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iS W1LK1E. COLLINS.
CHAPTER II.-(Continued.) "Nonsense, child! When you are married you will know that the eaplest of all secrets to keep Is a secret from your husband. I give you my prom ise. Now begin!" Clara hesitated painfully. "I don't know how to begin!" she exclaimed with a burst of despair. "The words won't come to me." "Then I must help you. Do you feel ill tonight? Do you feel as you felt that day when you were with my sister and me in the garden?" "Oh, no." "You are not 111, you are not really affected by the heat and yet you turn as pale as ashes, and you are obliged to leave the quadrille! There must be some reason for this." "There Is a reason. Captain Held Ing " "Captain Helding What iu tho name Df wonder has the Captain to do with it?" "Ho told you something about the Atalanta. He said the 'Atalanta' was expected back from Africa Immediate ly." "Well, what of that? Is there any body In whom you are interested com ing home in the ship?" "Somebody whom I am afraid of 13 toming home In the ship." , Mrs. Crayford's magnificent black eyes opened wide in amazement. "My dear Clara! do you mean what you say?" "Wait a little, Lucy, and you shall Judge for yourself. .We must go back If I am to make you understand me to the year before we knew each otlv Br; to the" last year of my fathcr'3 life. Did I ever tell you that my father moved southward, for the sake of his health, to a house in Kent that was lent to him by a friend?" "No, my dear. I don't remember ever hearing of the house in Kent. Tell Die about It." "There Is nothing to tell except this The new house was near a flno country eat standing in its own park. The owner of the place was a gentleman named Wardour: He, too, was one of my father's Kentish friends. He had an only son." She paused, and played nervously with her fan. Mrs. Crayford looked at her attentively. Clara's eyes icmalned fixed on her fan Clara said no more, i "What was the son's name?" asked Mrs. Crayford, qu'.etly. I "Richard." 1 "Am I right, Clara, in suspecting that Mr. Richard Wardour admired you?" t The question produced its Intended effect. The question helped Clara to go on. "I hardly knew at flr3t," she paid, "whether he admired me or not, He was very strange in his ways- headstrong, terribly headstrong and passionate; but generous and affection ate In spite of his faults of temper. Can you understand such a character?" "Such characters exist by thousands. I have my faults of temper. I begin to like Richard already. Go on." f "The days went by, Lucy, and the weeks went by. We were thrown very much together. I began, little by little, to have some suspicion of the truth. "And Richard helped to confirm your suspicions, of course?" , "No. He was not unhappily for mo he was not that sort of man. He never spoke of the feeling with which he regarded me. It was I who saw it. I couldn't help seeing It. I did all t could to show that I was willing to be a sister to him, and that I could never be anything else. He did not un derstand me, or he would not I can't say which. Would not' is the most likely, my ovar. Go on. "It might have been as you say. There was a strange rough bashfulness about him. NHe confused and puzzled me. He never spoke out. He seemed to treat me as If our future lives had been provided for while we we.-e chil dren. What could I do,. Lucy?" -do i iou coum nave asked your Ifather to end the difficulty for you." "Impossible! You forget what I have jjust told you. My father was suffer ing at the time under the illness which jafterward caused his death. He was iuite unfit to interfere." "Was there no one else who could ielp you?" "No one." , "No lady In whom you could con Mde?" "I had no acquaintances among the ladles In the neighborhood. I had no friends." "What did you do, then?" "Nothing. I hesitated; I put off coming to an explanation with him nfortunately until it was too late." "What do you mean by too late?" "You shall hear. I ought to have (told you that Richard Wardour Is In the navy " "Indeed? I am more Interested In him than ever. Well?" ' "One spring day Richard camo to the house to take leave of us before he joined his ship. I thought he was gone, iand I went Into the next room. It was 'my own sitting-room, and It opened n to the garden." "Yes?" "Richard must have been watching me. He suddenly appeared In the gar (0a. Ynthgut waiting for me to In- NOY&L BY' INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION. vlte him, he walked into the room. I was a little ' startled as well as sur prised, but I managed to hide it. I said, 'What is it, Mr. Wardour?' Ho stepped close up to me; he said, in his quick rough way: 'Clara, I am going to the African coast. If I live, I shall come back promoted; and we both know what will happen then.' He kissed me. I half frightened, half angry. Before I could compose myself to say a word, he was out in the gar den again he was gone! I ought to have spoken, I know. It was not hon orable, not kind toward him. You can't reproach me for my want ot cour age and frankness more bitterly than I reproach