have several va
rieties in Pennsylvania. One large one reaches
a growth of five inches, and many thousands
are used annually. An old negro, who lives in
the interior, makes a good living by catching
them. He is his own bait. Stripping naked,
lie wades into tho swampv runs, often as deep
as his chin. He works around in the mud with
bis feet and hands, walking slowly hither and
thither, and finally wades to shore with twenty
or thirty fat leeches clinging to his black hide.
He is his own fisher, rod, line, hook and bait.
These he removes to a can and goes fishing
again. Lately his “rbeumatiz” has compelled
him to fish by means of one of bis grandchil
dren, and it goes without saying that the pic
caninny does not enjoy the sport.
The largest leech roaches a growth of two
feet five inches in length. It is of a different
genius from the medicinal one and awalfows its
prey whole, feeding upon worms, grubs anti
other small beings. It doos not tasteu on hu
man beings, but is said to attack horses and
cattle, although this is doubted by some. Tha
horse leech, however, attacks animals, ana, be
ing also a large leech, occasions considerable
damage. The larger leeches are very voracious
and are cannibals enough to eat each other whoa
no more handy or toothsome viand offers.
In early days, owing to the universal employ
ment of leeches by physicians, they—the physi
cians—enjoyed the title of leeches. A writer,
in speaking of this, very kindly tays: “It is *
term appropriate enough so far as healing is
concerned, but singularly inappropriate in all
other respects, for no profession is so sell-deny
ing or so generous as the medical." Good
enough for you, Mr. Writer.
HUMOR oFthFhUUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRE33 FIEND.
BUT IT WASN’T ON THE MENU CABD.
“ This document is like dessert,” remarked
Phassesius, with one of his blandest smiles, as
he carefully refolded the summons hauded him
by a constable upon his return to the office al
noon.
“ How’s that?" inquired tho puzzled officer.
“Served alter dinner.”
HE KEPT STILL.
“Didn’t yon pay fare twice?” asked a Oas#
avenue car conductor as ho returned to an old
man at the front of the car.
“ Yes, sir."
“ Why didn’t you say you had paid when I
came the second time ?”
“Oh, I bilked this road ol a ride about three
months ago, and I thought you had found it
out.”
A MAN OF RESOURCES.
“ Say mister ’’—thus an all-night and bleary
rounder to a gay but younger convivialist on
tbe Campus Martins—“ gimme ten cents to git
a bite of breakfast.”
“ No, can’t do it. You want to get a drink. I
know the symntoms. Pm in the same fix my
sell, and I’ve only got a nickel.”
“ Rats 1” was the animated reply. " Coma
with me, ’u’ I’ll show you whore we can get two
tor five.”
A BIG SPIT.
“ We want you to come over and look at our
house,” sue said to the policeman on Crawford
street tho other day.
“ What’s the matter of the house?” he asked.
“Soma one has spit tobaoeo juice all over.tho
stoop.”
The officer went around on Crawford street
and viewed tho acene of disaster, and said:
“ Don’t you know tobacco juice from ink ?”
“No, sir; I—l don’t chew,” she humbly re
plied, “ though I did think it was an awful big
spit lor one loafer.”
WOULD SEEM SO ON FIRST THOUGHT.
Business Man—“ Glad fo see you, Mr. Spot
cash. You’re from Grubville, I believe?”
Spotcash—“Yes, sir.”
Business Man—“ Well, sir, I’ve had my eya
on your town for some time. How do you re
gard it just now as a location tor a live dry
goods house ?”
Spotcash—“A first-rate location, sir—first
rate 1 Grampney & Smith have just failed,
Brown & Co. is on the eve of making an assign
ment, while the only remaining house is a one
horse concern scarcely paying expenses.”
OVERDONE.
Richelieu and Arthur have, for some time,
been boarding at a down-town boarding-house,
but recently becoming dissatisfied with the
rigidity of its dining-room economy, they de
cided to change their lodgings. Wishing, how
ever, to avoid any uupleasant feelings on tha
part of their landlady, Richelieu said to her:
“ Well, Mrs. Slopslinger, I suppose I shall ba
compelled to leave you. My room-mate desires
a location nearer to bis busiuess, and, of course,
1 shall waut to be with him. Wo regret to leave
you, as our relations have always been of the
most pleasant character.”
Mistress 8—— ■, with great affability, assured
him of her good will, and wished him all com
fort in his new quarters.
That evening, while packing up, Arthur re
marked :
“ Old boy, I thought it wasn’t just the thing
for us to slip off without saying anything to our
landlady, so I ran down just now and told her
you wanted to get further up-town, and that, of
course, I should want to go with you ”
“ The devil, you did ! I said the same thing
I of you this morning 1”
! Tableau 1
IT CAME AT LAST.
I “Say,” he called, as he stood on tho Post
office steps and beckoned to a pedestrian across
the street.
The other man came over, was conducted to
a seat on the window-sill in the corridor, and
the first continued:
“I was looking over my diary for 1886 to
day, and I find that on the thirteenth day ot
February I encountered you on Woodward
avenue.”
“ Perhaps you did.”
“ You asked me then if I thought the back
bone of winter was broken. I was in a hurry,
I and took the query under advisement. lam
I very sorry that the matter slipped my mind, as
! I generally answer such questions inside of a
i month.”
“ And what did you want of me ?”
“To apologize, sir, and to say to you that I
am now ready to make my reply. Yes sir, I
think tbe backbone of Winter is broken, and I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if we had an early
Spring 1”
The other got up and tried to say something,
but the effort was a sad failure, and by and by
he turned and walked off and went up the street
and turned a corner.without ever looking back,
HOW BUNKER HILL ESCAPED.
Detective Myler yesterday encountered a
young man on Bates street who had flung his
hat on tho sidewalk and stood leaning against a
brick wall with such a pulverized expression of
countenance that the officer felt called upon to
inquire:
“ Anything gone wrong with you ?”
“ I should say there had I” was the emphatic
response. “ I’ve been swindled, robbed, bent
and paralyzed, and that by my own father !”
“ How
“Why, last night I told the old man I was
coming to town to paint old Bunker Hill a vivid
red, and I asked him for some money to help
do it. He gave me this two-dollar Canadian
bill.”
“ It’s counterfeit,” said the officer, after an
inspection.
. “Don't I know it! Didn’t he know it! I
i walked nine miles to get in here at sunrise, and
the first man I offered the bill to, wanted ma
arrested. Here I am- far frota home—no beer,
no lemonade, no Washington pie, no nothing,
and old Bunker Hill juet panting to be painted !
Say, mister !”
“ Yes.”
“ Do you like fun
“Yes,”
“Then come out home with me. Come and
be present at the meeting between me and dad.
Be around when a feller who has worked like a
nigger all the Spring to pome into town on tha
Fourth and have a high old. time, gives vent to
his pent-up indignation and sails in to lick his
paternal parent. Whew! but look out for
blood!”
A little Italian girl who was posing aq
a model said, tbe other day, to a lady artist who was
painting her at her studio on Fifth avenue, that she
bad Just taken a bath. The child was asked: “How
much did you pay for your bath?” “Ten cents,•'
was tbe reply. “Why, I pay $1.30 when Igo out to
take a bath,” said the lady. ‘-My,’’ exclaimed tbe
child, “what clean water they must give you 1”
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