New York dispatch. [volume], September 04, 1887, Page 6, Image 6

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6
BELLS OF THE ANGELUS,
BY BRET HARTE.
jelh of the past, whose unforgotten music
Still fills the wide expanse,
Tinging the sober twilight of the present
With color of romance I
I hear you call, and see tho sun descending
On rooks and waves and sand,
As down the coast the mission voices blending
Girdle the heathen land.
Within the circle of vour incantation
No blight nor mildew falls;
Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor lost ambition
Masses those airy walls.
Borne on the swell of your long waves receding,
I touch the farther past—
I see the dying glow of Spanish glory.
The sunset dream and last I
Before me rise the dome-shaped mission towers,
The white presidio.
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin,
The priest in stole of snow.
Once more I see Fortala’s cross uplifting
Above the setting sun,
And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting,
The freighted galleon.
0 solemn bells! whose consecrated masses
Recall the faith of old—
-0 tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music
The spiritual fold.
Your voices break and falter in the darkness—
Break, falter and are still;
And, vailed and mystic, like the host descending,
The sun sinks from the hill.
[This story was begun in No. 45 of the Dispatch.
Back numbers can be obtained at the Dispatch of
pee, or from any newsdealer.]
RRIGiIOETTY.
BT ONE OF THE BEST OF WOMEN WRITERS.
CHAPTER VII.
'• I UNDERSTAND YOUB HEROES NOW.”
Hetty’s wistful little face the next day troubled
Judith, and pricked her conscience sorely. For
the last three months tho girl had been alter
ing, saddening, growing restless, less light
hearted. Judith had watched the change, and
.gain and again she had taken herself to task
for it. There was something that long ago she
ought to have told Hetty. She had shrunk from
inflicting pain. But the pain would have been
a sharp one, bringing its own cure; it would
have been better than this long-drawn-out suf
fering. Hetty was in love with Geoffrey Gra
ham,“and nothing but unhappiness could come
of such love. She ought to have warned Hetty
long since.
On Hetty’s return home that day—at the first
eight of the girl’s face—she determined to
speak.
Hetty was sitting at the window, sewing ; Ju
dith brought her own needle-work and seated
herself near her. She tried to introduce the
subject naturally and gradually, but failed.
“ We were talking one day ot Mr. Graham,
Hetty,” she began.
“ Yes ; do not let us talk of him again,” Hetty
responded, hastily.
“But I want to talk of him. That day there
was something else that I ought to have told
you. lam afraid—l was afraid then—of hurt
ing you.”
“ Nothing would hurt me,” said Hetty, quiet
ly, looking ud with a dreary glance at Judith.
Judith’s eyes were fixed upon the work she
held. A little color came into her pale cheeks ;
her voice was tremulous, and she epoke slowly
to steady it.
" You did not know, Hetty—l ought to have
told you—that once I was engaged to him. I
was in love with him. For two years we were
engaged.”
"You and Mr. Graham?” Hetty repeated.
“He said—he said ”
But there she broke down ; she remembered
how he had talked to her of Judith; in all
things, then, he had proved untrue ! She had
thought that nothing more could hurt her, but
her heart sank lower than before. Perhaps,
after all, there had been some lurking doubt of
Fanny’s truthfulness last night, some faint, un
acknowledged hope that Fanny or some one
else had been mistaken, that words had been
misinterpreted, that all might yet be well.
Here was, as it were, the confirmation of Fan
ny’s words. Ho had told her that he and Judith
were almost strangers—that they had met but
twice or thrice. And yet once he had loved
Judith.
“It was a good many years ago,” Judith was
explaining. “ The engagement was broken off.”
“Do not talk of it if you would rather not,’’
said Hetty gently. “I have been warned al
ready, Judith; there is no need—no need to
warn me any more.”
“ I want to tell you the story,” returned Ju
dith, still sewing, still steadily regarding
work. “When itistold.it is done with. I
lived here in London—in lodgings alone and
wrote. I had friends, then, to whom I went
Sometimes, and he came there to Bee me. After
some months we were engaged. His aunt,
Lady Dennis, opposed the engagement, he told
me. I understood it—l had nothing much to
recommend me—l was poor, and then, as I say,
I was living hero in London alone. She thought
that very shocking, so he said. He made me
feel ashamed of many things that had seemed
natural enough before. He was in love with
me at first, but after we became engaged I think
he was sorry sorry that he cared for me.
When we had been engaged for two years he
wrote to me one day. I cannot tell you about
the letter-ho said Lady Dennis ordered him to
break off the engagement, and be himself
thought it better. That is all the story. After
ward I heard many things about him—untrue,
perhaps, many of them—but Ido not think he
was good 1” ~
For some minutes there was silence in the
room. It was Hetty who broke it.
“ 1 understand your heroes now,” she said,
With a hint smile.
“They seemed impossible to you,” said Ju
dith.
“Yes ; I thought them so.”
" You disliked them ? ’
“ I despise them still,” said Hetty.
If it were not for the shame and pain of seeing
him, she almost wished she might meet Geof
frey again, and give him the opportunity of
making the offer he believed she was waiting
for, that she might bo able to surprise him, to
humiliate him, by scornfully, coldly refusing it,
that she might prove how she despised him.
No such chance was possible. She scarcely
knew whether the impossibility made her glad
or impatient.
On one cold clear morning a few days later,
as Hetty, returning from a rehearsal, made a
detour across St. James’s Park, some one over
took her, and she found herself suddenly face
to face with Graham, who was bolding out his
band to her, congratulating himself on meeting
her. ■
“It is a piece of good luck that I did not look
for,” he said; “I am coming your way. May 1
walk on with you ?”
“ Yes, if you wish, if you are coming this
way,” said Hetty coldly.
She looked before her, with sadness in her
eyes, her lips scornful and quivering. Geoffrey
was scanning her face with an expression of
vague perplexity and trouble on his own. For
a few moments they walked on in silence. Then
Geoffrey spoke again.
“ I have hoped, day after day, to sea you at
the Fieldings’,” he said. “ I have been unfor
tunate in timing my visits—l have always missed
you.”
“ I have not been there lately,” returned
Hetty simply.
“ Bui I have not seen you since the dance.”
“ I have not been there since,” she answered,
glancing up calmly and quietly. “I will say
’Good-morning’ here, Mr. Graham. My friend,
Miss Browne, promised to moot me; I said I
would sit here and wait.”
“ You will allow mo to wait with you ?” he
pleaded.
“ I fear it is detaining you,” returned Hetty
o&T*eleßsl y.
“ My errand is not important,” Graham an
swered laughingly; and Hetty found nothing
more to urge against his staying.
They found a vacant seat, facing the West
minister side of the park, and sat down side by
side. Geoffrey, still perplexed, was looking
closely at the lace beside him; Hetty, with bead
erect, her lips set coldly, was looking away
from mm, straight before her. Geoffrey found
it difficult to say to her what he wished to say
this morning.
“ You Know why I have wanted to see you,”
he began clumsily. “ You must gw ss that.”
“ t rarely guess things,’’ Hetty answered,
looking up at the waving trees. “I am surprised
sometimes at my own obtuseness.”
She spoke with an irony that seemed un
natural on her lips. Geoffrey’s glance was
troubled as it rested upon her.
"Twice I have tried to tell you,” he said.
“ Hetty, I love you -that is what 1 have wanted
to say. Will you bo my wife ?”
There was a moment’s pause before Hetty an
swered. Evon then she could not speak as
deliberately and steadily as she had wished;her
voice trembled, and there was a note oi bitter
ness in her tone.
“ Thank you,” she said. “ The honor is very
great; I am sorry that I cannot accept it.”
“You can give me no hope—none, Hetty? Lot
me try to win your love—forget that I have
spoken to you—let things be as they were before.
Do not give me my answer now.”
“ 1 have given it,” responded Hetty coldly.
“Time would not change it. Nothing could
change it. A year hence—ten years—always it
would be the same.”
She eat with her hands folded, looking at the
clouds beyond the trees, and he tried to read
her face.
“I have offended you,” he said presently.
“ You are angry with me lor asking what I have
asked of you ?”
“ Yes, a little. And very sorry.”
“ I had no right to ask you to make such a
sacrifice.”