myself!" "My dear child, I don't reproach you. I only think you might have written to him." "I did write." "Plainly?" "Yes. I told hlti in so many words that he was deceiving himself, and that I could never marry him." "Plain enough, in all conscience! Having said that, surely you arc not to blame? What are you fretting about now?" "Suppose my letter has never reached him?" "Why should you suppose anything of the sort?" "What I wrote required an answer, Lucy asked for an answer. The an swer has never come. What is the plain conclusion? My letter has never reached him. And the Atalanta is ex pected back! Richard Wardour is re turning to England Richard Wardour will claim me as hi3 wife! You won dered just now if I really meant what I said. Do you doubt it still?" Mrs. Crayford leaned back absently in her chair. For the first time since the conversation had begun, she let a question pass without making a reply. The truth is, Mrs. Crayford was think ing. She saw Clara's position plainly; she understood the disturbing effect of it on the mind of a young girl. Still, making all allowances, she felt quite at a loss, so far, to account for Clara's excessive agitation. Her quick observ ing faculty had just detected that Clara's face showed no signs of relief, now that she had unburdened herself of her secret. There was something clearly under the surface here some thing of importance, that ctill re mained to be discovered. A shrewd doubt crossed Mrs. Crayford's mind, and inspired the next words which she addressed to her young friend. "My dear," she said abruptly, "have you told me all?" Clara started as if the question ter rified her. Feeling sure that she had the clue in her hand, Mrs. Crayford deliberately repeated her question hi another form of words. Instead of an swering, Clara suddenly looked up. At the same moment a faint flush of color appeared in her face for the first time. Looking up instinctively on her side, Mrs. Crayford became aware c the presence in the conservatory of a young gentleman who was claiming Clara as his partner in the coming waltz. Mrs. Crayford fell Into thinking once more. Had this young gentleman (she asked herself) anything to do with the un told end of the story? Was this the true secret of Clara Burnham's terror at the impending return of Richard Wardour? Mrs. Clayford dscided on putting her doubts to the test. "A friend of yours, my dear?" she asked innocently "Suppose you in troduce us to each other?" Clara confusedly introduced the young gentleman. "Mr. Francis Aldersley, Lucy. Mr. Aldersley belongs to the Arctic Ex pedition." "Attached to the Expedition," Mrs, Crayford repeated. "I am attached to the Expedition too In my way. I had better introduce myself, Mr. Aldiirsley, as Clara seems to have forgotten to do It for me. I am Mrs. Crayford. My husband is Lieutenant Crayford of the Wanderer. Do you. belong to that ship?" "I have not the honor, Mrs. Crayfor. I belong to the Sea-Mew." Mrs. Crayford's superb eyes looked shrewdly backward and forward be tween Clara and Francis Aldersley, and saw the untold sequel to Clara's story. The young officer was a bright, hand some, gentleman-like lad just the per son to seriously complicate the diffi culty with Richard Wardour! There was no time for making any further in quiries. The band had begun the pre lude to the waltz, and Francis Alder sley was waiting for his partner. With a word of apology to the young man, Mrs. Crayford drew Clara aside for a moment and spoke to her in a whisper. "One word, my dear, before you re turn to the ball-room. It may sound conceited after the little you have told me but I think I understand your po sition now better than you do your self. Do you want to hear my opin ion?" 'I am longing to hear it, Lucy! I want your opinion; I want your ad vice." 'You shall have both, in the plainest and the fewest words. First, my opin ion: You have no choice but to come to an explanation with Mr. Wardour as soon as he returns. Second, my ad vice: If you wish to make the ex planation easy to both sides, take care that you make it in the character of free woman." She laid a strong emphasis on tho last three words, and looked pointedly at Francis Aldersley as rhe pro nounced them. "I won't keep you from your partner any longer, Clara," sl- resumed, and led the way back 10 thb ball-room. CHAPTER III. HE bunion of Clara's mind weighs on It mora heavily that ever after what Mrs. Crayford has said to her. She Is too unhappy to feel the Inspiriting in fluence of the dance. After a turn round the room vhe complains of fa tigue. Mr. Francis Aldersley locks at the conservatory (still as invitingly cool and empty as ever), leads her back to It, and places her on a seat among the shrubs. She tries very feebly to dismiss him. "Don't let me keep you from danc ing, Mr. Aldersley." lie seats himself by her side, and feasts his eyes on the lovely downcasl face that dares not turn toward him. He whispers to her: "Call me Frank." She longs to call him Frank she loves him with all her heart. But Mrs. Crayford's warning words are still In her mind. She never opens her lips. Her