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Thorns and Orange Blossoms.
UY THE AUTHOR OK ROMANCE OF A YOUNG GIRL. Continued. •Yes; I see," ne replied. "How musical the sound of falling water Is-” "In the moonlight that fall makes a beautiful picture, and I often come here to look at it. I sometimes think it was through just such a wood as this that poor jueen Guinevere rode with the hanusome knight by her side; but my aunt says that all fancies are ridiculous, and that we ought to think only of what is real.” "This world is beautiful enough,” he said; "but I almost think the world of fancy is more beautiful still.” Violet gave a quick, glad smile. It was so delightful to have some taste In common. By this time Randolph, Lord Ryvers, had completely lost his heart. He thought that this was the most nat ural, beautiful, graceful girl he had ever seen, and that she completely out shone all the great ladles of his ac quaintance. His heart beat fast as he looked at her. But there was no thought of love In Violet Beaton’s mind or heart. She had an Idea that she was not acting in the most prudent manner possible, though it was delightful to talk to someone who was young like herselt. Presently a change came over her exquisite face —a shadow fell upon it. “I understand,” she said, "what it is to lead a life of repression. I have little time to myself; and everything 1 liko best l havo to deny ipyself. In our house everything goes cn like machinery; we do the same thing every day at the same time. I do not remember the least variety or any brake In the monotony for years." "And you have never been from St Byno's in your life?” he repeated. It seemed to him a most extrarodln ary thing to have lived always in .e same place. "My mind and heart and brain travel,” she said. "There will come a change Into my ilfe some day. I have often thought about the time when I shall go out Into the great world;” and the beautiful eyes looked as though they fain would pierce the mists which obscured the future. la>rd Ryvers was at a loss what to say to her; yet he was afraid to re main silent, lest she would deelare that it was time to go. “Did they call you ‘Violet” because of the color of your eyes?” he asked. “No,” she laughed; "my mother gave me the name because she was par ticularly found of violets. All my of fenses, in my aunt's eyes, are summed up in that name, ‘Violet.’ ” “Do you know the poem of the 'Queen's Marys'?” asked Lord Ryvers. "Your name reminds me of it. It be gins— “'There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton, And Mary Carmichael, and me.’ Are you descended from those same Heatons?” “I should think not; I should hope not," she replied. “Hope not! Why?" be asked. She looked round at him with Im patient scorn, her face flushed, her eyes shining. "I have strong likes and dislikes,” sho replied; “but, if there is one thing 1 dislike more than another, it is what you call —you people who live in the outer world, I mean -the aristocracy." He shrunk bach as though she hau struck him. “What an extraordinary thing!” he said. "Why should you hate them? What have the aristocracy done to you?” “Nothing to me,” she answered. "But during the winter nights, while Aunt Alice and I sit sewing, she tells me stories of the aristocracy. Aunt Alice has seen a great deal of life, and sh( retails her experience for tny benefit." "I think the—the aristocracy quite ns good as their neighbors,” he said. “That Is because you do not know them,” she remarked triumphantly. “You have lived your life amongst the beauties of art and nature. What should you know of the follies, the stns, the Idle, useless, frivolous lives of aristocrats?’’ “Why, 1 belong to them!" he was about to say. when he suddenly remem bered that it would be very bad policy on his part to tell her that lie was an aristocrat, seeing that she had openly proclaimed her dislike of them. So lie answered quietly. ”lf you will te.ich me. 1 will dls'.lke them also.” Dislike comes by Instinct, not by training or teaching,” she remarked; an l then she added, hurriedly, ”1 must go;” and l,ord Ryvers felt all at once a new and strange feeling of desolation. ”1 must go,” repeated Violet Beaton. “This is just the time that Aunt Alice takes a solemn promenade round thp flower-garden. I carry the basket, whilst she cuts the dead leaves from their stalks and otherwise does a little amateur gardening.” “You will let me see you agalu,” I/ord Ryvers urged; "you will not refuse?” “I pass by here often,” she answered, "and 1 shall be glad to see how your pictures progresses. If I were In your place 1 should devote the morning to getting that sunshine right.” He thought to htmseif that this the most eventful morning of his life would be spent In dreams of her. "I am very unwilling to say gcou morning, Miss Beaton; but I say it, hoping ttvt I may enjoy the happiness of renewing our acquaintance to morrow.” "I have been happy too,” she said; but there