“ No ; I think, perhaps, it was a pity.”
Hetty’s lips, in spite of herself, were trem
blr g. Looking round expectantly, she saw
Judith in the distance,.and rose.
“I will say ‘Good-by,’” she eaid. “Miss
Browne is coming.”
He held out his hand, and courtesy con
strained her to take it. But she did not raise
her eyes to his.
“ Good-by. Forgive me !” he said.
“ Good-bv,” repeated Hetty.
E« went uy the step n toward Waterlpo Thee,
and Hetty turned to meet Judith, who came
down the Mall beneath the budding trees.
CHAPTER VIII.
"HER FEELING OF ANGER AGAINST HIM WAS
STRONG.”
The weeks that followed were very long.
There were more than twenty-four hours, sure
ly, in those endless days and nights! From
Monday to Monday was as long as half a year
had been a short time ago. People called it
Spring-time; Hetty found nothing Spring-like
in it this year. The sunshine was less warm
than May sunshine should have been; the
month was bleak and cheerless, like that month
in Spring, years ago, when her father had left
her and her sister. Hetty’s nightly work had
suddenly become an effort to her; she acted
her part less easily than of old ; she failed to
affect her audience with the buoyant spirits of
the light-hearted girl she impersonated. She
was conscious of her falling-off, and made an
effort to regain her old ease, and failed the
more with the renewed effort. Her failure wor
ried her.
Two or three times Augusta called, bringing
Miss Browne numerous small pamphlbts on
subjects which Hetty bad been too frivolous to
feel an interest in. After one or two invitations,
she had ceased to worry the girl to visit her, re
specting her refusal, though the reason was not
declared; she made a guess at the cause, and
was satisfied that tho guess was right. Hetty
had always been kind, she reflected, and per
haps it was kind to help Louis to forget her.
He would forget her sooner if she stayed away,
avoiding him. When Louis left town she would
come again. It was not until some weeks later
that Augqata began to suspect that Hetty might
be desiring to avoid Geoffrey, too. She learned
incidentally, one night, that Hetty had refused
him.
John and she had gone to the Folly that night
to see Hetty act once more as Cicely. The lit
tle comedy in which Hetty was playing had had
a long run, and in a week or two was to be
withdrawn. John had wished to see her again
in this part.
Next to Augusta, in the stalls, there were two
seats that were empty until the play began. As
the curtain rose, a little thin old lady entered,
followed closely by a pretty, shy-looking girl,
who stepped soitly and blushed at the confusion
they were causing. The old lady took her seat
next to Augusta, whom she greeted with a
pleasant smile.
Hetty was at her best, as Louis had once ex
plained, in that first act. She was a mischief
loving, light-hearted girl, without the shadow
of a care. Her very voice made the old feel
young again. Grim parents became less stern,
and felt a warmer thrill of sympathy for youth
ful foolishness. The girl’s laughter rippled
through the house, and made rigid lips relax;
when she mended a black stocking with white
cotton and hummed a little song that was In
time to her stitches, the keenest wit could not
have provoked more genuine, genial laughter.
Hetty acted the part with less spirit than former
ly, but she acted it well still.
“ That is my friend, Miss Vandeleur,” said
Augusta, turning to her neighbor as the curtain
fell. “ You have heard of her from Geoffrey ?”
“ Oh, yes—once or twice 1” the old lady re
plied, with a grim smile.
“ Had you seen her before?”
“ Yes. But I wanted to see her again.”
“Lady Dennis is here, John,” Augusta said,
turning to her husband; and Colonel Fielding
bent forward and chatted for a few minutes
until the curtain rose again. After the second
act, Lady Dennie turned again to Augusta.
“Did your friend tell you she had refused
him?” she asked, with a ,keen questioning
glance.
“ Refuted—refused whom ?” said Augusta.
“My boy. Oh, it’s true I She refused bim.
That’s’ why I’ve come to see her; I felt curious
to look at her again after that.”
“ I always thought he was in love with her,”
answered Augusta.
“ Yes; you encouraged it,” said Lady Dennis.
“Not consciously,” returned Augusta. "Hetty
was often with me. And he came to see me—
ostensibly to see me or John. So Hetty refused
him ?”
“She did.”
“ I am sorry.”
"Are you? So is Geoffrey. I, on the other
hand, am rejoicing.”
“ You do not know Miss Vandeleur.”
“ True. So Geoffrey says. We nearly quar
relled about her—he and I. I was angry with
him for keeping his acquaintanceship with her
a secret from me. I had heard ot it from your
sister Fanny. And, by-the-bye, if your sister’s
description of the girl is correct, Geoffrey has
had a lucky escape.”
“II Fanny has prejudiced you against Hetty,”
Augusta was beginning warmly.
“ No, no. She frightened mo for a time—that
was all,” said tho old lady, sighing. “But I trust
your judgment and your husband’s more than
Fanny’s on the whole; and the girl - the girl
seems good—l like her took. What made me
angry was Geoffrey’s want of confidence in
me. Fanny had told me he was in love
with a little actress whom you chose to
patronise, and said the girl was making efforts,
easily seen by every one, to capture Geoffrey,
who, unless I was careful, would be ensured.
But Geoffrey said nothing to me—not a word.
It hurt me. It was not until after the night of
vour dance that he broached the subject. He
had wanted me to know her and like her before
telling me—so he said. He was afraid I might
be prejudiced until I knew her; if I knew her,
he was sure of my 1 approval—and so he had
waited before telling me. Perhaps that was it.
I suppose I have whims and fancies and un
reasonable prejudices sometimes—l am getting
old. But it hurt me all the same. I will not
wish Geoffrey success. lam rejoicing now that
his suit has not prospered.”
“ I think you are regretting it,” ventured Au
gusta, boldly.
“Perhaps—perhaps I should rejoice more if
I could see Geoff happier,” the old lady admit
ted. “ Ah, here we begin again 1 I like your
friend’s chin and eyes. She is a little fool, Au
gusta.”
After that evening, Augusta understood that
there was a double reason for Hetty’s reluc
tance to visit her. She said nothing to Hetty
of the news she had heard, and only bemoaned
to John her own disappointment at the way in
which things had turned out.
The weeks went by, and Hetty did not see
Geoffrey again, and with much persistency she
began to try to persuade herself that she was
forgetting him.
Cue afternoon, however, she was able to test
the stre.ngth of her forgetfulness. She had gone
to calf on Cissy, who was stronger, but still ail
ing. -She had often been there lately; the
chances of meeting Geoffrey there were very
small, and she scarcely considered them. But
this afternoon, when she reached Cissy’s room,
a tall figure that was not Jack Waldron’s step
ped forward to meet her, and she found herself
looking up,with startled eyes and crimson face,
at Geoffrey. She never remembered how she
greeted Cissy and what Cissy said in answer.
She sat down mechanically where Geoffrey
placed a-chair lor her at the window, by Cissy’s
side.
He remained standing himself, looking at her
involuntarily now and then. She had grown
paler since he had seen her last, and she looked .
unhappy, both of which unusual signs con
cerned him deeply.
Cissy met his glance of solicitude and an
swered it.
“ She isn’t looking herself, is she ?” said Cis
sy, anxiously.
“I think not,” answered Geoffrey, in a quiet
tone.
“ And she hasn't been this long while; I've
told her so. I believe there’s something fret
ting her; but she won’t tell mo what it is.”
“ Shall I draw on my imagination and invent
ills ?” said Hetty, with a mournful little laugh.
“ Get as strong, and well as I am, Cissy, and
you may feel proud. When are you going to
leave this place ?”
“ Oh, soon 1” Cissy replied, gayly, readily fol
lowing the change of subject, as Hetty meant
she should. “We thought we'd stay on here
till we could get things together again and pay
up the rent. Jack’s got his eye on some lodg
ings now—part of a house, it is., I shall be get
ting about by the time ot the removal.”
“And how is Jack?” questioned Hetty.
“ Oh, he's getting on splendidly ! He likes
the new place Mr. Graham was good enough to
find ;or him.”
Geoffrey moved about the room restlessly.