lover moves a little closer, and asks another favor. Men are oil aiike on these occasions. Silence invariably encourages them to try again. "Clara! have you forgotten what I said at the concert yesterday? May say it again?" "No!" "We shall sail tomorrow for the Arc tic Seas. I may not return for years. Don't send me away without hop-j! Think of the long, lonely time in the dark North! Make it a happy time for me. Though he speaks with the fervor of a man, he is little more than a lad; he is only twenty years old and he is go ing to risk his young life on the frozen deep! Clara pities him as she never pitied any human creature before. He gently takes her hand. She tries' to release it. "What! Not even that little favor on the last night?" Her faithful heart takes his part, in spite of her. Her hand remains in his and feels its soft, persuasive pressure She is a lost woman. It is only a ques tion of time now! "Clara! do you love me?" There is a pause. She shrinks from looking at him she trembles with strange contradictory sensations of pleasure and pain. His arm steals round her; he repeats his question in a whisper; his lips almost touch her little rosy ear and he says it again, "Do you love me?" (TO BE CONTINUED.) FIFTY-SIX A DANGER POINT. llrnrare How You Live to This Age It You Have Uenlm! Fifty-six years seems to be a fatal age for people of genius, says the New York Times. Among those who have died at that age may be mentioned Dante, the Italian poet; Hugh Capet, king of France; Henry VIII., king of England; Henry IV., emperor of Ger many; Paganini, Italian violinist; Alexander Pope, English poet; George Sala, English orientalist; Marcus Afirelius, emperor of Rome; Frederick I., king of Prussia; John Hancock, American statesman; Marie Louisa, empress of France; Philip Massenger, English dramatist; Saladin, the great sultan of Egypt; Robert Stephenson, English engineer; Scipio Africanus, Roman general; Helvitius, French philosopher and author; Henry II., tho first of the Plantagenet line; the older Pliny, Roman naturalist and author; Julius Caesar, Charles Kingsley, Eng lish author; Juan Prim, Spanish gen eral and statesman; Henry Knox, American revolutionary general; Thomas Mifflin, American patroit; Von Tromp, Butch admiral; Abraham Lin coln, Marryat, the novelist; Georgo Whitefleld, English founder of the Cal vinistic methodism; Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, favorite of Queen Elizabeth; Johann Gaspar Spurzheim, German physician and phrenologist, and Frederick II., emperor of Germany. Making- the Mont of Life. ' To make every day count, one must H have faith in the every-day possibili ties of life. One of the reasons for th long torpid seasons which afflict so many lives is the prevalence of the Idea that the supply of active life dealt out to each man is too small to cover the allotted period, and that, therefore, one must be content merely to breathe a good part of the time. To many a man life Is faithfully represented by the old-fashioned corn-mill on the lit tle mountain stream, with a wheel so large and a water supply so small that, after grinding a few hours, It must be shut down for an indefinite period to wait for more power. Noth- ' lng could be farther from the Scriptural Idea. If we would do our beet every day, it Is not necessary for us to believe that one day may be as fruitful as an other; but we ought to believe that In the days which have been allotted to us there are no blanks. Sunday School Times. The millers arVgreaTK annoyed by worms which appear lrr the flour from time to time and then mysteri ously disappear, without Impairing tht value of the flour TALMAGE'S ' SERMON. "A MOMENTOUS QUESTION," LAST SUNDAY'S SUBJECT. From tlie Following Text, James IV. 14: What Ii Your Mr? Yen. Lire la Worth Living If I'eoplo Will Only Live fur liod. F we leavo to t?io evolutionists to guess where we came from and to the theologians to prophesy where we are going to, we still have left for consideration the important fact that we are here. There may be some doubt about where the river rises, and some doubt about where the river empties, but there can be no doubt about the fact that we are sailing on It. So I am not surprised that everybody asks the question, "Is life worth living?" Solomon in his unhappy moments, says It is not. "Vanity," "vexation of spirit," "no good," are his estimate. The fact is that Solomon was at one time a polygamist, and that soured his disposition. One wife makes a man happy; more than one makes him wretched. But Solomon was converted from polygamy to monogamy, and the last words he ever wrote, as far as we can read them, were the words "moun tains of spices." But Jeremiah says life is worth living. In a book sup posed to be doleful, and lugubrious, and sepulchral, and entitled "Lamenta tions," he plainly intimates that the blessing of merely living is so great and grand a blessing that though a man have piled on him all misfortunes and disasters he has no right to com plain. The ancient prophet cries out in startling intonation to all lands and to all centuries, "Wherefore doth a living