was no confusion or embar rassment in her manner. “It is pleas ant talking to people of one’s own age. they have so much more sympathy than one’s elders. I have told you my name,” she added suddenly; “if 1 want to think of your picture and of ycu, by what name must I remember you?” After her unexpected denunciation of aristocrats, he dared not tell his name ard title, lest she should avoid him in the future "My name is Randolph,” he an swered. "Good morning then, Mr. Randolph, she said, with a bright smile. “Now I go to receive the reprimand of a justly angered aunt.” He whtched the pale blue dress aB it disappeared amongst the trees. “To think that I should meet my fate here, on a bright June morning!” he said to hltnself. “Yet love and June and roses seem naturally to go to "ether.” He watched until the last vestige of the blue d:est} vanished, then he began to blame himself. Why had he not said more to her? Why had he not dared te!i her the first time he saw her how well and how dearly he loved her? And, at least, if he had not gone so far as that, he might have asked her to make an appointment with him. What if she had gone out of his life, and he should never see her again? llow foolish he had been to let her go? The only thing left for him was to be sure to be here on the morrow. As for the future, he did not even care to think of it. He would leave the paint ing until another day, when he should be less haunted by that exquisite face. What was the beauty of sunshine ami leaf to him, whose mind was filled with a far loveler vision? "I have often wondered whom l should love, where I should see her first, in what guise she would come to me, and how fair she would be,” be thought: "and now my questions are nil answered at once. I have met he; In the grand old woods of St. Byno’s on the brightest day of the year; and she has come to me in the fairesl guise, for she has the lovlest face I have ever seen. How I wish she could have stayed with me for a few hours!” And then he closed the easel and walked down the glade, the words of a quaint old ballad rising to his lips the while. He trolled them out in a deep, clear voice, and seemed to derive wonderful satisfaction from them. “Wrong not, sweet mlßtress of my heart. The merit of true passion With thinking that he feels no smart That sues for no compassion. I “Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty; | A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity. "Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My love, for secret passion; He smartest most who hides his smart And sues for no compassion." Lord Hyvers said to himself ghat some day, when they were alone In this woodland glade, he would sing that ballad for her. It said more than he could say, for !t told of the silent struggle of deep love to make Itself understood. The only cloud that over shadowed this the fairest dawn of love was that Violet Beaton disliked aristo crats. He would have to combat that dislike, and make her own that ati aristocrat was as good as a commoner r.eanwhile the object of his dreams hastened through the woods, crossed the pretty rustic bridge that spanned the river, opened the garden gate, and looked up with laughing eyes at the tall, erect figure awaiting her there. "Violet," said the stern Miss Athor ,t hi. “you know that I attend to the garden every day at twelve o'clock; It ;s now half an hour behind the ap pointed time. Where have you been?" The recollection of where chc hid been, and with whom, and what hei ant would say. if she knew it. b: Ightened the laughing eyes. "1 have been in the woods, Aunt All 1 know that I am late, and I ant sorry for it. I will make up for It by working doubly hard now." Miss Atherton was somewhat molli fied. and she said more gently; s “I will overlook It this once, but it must uot happen again; duties must be performed first, pleasure is an after consideration." So Violet Heaton took the basket obediently, and attended her aunt in her gardening <•; orations. Miss Ather ton was as scrupulous In her garden as in her house, no no dead leaves, no dying flowers were permitted there. She was In an unusually vtborous mood this morning; the scissors wore In use constantly, and blossom after blossom fell—for she had a great dis like to what she called the untlu.ucss uf dvlnu flowers. * “The roce would have lasted another week, aunt,*’ Violet protested, as she watched Mies Atherton snip off a fin" damask rose which was s ’'Hie faded. are here to carry the basket. not tf>jjnSke wwusients,’’ was Mis? Athertfm’s curt reply. thoughts went back to an incident in her childhood. Miss Ather ton had given orders to have the grass an the little lawn mown. It was stud led with white dasies that had been the very pride and delight of the child'r. f'tart—wide-open dasies with golden eyes; and, ,vhen she saw them cut down by the scythe, she cried bitterly. Miss Atherton was exasperated. It vaa bad enough to have a