Ever since Hetty had entered he bad been try
ing to devise some excuse lor leaving. Now, as
no plausible excuse suggested itself, he re
solved to go on without one. His presence was
evidently unwelcome to her; she was ill at ease
and avoided his glance.
“1 roust say good a.ternoon, Mrs. Waldron,
i’ll see Jack another day,” he explained.
“ Ulq you were going to wait for him:!” cried
Cissy. “ It’s just his time now.”
“He may be late,” said Geoffrey. “I shall
meet him-I have aot mnch to say.”
“It’s Miss Vandeleur who is driving you
away ?” questioned Cissy, with a power of pen
etration greater than her tact.
The charge was sudden ; he could not jn a
moment parry it naturally.
“ You will both be glad of a quiet chat to
gether,” he said, lamely.
“ Well,” returned Cissy, laughing, “there’s
nothing we shall say that a third mayn’t hear.
If I were Miss Vandeleur, I should be offended
at your running off on my account, just as soon
as I appeared.”
“ Miss Vandeleur will find it easy to forgive
me,” returned Geoffrey, quietly.
Hetty, with an effort, looked up and smiled
at him—a wintry, mirthless smile, that curved
her lips but did not light up her eyes. Her
feeling of anger against him was strong, but her
sense of humiliation was stronger than her
anger. The humiliation weighed her down,
and she could not treat him with the dignity,
indifference and disdain that she wished to
show.
Geoffrey gently shook her hand, and went
away. Cissy was talking volubly, and Hetty
answered her a little at random. Her thoughts
were busy; her heart was sore with misery and
deep humiliation. He had hurried away from
her without even disguising his reason for go
ing—his haste to go. Was he still, then, so
afraid ot her presence? Surely her refusal
should have reassured him, and given him a
feeling of security against his own weakness?
Did he fear .ho would be tempted to renew his
offer? Did he think she had reiused him in
haste and was now repenting her action, and
would answer differently, if he asked agate ?
Would he go home and report io Lady Dennis,
and hint to Fanny and to others, that she had.
perhaps by accident, perhaps by dseign, sought
him there that day, and that he had believed
“Dfsoretioa t? fee £vtsr mxt Yalw.” aad
had Us 4 J
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 4, 1887.
The torturing questions followed her home,
and notwithstanding all her efforts, she could
not drive them from her thoughts.
CHAPTER IX.
“IF THEBE IS ONE THING IN THE WORLD THAT I
HATS IT IS A MATCH-MAKER.”
Geoffrey Graham walked slowly down Bond
street one morning, a few days after his acci
dental meeting with Hetty, and found himself
half an hour too early for an appointment he
had made. Lady Dennis was showing a young
niece all that was suitable and proper for a girl
to see in London ; and Graham had promised
to meet them at Grosvenor. He went slowly un
the broad stairs, and strolled with his hands
behind him a little aimlessly around the rooms.
There were but few people there. A sad-faced
woman, in a drab gown and a little drab bon
net, was sitting alone, a penoil in her hand, and
on her knee a little black-covered book, wherein
she was entering rapid notes. She raised her
eyes and glanced at him absently as he passed;
her face seemed half familiar to bim, but he did
not trouble to call to mind where he had seen It
before.
He passed from the larger room into a small
er one beside it Here there was only one vis
itor—a slim, brown-haired girl, in a gracefully
draped brown dress.' She was standing at tho
end of the room near where he had entered,
looking at a long picture that hung just before
her. She turned at the sound of his footsteps,
and their eyes met. It was Hetty. His eyes
lighted up involuntarily and he went up to her,
with a tender smile that was half apologetic.
“I did not expect to see you here, ’ he said.
“No ?” returned Hetty coldly.
Neither had she expected to see him; but she
would not say so; she would not justify her
presence.
“ Are you alone ?” he questioned.
“ Miss Browne is somewhere here,” replied
Hetty nonchalantly.
There was silence for a few moments. Then
Geoffrey turned toward the girl, with a sudden
sparkle in his gray eyes.
“Have I offended you forever, Hetty?” he
said. “ I think -I willsay it candidly—that you
are unjust, unlike yourself to me. Ido not de
serve your scorn.”
“Doyou not?” said Hetty carelessly. “All
Is well if one’s conscience acquits one.”
“ I confessed that I loved you; 1 asked you to
be my wife. Any man at any moment might be
guilty of such a blunder.”
“Let us hope, however, thatmost will be pre
served from—from, as you say, ‘ such a blun
der ’,” returned Hettv bitterly.
“I cannot think I have deserved my puish
ment; it seems—shall I be honest again ?”
“ Oh, pray be so 1”
“ It seems entirely, absurdly disproportionate
to my offense. Now possibly my candor will
still further anger you.”
“I never quarrel with candor,” said Hetty
composedly. “It is too rare a virtue to treat
churlishly.”
“Hetty,” observed Geoffrey, after a few mo
ments’ pause, “ I do not know you nowadays.”
“It is a little difficult to say some things,” she
remarked slowly and quietly, her eyes fixed
upon the picture before her; “ but Ido not think
that I ever asked you to call me that—by my
name, I mean.”
He hesitated before answering her. Presently
he said gravely:
“I apologize. I will not offend again.”
They stood chle by »ido m ailence for what
seemed to both ot them a long time. Thou
Geoffrey made one more effort.
“As we can be no more to each other, let us
at least be friends,” he pleaded. “I could not
help loving you- call that my misfortune if you
will, but not my fault. It was a mistake to
speak to you ot my lovo, to imagine that I
could win you for my wife; but to look at the
mistake tolerantly—it is not on unpardonable
one. You treat ms as though the mere offer of
my love was an insult to you.”
“Yes; that is what it seems to me,” replied
Hetty calmly.
“That being so, there is nothing more to
Bay,” he rejoined.
“ No,” said Hetty.
He bowed gravely, and she sad “ Good morn
ing” with a smile. She moved away and joined
Judith, who had just come into the room and
was waiting for her.
“ Who was that?” Judith asked as they gain
ed the street.
“ ‘ That ?’ ” repeated Hetty.
“ You were speaking to some one, dear, when
I found you just now.”
Hetty looked up quickly, with a half-startled
glance.
“Judith—you know him,” she said. “Have
you forgotten him ? You saw him—it was Mr.
Graham.”
“ Hetty, I have made mischief,” said Judith,
looking gravely at tho girl. “It was not Geof
frey.”
They walked home in silence. It seemed to
Hetty that, with Judith’s testimony against
Geoffrey proved to be at fault, all evidence
against him was shaken. If one mistake had
been made, why not. more ?”
The doubt brought no joy to her. By her own
words, with deliberate intention, she had made
the quarrel eternal. They were less than ac
quaintances—less than strangers to one anoth
er now.
* * * * * *
Augusta sat sewing at the open window of the
drawing-room. Th© curtains were swaying
gently in the soft June breeze, and Augusta’s
hair was less smooth than was quite becoming
to matronly dignity. Fanny, dressed for walk
ing, stood tapping her foot impatiently on the
wooden framework of the open French win
dow.
“ You will not come, then, Augusta ?”
“ I cannot. Hetty is going to call on me this
afternoon.”
“Oh I I imagined that her visits had ceased
with the detection of Louis and Geoffrey !”
“She will come,” Augusta explained, “when
they are out of town—as they are now. ‘De
fection ?’ What do you mean by ‘ defection?’ ”
“ What does one generally mean by ‘do ec
tion ?’ They are both tired of her—and she
sees it—and is wise—she is too wise to waste
time in a hopeless cause.”
“ Now and then, Fanny,” remarked Augusta
mildly, “it seems tome that you are almost
spiteful. You know as well as Ido that she re
fused Louis.”
“Yes. No doubt she has regretted it,” said
Fanny with easy inconsistency.
“She reiused Goeffrey too,” Augusta added.
Did she? Well, I thought she would. I hope
Geoffrey feels grateful for his escape. I take
credit to myself for my diplomacy.”
“You have away of speaking sometimes in
conundrums, Fanny.”
“You find conundrums in very simple speech,
do you not? So she refused him. When was
that ?”
“ I don’t know when.”
“ Did she tell him that it was lack of gold that
frightened her ? You don’t know why she re
fused him, I suppose?”
“I suppose she did not love him,” said
Augusta.