man complain?" A diversity of opinion in our time as well as in olden time. Here is a young man of light hair and blue eyes and sound digestion, and generous sal ary, and happily affianced, and on the way to become a partner In a commer cial firm of which he is an important clerk. Ask him whether life is worth living. He will laugh in your face and say, "Yes, yes, yes!" Here is a man who has come to the forties. He is at the tip-top of the hill of life. Ev ery step has been a stumble and ; bruise. The people he trusted have turned out deserters, and money he has honestly made he has been cheated out of. His nerves are out of tune. He has poor appetite, and the food he does eat does not assimilate. Forty miles climbing up the hill of life have been to him like climbing the Matter horn, and there are forty miles yet to go down, and descent is always more dangerous than ascent. Ask him whether life is worth living, and he will drawl out in shivering and lugu brious and appalling negative, "No, no. no!" How are we to decide the matter righteously and intelligently? You will find the same man vacillating, os dilating in his opinion from dejection to exuberance, and if he be very mer curial in his temperament it will de pend very much on which way the wind blows. (If the wind blows from the northwest and you ask him, he will say, "Yes," and if it blow from the northeast and you ask him he will say, "No." How are we then to get the question righteously answered? Sup pose we call all nations together In a great convention on eastern or western hemisphere, and let all those who are in the affirmative say "Aye," and all those who are in the negative say "No." While there would be hundreds of thousands who would answer in the af flrmative, there would be more millions who would answer in the negative, and because of the greater number who have sorrow, and misfortune, and trou ble, tho "Noes" would have it. The answer I shall give will be different from either, and yet it will commend itself to all who hear me this day as the right answer. If you ask me, "Is life worth living?" I answer, It all de pends upon the kind of life you live. In the first place, I remark that a life of mere money getting is always a fail ure, because you will never get as much as you want. The poorest people in this country are the millionaires. There is not a scissors grinder on the streets of New York or Brooklyn who is so anxious to make money as these men who have piled up fortunes year after year in storehouses, in government se curities, in tenement houses, In whole city blocks. You ought to see them Jump when they hear the fire bell ring. You ought to see them in their excite ment when a bank explodes. You ought to see their agitation when there is proposed a reformation in the tariff. Their nerves tremble like harp strings, but no music in the vibration. They read the reports from Wall street In the morning with a concernment that threatens paralysis or apoplexy, or, more probably, they have a telegraph or a telephone in their own house, so they catch every breath of change In the money market. The disease of ac cumulation has eaten into them eaten Into their heart, into their lungs, Into their spleen, into their liver, into their bones. Chemists have sometimes analyzed the human body, and they say It Is so much magnesia, so much lime, so much chlorate of potassium. If some Chris tian chemist would analyze one of these financial behemoths he would find he was made up of copper, and gold, and silver, and zinc, and lead, and coal, and iron. That Is not a life worth living. There are too many earthquakes In It, too many agonies in it, too many perditions in It They build their castles, and they open their picture galleries, and they summon prima dnnas, and they offer every In ducement for happiness to come jnd 4 live there, but happiness will not come. They send footmanned and postlllloned equipage to bring her; she will not ride to their door. They send princely es cort; she will not take their arm. They make their gateways triumphal arches; she will not ride under them. They set a golden throne before a golden plate; she turns away from the ban quet. They call to her from uphol stured balcony; Bho will not listen. Mark you, this Is the failure of those who have had large accumulation. And then you must take into consid eration that the vast majority of those who mako the dominant idea of life money getting, fall far short of afflu ence. It Is estimated that only about two out of a hundred business men have anything worthy the name of suc cess. A man who spends his life with the one dominant idea of financial ac cumulation spends a life not worth liv ing. So the idea of wordly approval. If that be dominant In a man's life he Is miserable. Every four years the two most unfortunate men in this country are the two men nominated for the presidency. The reservoirs of abuse, and diatribe, and malediction gradual ly fill up, gallon above gallon, hogs head above hogshead, and about mid summer these two reservoirs will be brimming full, and a hose will be at tached to each one, and