n!ccc; it was worse still to have a niece given to sentimentality. From that day, when Violet hall broke .her heart over the dead dasies. Miss Atherton had done all in her power to repress the girl’s Imagination instead of training it; and the con sequence was that it grew under this repression, and not in the healthiest fashion. It expended itself on idealiy ng the beautiful things around her. Strangely enough, however, Viole. o thoughts had never wandered to the ..object of love. She did not sit by the river, as some girls woultf have done, and dream of a possible lover, the reason being that she had no young girl friends, that she had read no love stories, and very little poetry of a sentimental kind. She revelled in the pleasures of imagination, she peopled the woods and the glades, she saw what was invisible to other eyes; but her thoughts hid not yet wandered to the subject of love. Miss Atherton was passee now. but long years before she had her romance, she remembered even now the pleasure and the pain of it. The same pain, she was determined, should never pierce the heart of her niece. There fore she carefully selected her friends and supervised the books that she reau and the pictures she saw; and Violet, at eighteen years of age, was frank simple, and innocent as a child. No one knew the details of Miss Atherton's love-story. She had been handsome, once upon a time, with a proud, stately beauty. It was faded now; pain had left great lines on her face, had blanched her hair, had taken the light from her eyes, and left her bitter, cold, and proud. It was gen erally believed that her great enmity to the aristocracy rose from the fact that she had been cruelly deceived by one of their number. This was actual ly the truth. Miss Atherton had for merly lived as English governess of a family of high position in Rome. An English noblemamn visiting there fell in love with her and lor more than seven years kept up a constant cor respondence with her, always promis ing that he would make her his wife when his father died. When that time came, however, he married a beautiful heiress, and Miss Athertofi found that she had wasted her life, youth, and beauty on a dream. It war. this rememberance which made her so bitter as she walked amongst the roses. She had tried to teach her neice two things; one was to detest the aris tocracy of all nations, the other was to live without love. CHAPTER 11. Violet Beaton's story of her life was very simple. Dr. Beaton had settled down in the village of St. Byno's hop ing to do as most other people did there —enjoy a long life. He married Mary Atherton, whose sister had just come home from Paris, and had taken up her abode in the pretty, solitary house known as Acacia Cottage. The doctor and his wife lived very happily; they had had but this one child. Violet. To the regret of all who knew him, the doctor died sudden ly of a fever, caught from a poor woman whom he was attending, His young wife did not long survive him. In these circumstances. Miss Ather ton could hardly do less than adopt Violet, for, so far as she knew, Dr. Beaton had no relatives living, except a younger brother --'.’ho had gone many years before to America. Miss Atherton had an income of just one hundred pounds per annum, and, by dint of practicing the greatest care and economy, she had been able to provide her niece with a home. It whs a picturesque cottage, with picturesque surroundings; yet Violet Beaton had not a happy life with the stern, grim lady who had forgotten what youth and beauty and love were like. "I was handsome once,” sh ■ said on? day, when she found Violet standing before a mirror admiring the shining splendor of her own hair, "and you see what it has come to.” "I should like to be handsome, too, aunt.” remarked the girl. "It would make little difference in the end If you wore." said Miss Ather ton. grimly; and Violet, glancing at her aunt, shuddered. Would her own shining, rippling hair, that was like a veil of pure gold, grow white and thin? Would those beautiful white shoulders become lean and angular, that exquisite face wrinkled and lined? "I should like best to die young," she thought; “I should not like to grow old and bitter, proud and cold, like my aunt." To be continued. THE SMITH FAMILY. The Smiths are everywhere. In Italy they are called "Smlthi;” In Holland, “Schmidt:" In Russia, "Smitowskl;’* In Spain, "Smithus;" In Poland. "Schmitlweakl,” and in Mexi co, "Smttri.” In England the Smitus are the most numerous of all families but in Ireland they are content to rank fifth, after Murphy, Kelly, Sullivan and Walsh. Messrs. Delcher and llennessy are trying to secure Kyrle Bellew to play the role of Rawdon Crawley in the pro duction of Vanity Fair, In Miss Gertrude Coyhlan w'll star. ber and November. The rains have come three weeks late, and, with their cattle dead and they themselves enfeebled by hunger, the small farmers cannot prop erly prepare the soil. That