“ Love had little to do with it, one way or the
other, 1 imagine. There are a few people in the
world—just one or two, Augusta—who are a
little more mercenary and a little less sentimen
tal than you and John—that is what you will
never understand. I told Hetty a little tale of
Geoffrey’s poverty—it had a salutary effect, you
see; I thought it would have. She refused him
promptly. I told her, wbat was very probably
true, that if Geoffrey offended his aunt by an
unsuitable marriage, lie would be treated ns his
cousin Geoffrey was —sent adrift into the world.
She did not like the little peep into p-auperism.”
Augusta put down her work, and looked up
with righteous indignation in her eyes.
“It was untrue. It could have had no posi
ble effect on Hetty—but it was untrue,” she ex
claimed. “ Lady Dennis would never have
opposed Geoffrey’s wish.”
“ Ab, that is your view. Lady Dennis, with
all her whims and fancies, is on the whole sen
sible. There was a parallel case—she washed
her bands of Geoffrey’s cousin for a similar
foolish engagement.”
“The cases are in no way parallel,” answered
Augusta. “ When Geoffrey—the other Geof
frey-entered into that engagement he was
already married He had been married for
years, and had kept the marriage a secret.
He wife was a poor girl who had been a maid
servant at an inn, and whom he kept out of the
way in the country. At the same time be had
fallen in love, and engaged himself to a girl
hers in London—a Miss Browne. Lady Dennis
discovered the marriage almost as soon as ho
told her ot his engagement. She did her best—
she did wbat seemed kindest. She tried to eave
Miss Browne the knowledge of the deception of
which ho was guilty. Khe made him write, as
though at her command, to break off the engag- -
ment. but she never forgave him—could you
expect it? She gave him money enough to*in
duce bim to go abroad, and stay there; and
there be died.”
“ Well, that's a long story, and not a very in
teresting oue,” .said Fanny. “If you won’t
come, I’ll go. Good-by.”
Augusta forgot her work when her sister was
gone, and for nearly an hour she sat thinking.
Fanny had attributed motives to Hetty that
were too absurd to be entertained ; but it was
not impossible'that .something Fanny had said
might have had some influence with £he girl.
If Hetty had been led to believe that a marriage
with her would estrange Geoffrey from his re
lations, and reduce him to poverty, some feel
ing ot generosity might have prompted the girl
to refuse him. And Fanny might have said
more than she had owned. She had always
been a mischief-maker.
Augusta was deep in € reverie when by-and
by Hetty arrived. She took off the girl's hat
and jacket and kissed her, and laughed at her
for her pale cheeks until Hetty laughed too, and
sat down with bright eyes at Augusta’s foot.
“ And how is John ?” she asked.
“Oh, John’s very well,” said Augusta. “ But
we’re not going to talk about John. Hetty, why
did you reiuso Geoffrey Graham? I want to
know.”
Hetty’s smile faded.
“ Did he tell you ? ’ she asked quietly.
“No; Lady Dennis told me.”
“ Was she relieved ?” inquired Hetty, her lip
curling a little. “ Did it greatly surprise
her ?”
“It did surprise her a little,” Augusta ad
mitted. “She thinks, you know, that every
one must be in lovo with Geoffrey. She pities
the folly of those who are not. Was it a ques
tion ol money. Hetty ?”
“ A question oi monvy ?” echoed Hetty, won
deringly.
“I have been talking to Fan. and I have been
thinking since.. But—you didn’t lovo him? Did
you love him, Hetty? No, you needn't answer.
I kffOW -1 Unnw.”
I girl’s iaca had suddenly ilushad; th®
blue-gray eyes that were averted had suddenly
become dim with tears. Augusta had no need
to ask her question again, though it went un
answered. She took Hetty’s hands in hers,
and the girl turned and looked up at her, her
lips tremulous, her eyes still glistening with
tears.
“ I cannot help it I” she said passionately, her
pride and her self-control disappearing to
gether; “lhave tried—l have tried—l cannot
help it! I think 1 shall always love him, even
—even though I hate him I”
Augusta did not smile at tho contradiction.
“1 thought, when Fanny was talking just
now, that it was what she had said that had
done it,” she observed reflectively.
“Did Fanny tell you ?”
“Yes. And I gave you credit, Hetty—oh, yes,
lam going to lecture you—l gave you credit for
more sense. So you refused him in order that
he might not be deprived of a few of his super
fluous luxuries—his champagne and burgundy
and cambric pocket handkerchiefs. Well, 1
know some girls have odd ideas of generosity.
Suppose the marriage had offended Lady Den
nis ! Suppose she had out off his allowance
and left her money to some one else—what
then ? He can use his brains and hands and
earn his own living, I presume. In fact, ho
does it already. And even supposing that for a
year or two h© was deprived of a few unneces
sary comforts—what a hardship, to be sure!
Hetty, Ido feel inclined to scold you. What is
the age coming to, when girls have no faith in
men and believe that their lovers hold them
no dearer than their money-boxes?”
“Butit was not that,” said Hetty, smiling
drearily through her tears. “It was the—the
other things that Fanny told me.”
Oh, it was the other things, was it ?” said
Augusta, disguising her ignorance of those
“other things,” and waiting for Hetty to
enlighten her.
“It was his—his being sorry—that he cared
for me.”
“Yes ; I see.”
“He regretted—did Fanny tell you—no re
getted that he had ever known me. He went
away to avoid me. He tried to forget me—and
was sorry that he couldn’t. He was impatient
with himself for his infatuation. That was
what he called it—‘folly/ ‘infatuation.’ He
said he feared one day he would be tempted to
ask me to be his wife. He said he knew that I
was waiting.”
“ And Fanny told you all this ?” asked
Augusta.
“ Yes. And I think—l think I have no pride
at all. Sometimes even now I want to see
him.”
“ When was it that she told you ?”
“ At the dance—your dance—that night.”
“ Had she found his private diary lying open?
Or did he confide in her ?”
“It was what he told Lady Dennie. I hated
bim then. I have tried to hate him ever since.
No, I have tried not to think of him —not to
think ol him at all—to be indifferent; and I
think—l think I am.”
“Oh, yes, that is clear,” said Augusta.
“ Hetty are you sure you did not dream all
this ?”
“But it is true,” said Hetty, looking up
quickly. “ Fany fold you, too ?” *
“ Some portion of it she told me—a small
portion,” responded Augusta. “Hetty, it is
difficult to say this about Fanny—but there is
nothing true, dear, in what she has said. On
that night—the night of our dance—Geoffrey
had never spoken of you to Lady Dennis. She
had heard of you from Fanny, but not from
him. And she was angry with him, sh© told
me, for keeping his love for you a secret from
her. Geoffrey wanted her to see you before he
told her. Here is John coming up the garden ;
we will go up stairs and finish our talk. I'oo*
little girl! all will come right. Don't look so
tragic, dear.”
“ Noth.ng can come right,” said Hetty. “I
said—l cannot tell you what I said : but noth
ing-nothing can ever come right again.”
* # * * *
It was Hetty’s last appearance as “Cicely.”
She sat on the edge of an ink-bespattered desk,
with her feet on a music stool, and mending a
black stocking with white cotton, and carefully
inked the stitches until they were of a decent
blackness ; and hummed all the while a little
song unconcernedly and undistractedly. Hetty
never knew much about her audience ; her eyes
rarely traveled about the house; but, as she
looked before her that night, threading her
needle and bumming her song, her glance sud
denly fell upon a face she knew; and she was
conscious for the rest of the evening that Geof
frey Graham sat next to Augusta, and was
steadily watching her. “Cicely’s ” heart beat
unreasonably over the mending of that stock
ing, but no one was the wiser for the tact. Her
hand was inclined to be unsteady as she held
the pen and dyed the stitches black, but it
passed unnoticed.
Geoffrey’s glance followed her every move
ment; nothing around him had power to dis
tract his attention; his gray eyes twinkled mer
rily sometimes, but he did not laugh.
Augusta talked cheerfully between the acts to
friends who sat behind her; and Geoffrey was
able to give bis undivided attention to the Ital
ian lake on the drop-scene. But now and then
she turned to him and made some remark
briefly and incidentally, and he smiled pleas
antly as he bowed his head to listen to her. She
had won his good-will forever by a little conver
sation which they had had in the afternoon.