It will play away on these nominees, and they will have to stand It, and take the abuse.and the falsehood, and the caricature, and the anathema, and the caterwauling, and the filth, and they will be rolled in it and rolled over and over in it until they are choked and submerged, ar d strangulated, and at every sign of returning consciousness they will be barked at by the hounds of political parties from ocean to ocean. And yet there are a hundred men today strug gling for that privilege, and there are thousands of men who are helping them in the struggle. Now, that Is not a life worth living. You can get slan dered and abused cheaper than that! Take It on a smaller scale. Do not be so ambitious to have a whole reservoir polled over on you. But what you see in the matter of high political preferment you see in every community in the struggle for what is called social position. Tens of thousands of people trying to get into that realm, and they are under ter rific tension. What is social position? It is a difficult thing to define, but we all know what it Is. Good morals and intelligence are not necessary, but wealth, or a show of wealth, Is abso lutely indispensable. There are men today as notorious for their libertinism as the night is famous for its darkness who move in what is called high social position. There are hundreds of out-and-out rakes in American society, whose names are mentioned among the distinguished guests at the great le vees. They have annexed all the known vices and are longing for other worlds of diabolism to conquer. Good morals are not necessary in many of the exalted circles of society. Neither is intelligence necessary. You find in that realm men who would not know aa adverb from an adjective if they met it a hundred times in a day, and who could not write a letter of acceptance or regrets without the aid of a secretary. They buy their li braries by the square yard, only anx ious to have the binding Russian. Their ignorance is positively sublime, mak ing English grammar almost disrepu table. And yet the finest parlors open before them. Good morals and Intel ligence are not necessary, but wealth or a show of wealth. Is positively indis pensable. It does not make any differ ence how you got your wealth, if you only got It. The best way for you to get into social position is for you to buy a large amount on credit, then put your property in your wife's name, have a few preferred creditors, and then make an assignment. Then dis appear from the community until the breeze is over, and come back and start In the same business. Do you not see how beautifully that will put out all the people who are in competition with you and trying to make an honest liv ing? How quickly It will get you into high social position? What is the use of toiling with forty or fifty years of hard work when you can by two or three bright strokes make a great for tune? Ah! my friends, when you really lese your money how quickly they will let you drop, and the higher you get the harder you will drop. Amid the hills of New Hampshire, In olden times, there sits a mother. There are six children in the household four boys and two girls. Small farm. Very rough, hard work to coax a liv ing out of it. Mighty tug to make two ends of the year meet. The boys go to school in winter and work the farm In summer. Mother is the chief presiding spirit. With her hands she knits all the stockings for the little feet, and she is the mantuamaker for the boys, and she is the milliner for the girls. There is only one musical Instrument In the house the spinning-wheel. The food is very plain, but it Is always well provided. The winters are very cold, but are kept out by the blankets she quilted. On Sunday, when she appears In the village church, her children around her, the minister looks down, and is reminded of the Bible descrip tion of a good housewife "Her chil dren arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he pralseth her." Some years go by, and the two old est boys want a collegiate education, and the household economies are se verer, and the calculations are closer. and until those two boys get their edu cation there is a hard battle for bread. One of these boys enters the university, stands In a pulpit widely influential, and preaches righteousness, judgment, end temperance, and thousands dur ing his ministry are blessed. The other lad who got the collegiate education goes Into the law, and thence Into leg islative halls, and after a while be commands listening Senates as he makes a plea for the downtrodden and the outcast. One of the younger boys becomes a merchant, starting at the foot of the ladder but climbing on up until his success and his philanthropies are recognized all over the land. The other son stays at home because he prefers farming life, and then he thinks he will be able to take care of father and mother when they get old. Of tho two daughters: when the war broke out one went through the hos pitals of Pittsburg Landing and For tress Monroe, cheering up the dying and the homesick, and taking the last message to kindred far away, so that