necessitates poor harvests, and that necessitates re lief, not only until those inferior harvests wsTmrnNcmtum’bcuntt. ore gathered, but also, doubless. eve 1 afterward. Clothing and shelter are needed, and tens of thousands of orphaned and deserted children must be cared for. The great civic and national agency of famine relief is the New York Committee of One Hundred, William E. Dodge, chairman, and Brown Bros. & Cos., ;9 Wail street, New York, treasurers. This committee, with which similar committees throughout the country co-operate, lias received over 8200,000. Contributions are cabled weekly, without expense, to the Americo-Indian Famine Relief Committee at Bombay, United States Consul William T. Fee, chairman, and the veteran mis sionary administrator, Robert A. Hume, executive secretary. The New York committee will send illustrated literature, with out charge, to all who will co-operate in its work. Correspondence should be addressed to C. T. Chamberlain, 73 nible House, Sew York. AN UNPROFESSIONAL REMEDY. The operation promised to be quite successful, viewed as an operation sim ply, and yet the great surgeon did not look entirely satisfied as he removed his operating garments and made ready to depart. The eyes of the nurse who had waited upon him gleamed with professional satisfaction as they regarded the work of the morning, but they grew troubled as they fell upon the patient. She bent over and laid her ear against the faintly beating heart. "She Is sinking fast, doctor,” she said. The great specialist turned back from the door he was just passing through and came up to the bedside. The young surgeon who had been as sisting him, and who had modestly stepped aside as the patient was brought into the operating room and prepared for the anesthetic which he was to administer, became as pale as his operating apron. The patient, who had borne the operation and the jour uey from th operating table back to her own room admirably, looked up at them suddenly with eyes still dim and unseeing with weakness and lan guor. Then she lapsed back into un consciousness, and the great surgeon shook his head gravely. "She must be stimulated quickly,” he told the assistant, “and she must be reminded of the highest possible in centive to live which you can think of as soon as she becomes conscious. This collapse is rather remarkable, consid ering how well she bore the operation, and that she is not of an extremely nervous temperament. Revive her and see that she wishes to live, just as quickly as possible.” “She has no incentive to live,” the nurse told the younger surgeon, as the great man hurried off to the wait ing appointment which he could defer no longer, "she told me this morning that she is all alone in the world; that she would be rather glad to die than otherwise, and she only consented to undergo the operation at ail because she considers it the duty of everyone to make all reasonable efforts to pro long life. She hinted at an unhappy love affair,” she concluded as they worked over the patient together, "and said that when the accident which ne cessitated this operation happened she had hoped that it was all over with her. young as she is.” The young surgeon made no repiy, and the nurse, fearing that he thought her forward or unprofessional, blushed scarlet as she bent over the patient. She was a pretty woman herself, and still in her first youth, although neither so young nor so beautiful as the motionless girl on the bed, but the young surgeon had no eyes for the b!ush which his silence had called forth. His face was as pale as hers was rosy, and the hands which lifted the uneonsetous head of the patient so that the nurse might administer some THE gee a t FAMIIW n N INDIA there are, speaking generally, but two rainy seasons —the one in fatly summer I other in the autumn. In the present case there was s: arce any rain in thftMUnmer of I tuully none in the autumn. The temperature nlso must be considered. The average U of the more densely populated portions of the famine district is hardly less than 80 contrasted with New York state, with its less than 50 degrees; Virginia, with its 58 degrees, > extreme south of Florida with its 72 degrees. When the rains fail in India, the strong sun takes all moisture from the rainless ground. Verdure disappears; cattle die; the famished people per- ish by the tens of thousands. For in India three-fuurth3 of the population is agricultural; in the United States one seventh. In large portions of India the population is 500 to the squaie mile, in New York state 132, and in Ohio 109. No real improvement is pos sible until the har vests of next O to- VICTINS I I \ \\ v • 1 -'JI \ §ml brandy and water trembled. When the eyelids of the fainting woman began to flicker he moved so that the eyes shaded should fall upon no one but the nurse. Standing in this position the patient saw him no more than she had done when he stood behind her at the head of the operating