He had always thought John happy in his wife;
he was willing henceforth to allow that Augusta
was a perlect woman.
“ Hetty is coming back with me to-night,” she
informed him casually once.
Two or three minutes later she looked round
at him again.
“1 think I will come back to see John to
night,” he said, slowly and reflectively.
The evening wore away. Geoffrey found him
self to be ot Louis’s opinion that the end of the
play was weak. Cicely, in a little gray school
girl frock, her hands crossed and her hair neat
ly arranged, stood looking down while an ath
let’c youth in boating flannels sat on a stile with
his hands in his pockets and made love to her.
Yes, the play grew weak and dragged toward
the end. That youth in the flannels was un
doubtedly a fool and spoiled the scene. Why
didn’t the fellow take his hands from his
pockets and stand upright? The whole scene
was poor and decidedly too long. He imparted
his opinion to Augusta, who smiled and dis
agreed.
He patronizes her very prettily,” said
Augusta, as the scene ended.
“Insufferably,” Geoffrey amended.
“ And Hetty plays the meek little school-girl
better than might have been expected.”
“I think,” said Geoffrey, urged to criticism—
“ I think—if there is a fault—she is too meek.”
“But then, you see,” returned Augusta, smil
ing, “she does not suppose that he is tempted
— against his judgment-regretfully to make
love to her. She does not suppose that all the
while he is with his better judgment bemoaning
bis infatuation.”
Geoffrey’s gray eyes twinkled and he bit his
lip.
“ How could she have thought me such a tool
—such an unmitigated fool ?” he exclaimed.
The outdoor air was cool and soft, the clear
sky was starlit, when a little later Hetty left the
theatre. Augusta was waiting for her, and
Hetty knew without looking up at his face that
it was Geoffrey who stood at the carriage door.
She had never mot him since that morning at
the Grosvenor, when she had told him that his
offer ot marriage was an insult to her. She did
not dare now to raise her eyes as she greeted
him. She put out her hand meekly and doubt
tully, and it seemed to her that he took it as
doubt ully as it was offered. Once, in the car
riage, she glanced thoughtlessly before her to
where he sat just opposite. She found that he
was looking her way; but he seemed as discon
certed as she when for an instant their eyes met.
She looked away again, her cheeks crimson, her
heart very heavy, with a sense of shame.
It was Augusta who did all the talking. Geof
frey had little to say; as for Hetty, she could
think of nothing but that last interview with
him, that last unfortunate speech ot hers, which,
whenever he saw her, whenever he thought ot
her at all, he must remember, and which she
must always be conscious of having made.
There was a little supper awaiting them when
they reached home, and John was very hospita
ble in forcing wine and chicken upon her, and
she felt, as she was not used to feeling, too shy,
too timid to raise her voice to refuse. If she
spoke or looked or moved, it seemed to her that
Geoffrey must be reminded of that miserable
speech o’ her? that haunted her; she was
ashamed <> tho sound ot # her own voice; she
made monosyllabic replies in a low tone as po
litely as a well-mannered little schoolgirl, and
found it difficult to look up as she made them.
It was a relief when the supper was over and
they moved up stairs into the drawing-room,
bhe began to feel less conspicuous; Augusta
was in good spirits, and John had much to say;
she could listen now without speaking o ten.
Geoffrey moved about aimlessly and restlessly;
presently he would surely go I
“ Hetty,” said Augusta at length, as though
the thought had suddenly occurred to her, “ I
think, when 1 was in the conservatory this af
ternoon, I must have left Letty’s pinafore that I
am making there. At the end, on the bottom
shelf.”
“Do vou mean that you want me to get it?”
asked Hetty, with a gentle laugh.
“ I will get it,” said Geoffrey quickly.
“ Hetty will bring it with the needle in,” ob
served Augusta, smiling.
Hetty ran away. Augusta, leaning back in
her chair, looked with merry eyes at Geoffrey.
“Perhaps you will take‘her a lamp,” she said.
Geoffrey followed with alacrity, and Augusta
and John were left alone together.
“If there is one thing in the world that I
hate,” declared Augusta, “it is a matchmaker.
But I did it very clumsily—say that I did it
clumsily, John.”
“it was a masterpiece of clumsiness, my
dear—there couldn’t be two opinions about it!”
returned John with fervor.
The conservatory was very still. There was
no need to hasten back. Hetty put up her
hands and clasped them behind her head,
and stood looking out between the branching
leaves at the moonlight and the clear night-sky.
For a brief moment, as Geoffrey reached the
doorway, he caught sight of her face as he had
never seen it before—wistful, tender, infinitely
sad. She heard his stop, and turned with a
startled glance as he entered.
“ I have brought a lamp,” he said.
Hetty’s face was crimson with blushes. It
was at the lamp, not at him, that she was look
ing. She spoke half timidly, with a faint smile.
“ Yes, it is rather dark,” she said. “ Will you
bring the lamp, out here ?”
She went on quickly now, and Geoffrey fol
lowed, holding the light high. What a pretty
knack she had of arranging her hair I She look
ed very pale to-night-perhaps it was the moon
light. Yes. ho had nlw«ys thought palg
' t&e color lor women s dreaeaa I
“This must be the pinafore,” said Hetty.
“ Yes, that must be it,” he said; but he put
down the lamp on a shelf between the ferns and
looked at the piece of lace and muslin doubt
fully.
“ Is it Letty’s ?” he asked absently.
“Yes, I think so,” said Hetty.
And is the needle in it ?”
“Oh, yes, it is all right 1 Will you be good
enough to bring the light back ?”
But the lamp still stood among the ferns, and
he did not offer to raise it. Instead of doing
so, he took possession of the hand that held the
pinafore.
“Hetty, n ho said quickly, “I want to talk to
you. * Will you listen to mo ?”
Half an hour later they came back to the
drawing-room. Geoffrey’s eyes sparkled with
joy. Hetty looked shyly and happily at Augus
ts. «
u And what has become of the lamp ?” asked
John.
“Ob, we forgot the lamp,” said Geoffrey.
“And where is the pinafore?” questioned
Augusta.
“We—we must have left the pinafore be
hind 1” said Hetty.
THE END.
shroujTsTofsnow.
BY M. QUAD.
It was a strango sight they saw—a squadron
of cavalry riding from Fort Benton to Fort
Shaw, up ths great southern branch of the Mis
souri Hiver. Three miles back from the stream,
on the level prairie, the Chinook winds and the
sun of a May day had melted the snow away
until eight human bodies were uncovered.
Eight savages in hunters’ outfit. Eight dark
skinned, fierce-browed denizens of plain and
prairie and foot-hills seated in a circle, heads
down, arms folded—stiff and dead as figures ot
stone. Within a radius of a mile tho hot sun
was rapidly uncovering the bodies of eight ponies
—starved, shrunken and Iving with legs drawn
up.
It was a sight worth halting to see.
* » » » * V
It is a December day, crisn and clear. The
sky is without a fleck, and the snn softens the
inch or two of snow on the ground at high noon.
From the north bend of the Marias Hiver, with
in a hundred miles of tho Canadian line, a party
of Indians set out the day before to return to
their village at Great Falls, on the Missouri. At
noon to-day they have still thirty miles to go.
Look np to the heavens and tell mo if you
ever saw a more serene sky on a Winter’s day.
Look to the right or the left—at the great
bowlders half covered with their white mantles
—at the hares skurrying over the snow - at the
distant figures ot the buffalos making for the
shelter of the foot-hills, and tell me if you have
the least cause for anxiety?
What is it ? Almost in the wave of a hand the
gentle chinook wind has ceased to blow, the
heat of the sun has died away, and there is a
chill in the air. The band halts. A look of
anxiety comes to every bronzed face. It is not
a phenomenon with those hardy redskins. They
know what is coming. They gather in a circle
to ask and answer a few questions, and then
every face is set toward the Missouri, and every
horse is urged to the top ot his speed.