every time Christ thought of her, he said, as of-old, "The same Is my sister and mother." The other daughter has a bright home of her own, and in the afternoon the forenoon having been devoted to her household she goes forth to hunt up the sick and to en courage the discouraged, leaving smiles and benediction all along the way. But one day there start five telegrams from the village for these five absent ones, saying: "Come, mother is dan gerously ill." But before they can be ready to start, they receive another telegram, saying: "Come, mother Is dead." The old neighbors gather In the old farmhouse to do the last offices of respect. But as that farming son, and the clergyman, and the senator, and the merchant, and the two daugh ters stand by the casket of the dead mother taking the last look, or lifting their little children to see once more the face of dear old grandma, I want to ask that group around the casket one question: "Do you really think her life was worth living?" A life for God, a life for others, a life of unselfishness, a useful ife, a Christian life is always worth living. I would not find it hard to persuade you that the poor lad, Peter Cooper, making glue for a living, and then amassing a great fortune until he could build a philanthropy which has had Its echo in ten thousand philanthropies all over the country I would not find It hard to persuade you that his life was worth living. Neither would I find it hard to persuade you that the life of Susannah Wesley was worth living. She sent out one son to organize Meth odism and the other son to ring his anthems all through the ages. I would not find it hard work to persuade you that the life of Frances Leere was worth living, as she established in England a school for the scientific nursing of the sick, and then when the war broke out between France and Ger many went to the front, and with her own hands scraped the mud off the bodies of the soldiers dying in the trenches, and with her weak arm standing one night in the hospital pushing back a German soldier to his couch, as, all frenzied with his wounds, he rushed to the door, and said: "Let me go, let me go to my libe mutter," major-generals standing back to let pass this mgel of mercy. But I know the thought in the minds of hundreds of you today. You say, i'While I know all these lived lives worth living, I don't think my life amounts to much." Ah! my friends, whether you live a life conspicuous or inconspicuous, it is worth living, if you live aright. And I want my next sen tence to go down into the depths of all your souls. You are to be rewarded, not according to the greatness of your work, but according to the holy Indus tries with which you employed the tal ents you really possessed. The ma jority of the crowns of heaven will not be given to people with ten talents, for most of them were tempted only to serve themselves. Tho vast majorlt, of the crowns of heaven will be givet to people who had one talent, but gave it all to God. And remember that our life here is introductory to another. It is the vestibule to a palace; but who despise,? the door of a Madeleine be cause there are grander glories within? VICISSITUDE. The "Original Marks," Once a Judge, In Poverty In Chicago. The original of "My name is Marks. I'm a lawyer, shake," is living in poor circumstances in Chicago at the age ot eighty-three. His name is Abraham Marks. He says that Mrs. Stowe wish ed to localize "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and some one told her he was the only attorney in the vicinity. Judge Marks he was made a probate judge by Sam Houston has had a checkered ca reer. Graduating from Union College in 1832, he studied law, was admitted to the bar, and went to New Orleans. From there he went to Monroe, La., where he established the Standard. His conduct of that paper drew him in to several duels and he was indicted half a dozen times for libel. In 1837 lie met a fire-eater named Alexander on "the field of honor," and escaped with a bullet through his coat. After this duel he started for Texas on horseback. At Houston he met the famous Sam Houston, then president of the Texan Republic. Houston made him Judge ot the Probate Court at San Antonio. He remained In Texas a number of years and then returned to Arkansas. All his life Judge Marks has been an ac tive politician. He was at first a Whig, but afterwards became a Repub lican, to which party he has belonged since it was born. In 1856. He says that when he was a very small child his parents, who lived at Pensacola, were intimate with Gen. Jackson's fam ily, and that he remembers seeing Mrs. Jackson sit in the chimney corner and smoke a pipe. He asserts that Henry Ward Beecher once told him confiden tially that if he could see the manu script of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" he would see that he (Beecher) had written a large part of the book. A scientific Dane cla.r mat a sleep ing plant exposed for some time to th? fumes of chloroform or ether U aroused Into activity, the effect of aa anaes thetic on a plant being the reverse of what It is on an animal.