table, hold ing the cone by means of which he was administering the ether. But the' young surgeon could see her perfectly, and he scrutinized the delicate, blood less face with a care and a degree of attention not entirely due to profes sional interest. “What do you mean by fainting, Miss Stanley!” exclaimed the nurse, in her cheeriest, most professional accents, as the wide eyes opened fully. "Don't you know that every time you faint it weakens you a little, and that you’ve got to grow stronger, instead of weak er, if you want to live?" "I don't want to live, not really,” whispered back the patient, weakly; "I don't care whether I live or not. 1 supple I've got to try to get better because It seems to be my duty, but I’m too tired to feel like trying hard. What have I got to live for?" she finished, to herself, the faint voice trailing off into a scarcely audible murmur. The young surgeon stepped out from behind the bed-head and took firm hold of the little patient's hands. "Live for me, Margaret,” he said, in tensely. “1 wrns a fool to be.jealous of you, to doubt your love and goodness, even for a second. 1 haven’t known a happy or a peaceful moment 3ince we parted. I thought my heart would break when I learned that you had been run over and so nearly killed, it almost stopped beating when you were carried in this morning. For give me, Margaret, and live for my sake. We'll prove how good and hap py life can be together yet.” The nurse had slipped out of the room for a moment, and they were quite alone. He stooped and kissed her lips. The little patient Was still too near to the mysterious realms of unconsciousness to be astonished at anything that happened, and she took the happiness the sods provided In such unexpected fashion quite simply. When the nurse returned she was sleeping like a baby, one frail little hand clasped in that of the young sur geon. and when the great surgeon stopped at her bedside &e next morn-i ing her eyes were already bright with I the hope of returning health, if no/ more. "What's this I hear about your fainting yesterday!” he cried, ini cheery professional reproof. "Don't I yju know that such unreasonable con- ' d’-’ct retards your recovery, my dear young lady, and don't you want.to get well quickly?" "Indeed I do, doctor," came the lit tle patient's Instantaneous reply. *Tve so much to live for!” And the nurse, although she main | tained a discreet professional impas ; sivity of attitude and facial expression, ! found it difficult to repress a sympa thetic smile. POET OF THE CONFEDERACY. Almost as many cities have been j connected with the history or the per sonality of Father Abram J. Ryan as claim the honor of being the birth place of Homer. He was born in Norfolk, edited newspapers and offici ated as a priest in Now Orleans,hJnox | ville, Mobile, and other southern towns, died in Louisville and was buried in Mobile. A monument to his memory just has been 'erected in Norfolk by the local chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy. It stands in thai town near which are buried hundreds of the unknown d< ad soldiers of the confederacy. Father Ryan was the poet laureate of the lost cause. 'Tiis Conquered Banner," “Sentinel Songs, "The sword of Lee,” “C. S. A.” and other battle poems are among the most effective of those which the civil war incited on either side. At one time they had a vogue in the north, as \yell as in the south, and are still read. Their author figured in other branches o: liteiature. He wrote a "Life of Christ." or part of one, and penned some religious poetry. He lectured on social and reiigicu3 subjects also. it is as a writer of war songs, how e.cr, that he will be remembered. But what may be tailed the polities in his poetry has already become obsolete, as is show* in the last of these three mes which close the best known of his poems. "The Conquered Banner-” "Touch it not, unfold it never, Let it droop, then furled forever] For its people's hopes are dead." , Ihe poetry in those lines is good, but | the sentiment has been outgrown. The southern people are very far from being dead. The south in the post quarter of a century has experienced an industrial expansion and has made a p. ogress in general enlightenment psuch as none of Its sons in the days be fore tne war ever looked for. It is so cUtUjr stronger, wiser, and happier than * l over wa in rbe past yn- r~* f u *"' slnce the foundation of the gov njiment the southern states are grow •ng as rapidly in all the elements of greatness as are any of the communi ; us* in the north or west, and the Im provement dates from the collapse of the confederacy. Father Ry an was warmhearted, talented, and patriotic, and the cense which he gfforifled effective verse had as illustrious chatn p.ons as the world has kDOWD Jmt a new and greater south has been built oo the ruins of the locaiity whose over 'iZlrl ■**. 01.1* Arizona Gus Thomas' great .Ameri can play, had its initial New Yo^