An enemy in sight? Yes. White man—
hunters or soldiers ? No. To the northwest—
across the three great spurs of the Rocky Moun
tains—across the Dominion—within the gateway
of the Arctic Circle Nature was in travail last
night. From the depths of eternal ice and snow
a blizzard was born to be sent forth across a
great continent. It was given the wings ot an
mid n H.iutlo ot .now. All night long it
has been flying to the southeast, gathering new
strength as it whirled over the gloomy moun
tains—increasing its vigor as it ewept over the
frozen lakes and bays. The redskins have rid
den fast, bnt the blizzard has come taster.
There comes a sudden chill—the sun loses its
warmth—a haze spreads itself over the blue sky.
It is the warning of the blizzard. The deadly
snake rattles before it strikes. The cruel bliz
zard sounds a brief warning before it enwraps
its victims. The red men ride fast. It is thirty
miles to shelter—thirty miles of treeless, almost
level plain. The haze grows darker—the sun
is vailed—the chill is more keen. It is a vain
ride. Swooping dawn over the rocky range at
their backs in a blast ot fury, the blizzard rushes
across the plain like a winged demon let loose.
There are a few flakes of snow, a still greater
darkening of the day, and then, as a panther
leaps upon its prey, the icy storm struck the
redskins down.
There are men who have encountered the
blizzard as it rushed fresh from its lair in the
Arctic Circle. Those who live to tell of it bear
the scare of the battle. If it is terrible to us
after it has crossed a continent, losing its force
and sting at every mile, what must it be in its
new-born vigor ? There is a furious whirl of
snow—the darkness of night—a howling, scream
ing wind, traveling faster than anything which
flies. North, east, south, west arc blotted out
in ten seconds. The eyes of a tiger could not
penetrate that whirl three feet. The panther
with a cub beside a bowlder ten feet away might
search for it and miss.
It is a screaming, howling, shrieking revelry
ol death, and the victims are there. The horses
stopped in their tracks at the first wild blast.
Their riders dismounted and crowded close to
gether.
A white man would have run hither and
thither until lie fell from exhaustion. The In
dians sank down, wrapped their blankets
around them and saved their strength to die as
stoics. And thus they died. One hour of that
icy breath would have toppled over a buffalo.
There may have been a death-song. The re
quiem was chanted by the thousand furies cir
cling about. There may have been farewells,
but none lived to remember. As they sat with
bowed heads the chill of death came to their
hearts, the snow crept higher and higher, until
it hid them from sight. It was a wild burial,
even for savages.
¥ V V v *
We will ride on. Let the suns of May uncover
the dead for those who mourn them in the
lodges beside the Missouri.
HUMOR oFTIIE II'IUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREJSJPRESS FIEND.
DOWN ON MAW.
A boy was shouting “Fire 1” in a lusty man
ner in front of a house on Fourth avenue, the
other day, when a pedestrian hurried up and
asked where the fire was.
“ Hain’t any.”
“ Then what are you yelling for 1”
“To get maw to the door. She’s just got her
hair done up in curl papers, and when she
sticks her head out and shows it to the neigh
bors, she’ll be mad ’nuff to cry.”
A FABLE.
A couple of Fish were Swimming about a
Wharf one day, when a Man sat down on the
Edge of the Planks and Dropped in his Hook
and Line.
“See that?” queried one of the Fish. “He
thinks to Play us for Suckers with a bare Hook.
He has no Bait on it.”
“ My Son,” responded the other, “he has no
Idea of even getting a Bite. It is the Fish which
Men don’t Catch, that they Lie about.”
FELT MAD ABOUT IT.
“Kxonae me,” he said as he halted a citizen
OU the street, “ but I have a eure and apoedy
cure for that mild form of erysipelas in your
lace. It is only one dollar a bottle.”
“ Erysipelas’!” howled the other.
“I’ll warrant a cure in a very lew weeks.”
“You old idiot, don’t you know nothing!”
shouted the enraged man. “Erysipelas! Why,
I brought this face on me with whisky. Am I
to be insulted after working as I have for the
last twenty years ? Go on, sir, or I’ll do you
serious in.ury.
HAD SOME.
“ Any oysters ?” she timidly inquired at the
door of a fish-store.
“ Yes’m.”.
“ Thie year’s ?”
“ Yes'm.”
“Haven’t been packed and kept over Sum
mer?”
“ No, ma’am.”
“ Extra large and very nice !’•
“ Yes’m.”
“ Very well. I may take a notion this Fall to
have some.”
A SMILING FUTURE.
“I want to see the head ot this firm.” be said
as he entered a small store on Michigan avenue
and lound a boy seated on the counter reading
a dime novel.
“ He’s dead, sir.”
“ Didn’t be have no partner ?'•
“No.”
“Had a wife, I suppose?”
“Yes ; but she mortgaged the stock to go to
Mackinac for two weeks.”
“ And you are in charge?”
“ Yes, sorter in charge. That is, I sweep out
and sit here to tell folks that we’ve busted and
to please hold on until next Spring, when we
propose to open on the corner above and sell all
goods at the lowest cash price—no trust.”
NOT THAT KIND.
“ My name is Mosee Smith,” said a very black
man as he put his head into the general deliv
ery window at the post office yesterday.
“ No letter for you,” was the reply.
“ 1 didn’t ’spect one, miss. I’ze got one heah
I want to put back. Ize opened it, an’ it can’t
be fur me.”
“ Have you read it ?”
“I dun had Barber Jim read it to me. I
’spected it was a letter from my wife.”
“ And it isn’t?”
“No, ma’am. Dar’s a lock of ha’r inside
real red ha’r. De pusson who wrote it says it
ar’ a lock of baby’s ha’r, an’ dat baby cries fur
me.”
“ And it can’t be for you ?”
“How kin it, ma’am? Jist compare de ha’r
an’ see if it kin I ’Deed, ma’am, 1 isn’t dat kind
of a man myself. Dal's fur some odder Moses
Smith—some white teller.”
CAN’T DODGE ’EM.
A Wayne county farmer, who had a little time
to spare during the drought, went at it and
created seven artificial mounds to resemble
graves, in a field close to tho road. Sign boards
were put up and labeled: “ Tramp No. 1,”
“Tramp No. 2,” and so on through, and when
the work was finished the granger went up to
the house with a grin on his face, and said to
his wife :
“ That ’ere dodge will beat all the laws in
Michigan to keep tramps away.”
Breakfast was not yet over next morning when
there was a knock on the kitchen door, and the
1 farmer opened it to find five gaunt trasßus stallil
l ing in a buii-cacio,
"You here I” he yelled, as soon as he could [
credit his senses. "Didn’t you see those graves '
down by the road ?”
" We did. sir,” answered the oldest tramp
for all. " That’s just why we stopped. We
wanted to know if they come to their death by
over-eating ?”
THE BETTER WAY.
Yesterday morning a man, who appeared to
be a hardy son ot toil from the country, entered
a Grand River avenue saloon with a box under
his arm, and when the bartender moved around
to his place arid asked him what it was to be, he
said:
“Say, you’ve got a dog, haven’t you ?”
"Yes, efr.”
" Is he a fighter ?”
"He is.”
T>ii*? ood 1 Pve gofc ft ehunk in this box, and
111 bet you a five he can whip your dog. Just
lemme show ”
" Mister man,” interrupted the saloonist with
a wave of his hand, " do you ever drink ?”
" Well, sometimes.”
" Have something with me ?”
“ Don’t care ’f do.”
He set up two glasses of beer, and after they
were disposed oi he handed out a cigar, and
continued:
" I suppose you are in a hurry and want to be
off. Good-day to you.”
“Yes, rather in a hurry. Good-day, old fel-
S° rr y you don't want to see my pet, but
it s all right—nuff ced.”
A Band of Murderers.—An organ
ized band ot murderers has been detected in
Servia. The number oi their victims is said to
be over sixty. A fortnight ago a Russian car
pet merchant named Abramovics arrived at
I’irot to make his annual purchases. He took
up his quarters at one of the large inns oi the
town. Toward ten o’clock, while he was merry
making with a party oi friends, two gendarmes
called at the inn and requested Abramovics to
follow them to the Prefecture. As he had not
returned by two o’clock the next day, some of
his friends went to make inquiries at the Pre
fecture, and there they ascertained that he had
not been seen, and that no order had been is
sued for his arrest. Meanwhile, some peasants
found his body in an old entrenchment. In
formation was given to the Deputy Prefect, who
forthwith sent troops to arrest the lieutenant oi
gendarmerie and all his men. The former was
with difficulty prevented from committing sui
cide. According to a statement made by two
gendarmes, they received orders from their
lieutenant to take Abramovics to the police sta
tion. When he arrived there he was shown a
warrant of arrest issued against him charging
him with being a spy. He was told he would
be taken to the Bulgarian frontier, and that his
effects had been sent on before him. He was
put into a one-horse conveyance, but instead of
being driven to the Bulgarian frontier he was
taken to the entrenchments, murdered, and
robbed of 1,500 napoleons. The prisoners are
said to have confessed afterward that during
the last two years sixty people had been mur
dered in the same way. Twenty-two gold
watches and a large number of rings and lock
ets were found at their houses. Two corre
spondents of French newspapers who were at
Pirot during the war are supposed to be among
their victims. A telegram from Semlin states
that the lieutenant of gendarmerie under arrest
charges the Deputy Prefect of Pirot with com
plicity in the crimes. He has likewise been ta
ken into custody, and is reported to have con
fessed, alleging tha® in the case of Abramovics
and of another murder he acted on superior
orders. An official commission oi investigation
has been sent from Belgrade to Pirot.
Soldier-Dogs.—lt is now about three
years since the Germans began to train dogs
lor outpost service in time of war, the first
experiment being made at Lubben, in Prus
sia, and in Elsas. The dogs are all ot the
same breed —a breed not thought very
highly of among us. They are Pome
ranians or Spitzes, mostly white in color,
but occasionally gray, the gray ones being
chosen when possible, owing to their not being
so conspiuous. Our Spitz dogs are always
faithful as long as they are left at liberty, but,
once they are chained, little dependence is to
be placed upon them; and the same peculiarity
distinguishes the breed in its native country.
Each dog wears a light iron collar and pouch
for letters, but he is never tied up or led by a
string. His education is very carefully attended
to. He is taught to smell out a Frenchman or a
Hussian anywhere, and to know the difference
between foreign uniforms and that of his own
land. By certain sounds and gestures he is
taught to give his master notice of his discov
eries, and he has to run from post to post with
letters in his pouch, beside looking up the
wounded and straggling of the regiment to
which he belongs. Every company has two or
three dogs, so that the “regimental dogs’’ num
ber a couple of score at least; and these dogs
always go out with the advance guard. A
strange sight it is to see a German regi
ment on the march with the dogs behind
the band, each looking as important as if
he carried the proverbial field marshal’s
baton in his pouch. The dogs are always
stationed with the outer ring of sentries.
As soon as a stranger is noticed, off goes the
dog to investigate. A long sniff gives him the
characteristic odor, and back he comes to re
port. Should anything suspicious be noted,
away goes the dog, skirting hedges and woods
in search of an ambush. When the information
is complete, the report is written on a slip and
placed in the pouch, and the dog hurries off to
the rear officer in command.
A Kirghese Betrothal.—The Kir
ghese nomads never marry within the tribe or
aid. They are strict exogamists, and generally
seek a eon or daughter in law from a remote set
tlement, five hundred versts—a verst equals
about two-thirds of an English mile—being
deemed no distance to go in order to make a
suitable match. Owing to this, and the custom
of selling tbs bride, a betrothal becomes an ex
tremely complies ted affair to arrange, involving
much going to and fro on the part of the inter
mediaries. A series of entertainments has to
be given by both parties, at which innumerable
fat sheep-tails are consumed and washed down
with tea-soup flavored with cream and wild
herbs, and, as all the young women belonging
to an aul, married as well as unmarried, have a
right to take part in a transaction referring to
the disposal of one of their own sex, a betrothal
is always a very lively affair, and is made the
occasion ot a good deal of practical jolting,
A Curious Catch. —A few days ago
Willie and Charlie White, sons of Coroner
Ernest White, were boating with some friends
on the Brandywine at Birmingham Park.
During their ride over the placid waters they
noticed a large bass Jump out of the water
several times and then disappear. It soon re
appeared, and floundering around, approached
the boat. After a little effort, Willie White
reached out and caught the fish with his hands.
When it had been “ hauled in ” he found that
he had two fish, a bass and a catfish. They were
both fast together. The bass had attempted to
swallow the catfish, but “ bit ” the wrong way,
and one of its fangs punctured the upper part
of its month and the other the lower. Then both
fish were in a dilemma. The bass could not
swallow the catfish and Mr. Catfish could not
get away. It was certainly a remarkable catch.
—Philadelphia Star.
Pigeon-Flying.—The chief home of
pigeon-flying in Europe is Modena, where it has
been popular from time immemorial. It is
managed in much the same manner as in India.
The dovecots at Modena are on the roofs of the
houses, and their owners, when flying their
pigeons, stand on a little platform which sur
rounds them. Pigeon-Hying there is a regular
game. A skillful player trains his pigeons to
fly together in a troop, and, by whirling round
in circles, to confuse the pigeons of other
players until one or two of them get separated
from their respective fights and lost among
hie. He then signals his own pigeons to return,
when they bring the stray pigeon with them.
As the sport is at present practiced, captives
are redeemed for a small sum each; but for
merly the prisoner used to be publicly hung
from the platform of the conqueror.
A New System op Boot-Making.—
The Shoe and Leather liecord describes a sys
tem of fastening the soles to boots and shoes in
which the fastenings are driven from the inside,
the fastenings being first placed in the insole
and then the upper lasted over them. The fast
ening is of brass, with a conical front, barbed
all around the point, and the head is flat and
neatly formed. A machine is used to feed and
drive the fastenings at regular distances through
the insole. The insole is then laid on the last,
with the barbed points standing erect. Ths
upper is lasted over these pointsand pushed
down, leaving sufficient of the point still above
the upper to pierce half-way through the sole.
The sole is then laid on as though upon blind
ers, hammered down, and the process is com
plete. The heeling and finishing are performed
in the ordinary way.
Beauty.—People’s ideas of bsautv
differ so widely that what is all loveliness to one
may be the positive reverse to another. Beauty
is regulated by no arbitrary rule. Women can
not be too much upon their guard or toe watch
ful and exacting in the choice of a lover. It is
lunacy to suffer the affections to be taken cap
tive by beauty, genius, or fascinating powers,
before the reason is convinced of the soundness
of principle, purity of faith, and integrity of
mind ot the future husband; for one must look
beyond the days of courtship, beyond the calm
pleasant evenings, beyond the day of days, the
white gloves, and the orange-blossoms all
tremulous with the excitement of the wearer.
The after-years cannot be sustained in happp
ness on good looks.
Would-be Mashers.—Lady guests
at Long Branch are continually annoyed
by would-be "mashers.” One of the young la
dies who had been extremely annoyed by two
of the young loafers gave one of them a well
merited punishment last week. When he ac
costed her as she was on her way back to her
room from her bathing-house she slapped him
across the ‘ace with her French bathing-towel,
which was heavy with salt water and sand. The
indignant father of a pretty miss who had been
I the object oi the annoying attentions of one of
. the brainless fellows caught the fool by the
' throat and shook him nearly to pieces. Only
i the T'romnt interference ol the young man's
I iriuuUa xaaux. .
[ Remarkable Short-Hand Work.—,
Saya the Chicago Tribune : Isaac 8. Dement, t
Chicago stenographer, paralyzed the New Yuri
State Stenographers’ Convention at Alexandria
Ba y » day or two ago by doing some accuratj
short-hand reporting at a rate of over 250 words
per minute. For two years there has been ft
controversy between Eastern and Western stent
ographers relative to maximum speed in acciß
rate court reporting, Fred J. Ireland, of Dfl«
• 01 t? * th ore were stenographers
m Detroit and Chicago who could report 250
words a minute for several consecutive minutes
?S?o 8 ’ :< ? n Brose - A * p - Litfcle > of Rochester,
bet soo that rate could not be maintained fol
five consecutive minutes by any short-hand man
living. Mr. Dement casually dropped in and
remarked that Mr. Little might select his piece,
and he (Dement) would do the writing. Mr,
Dement there and then wrote 1,292 words in five
minutes, reading the notes back accurately ta
the committee. President Dickinson, of New
York, said he didn’t dream such speed was poij*
Bible, and handed over the laurels to Chicago
and the SSO to Mr. Dement.
A Tatooed Sailor.—A son of Nep
tune who sails the ocean blue on the good shin
Earnmore is in prison in Philadelphia. While
the ship was in quarantine the lazareete physl
cian ordered the crew vaccinated. One sailor
refused to submit, on the ground that it was q
barbarous outrage to deface the human forni
divine, and he would not have his person so
marred. They insisted; he resisted. Ha
whipped four men, but at last they got him in
prison and tied him down, and he besought tha
doctor with tears in his eyes to vaccinate him
where it wouldn’t show! In searching for a
quiet, retired spot, not already pre-empted,
they found tatooed on the tar’s broad breast, in
red and blue, a ship under full sail, the Go’d«
dess of Liberty on his right arm, the American
coat of arms and a girl on his left, a foul an
chor over his heart, the American flag on his
back, the signs of the zodiac around his waist
and the rest of his cuticular territory besDan*
gled with stars, crescents, anchors and mer
maids. The doctor vaccinated the sensitive sou
ot the sea on the end of his nose, the only bar®
place he could find.
A Smart Boston Saleswoman.—One
ot the visitors to a prominent Boston millinery
establishment the other day, was a lady who
was evidently seeking an article of headgeaj
that was both neat and cheap, but who, think*
ing it would be derogatory to her dignity ta
state exactly what she desired, consumed tha
time and the patience of the saleswoman by hei
inspection of nearly every hat or bonnet in the
place. She had one invariable comment as sh<3
returned each article to the saleswoman, and
that was that it was “ too decided,” whatever
that might be. At length she said, with an air
of extreme condescension and in the same unin*
telligible phraseology: " What I would like to
see is one of those nondescript nothings you
know what I mean.” The saleswoman had not
the remotest idea of what was meant, but, dis
gusted with the triflerand her monotonous com
ment on what had been shown her, replied
ironically: "I am sorry, madam, I cannot suit
you, but we neither deal with, nor in, nondescript
nothings; on the contrary, our goods and our
patrons are all very decided.”
Too Much Actualitj.—The priest of
the village of Canicatti, Sicily, a Sunday or two
ago, preached a sermon upon the terrors of the
Inferno, and in the midst of his discourse ha
suddenly stopped, and exclaimed, in tragical
tones: " Ecco it diavolo And there, sure
enough, was seen standing, near the pulpit, a
very fierce looking demon, all black, with two
great horns on his head and a long tail trailing
upon the floor. In an instant there was a panic
among the superstitious congregation, and in
the struggle to reach the doors many women
were injured, while others became ill from
sheer fright. The judicial inquiry, which at
once followed, plucked the heart out of tha
mystery. The priest, thinking to give " actual
ity ” to his sermon, had got up one ot his aco
lytes tn the semblance of the devil ot tradition a .
The father cannot be very well satisfied with tha
success of his experiment, one result of which
is that ho is likely to be sent to prison.
What Frightened Her.—A lady Hv
ng not manv miles from Charlottesville, Va., if
very much afraid of snakes. She had always
heard that when a snake is going to strike it
wraps the tip of its tail around some object to
give itself leverage. The other evening she re
tired to her room without a light, the weather
being extremely warm. She had been there but
a moment when her piercing shrieks aroused
the other inmates, who were informed that a
snake was on her bed. In passing her hand
over the bed the snake had wound the tip of his
tail around hot finger, preparatory to striking
the death-dealing blow. 'When a light waa
brought the family found the young lady in a
tainting condition with her finger inserted in the
ring of a shoe-buttoner.
An Ancient Bank Note.—The oldest
bank note in existence is said to be the one nor?
preserved in the Asiatic Museum at St. Peters
burg. Its date corresponds to 1399 B. 0. It
was issued by the Chinese government. As
early as 2697 B. C. so-called bank notes were
current in China under the name of "flying
money.” This note bears the name of the Im
perial Bank, date and number of issue, and th®
signature ot a mandarin, and contains even ft
list of the punishments to be inflicted for for
gery of notes. This relic of 3,200 years ago was
probably written by hand, as the earliest record
of printing among the Mongolians waa 160 A.
D., when the use of wooden table! was intro
duced into China.
A Boa Constrictor in a Sewer.—*
Some sewermen at work under the Boulevard
de la Villette, in Paris, were startled by a shrill
hissing sound, which they mistook for the call
of some men who might have descended into
the sewer on a nefarious errand. The foreman
resolutely took up a shovel and made his way
to the spot whence the sound proceeded, and
there discovered a boa constrictor coiled round
one of the water mains. Attacking it forthwith,
he succeeded in dispatching it by a few vigor
ous and well-directed blows. It is surmised
that the boa, which measured seven feet in
length and one foot in girth, had escaped from
a menagerie on exhibition at the fair at La Vil
lette.
Of Course She Needed Indemnifying!
—Mr. Sala tells a characteristic anecdote about
a French laundress. During the Paris Exhibi
tion of 1878 he had lost a shirt, or something
equally important. The blanchisscuse protested
her innocence, and, in spite of all that was said,
the article waa not forthcoming; it only re
mained to pay the bill. In it the missing shirt
stood charged among the items. The charge
was objected to, but the washerwoman shifted
her ground to meet the new attack—" All I
know is, monsieur, that I washed the thing be*
fore I lost it.”
Artificial Clouds. —An exchange
says that artificial clouds were recently created
for the protection of vines rom frost at Pagny,
’ on the Franco-German frontier. Liquid tar waa
1 ignited in tin boxes and pieces ot solid tar on
’ the ground near the vines. Large clouds of
smoke arose and protected the vines for two
' hours. Although vines in the neighborhood
‘ were injured by the frost, all that remained un
' der the clouds were left unin ured. Of cours®
such a procedure can succeed only in calm
weather; but it is in calm weather only that
white frosts occur.
The Oldest Botanical Work.—The
J oldest botanical work in the world is sculp
tured on the walls of a room in the great tem
-1 pie of Karnak at Thebes, in Egypt. It repre
. sents foreign plants brought home by an
Egyptian sovereign, Thothmes 111., on hla re
’ turn from Arabia. The sculptures show not
only the plant or tree, but the leaves, fruit and
i seed pods separately, after the fashion of mod
. ern botanical treatises. Mr. W. Flinders Pe
: trie, the well-known arch ? oiogist, has recently
, taken paper casts of thia very Interesting work;
’ A pickpocket observed in a crowd a
j gentleman wearing a heavy gold chain with a num
ber of massive charms attached. Edging up to him,
, he wks commencing with his usual skill to detach
’ the coveted object, when the gentleman turned
ronnd smiling and quietly remarked: “There, that
will do; I’m another.”
; A-Fanwus Doctor
Once said that the secret of good health
consisted in keeping the head cool, tha
feet warm, and the bowels open.O Had
i this eminent physician lived in our day,
and known the merits of Ayer’s Pills
as an aperient, he would certainly have
recommended them, as so many of his
distinguished successors are doing. v
The celebrated Dr. Farnsworth, oi
Norwich, Conn., recommends Ayer’s
Pills as the best of all remedies for
“Intermittent Fevers.” I
Dr. I. E. Fowler, of Bridgeport,
Conn., says: “Ayer’s Pills are highly
and universally spoken of by the people
about here. I make daily use of them
in my practice.” >
I Dr. Mayhew, of New Bedford, Mass.,
says : “ Having prescribed many thou
sands of Ayer’s Pills, in my practice, I
can unhesitatingly pronounce them thf»
best cathartic in use.” " : -»
The Massachusetts State Assayer, Dr.
A. A. Hayes, certifies : “ I have made a
careful analysis of Ayer’s Pills. They
contain the active principles of well,
known drugs, isolated from inert mat.
ter, which plan is, chemically speaking,
of great importance to the.ir usefulness.
It insures activity, certainty, and uni-,
formity of effect. Ayer’s Pills contain
no metallic or mineral substance, but
the virtues of vegetable remedies in
skillful combination.”
Ayer’s Pills,
Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mas®*