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By W. HEIMBURG. Continued. Was she going, after all? ' r hen— well, then, she would he responsible for whatever might happen. No, she was coming back again. She was only wandering about in her ex aggerated anxiety; there was some thing. then, that could shake her out of that intolerable calmness! CHAPTER XIV. Hilda was sitting writing in her costly room—that Is, she had been writing, and now was reading her letter over. It was addressed to her 'ddest sister, of whom she had lately made a confidante. The young artist was greatly (hanged; her face had grown smaller, and her mouth constantly wore that half-scornful, half-condescending smile peculiar to people who feel them selves immensely superior to all the follies and pettiness of their fellow men, and are only constrained to keep their opinions to themselves by the force of circumstances. There was an air of watching and waiting for something in her whole manner; her movements had grown supple and cat like; In short, she was scarcely recog nizable for the same person she had been before. If Antje was quietly patient, she was absolutely apathetic In her manner. If Leo asked her if she would go to walk, she replied curtly; "Oh. certainly,” and marched off beside him. Her manner to him fcdl Just short of rudeness But this reserve, this coolness, suited her admirably, for a fire blazed out of her dark eyes which formed a strange contrast to her calm manner. She was perfectly well aware that this tortured Leo. and delighted and j vexed him at the same time, but she j wore an air of such indifference that ■ ut. one would have thought she had anv idea of the storm she had raised Ard she hardly confessed even to her seif the delight which this occasioned her. When lam writhed and twisted like a worm trodden under foot, she felt that even then all his sufferings did not outweigh what she had endured on that evening when she learned that he was married. And all this time she had not the slightest thought for Antje. What was this woman to her? She was quite satisfied if she only had the key to the cup-boards and the linen-press at her girdle, and her baby on her urm. She caught up her letter and read I It over < nee more: "Dearest Tony: "Do not torture me with questions, for I cannot tell you when I shall tome home —Jussnltz has not yet finished my picture. And you know that 1 am in good hands here. "I am delighted to hear that papa has effectually stopped Aunt Polly's slanderous tongue. Tony, you know me—as if I would remain here If only one atom of all she says were true! There nre some people who cannot look au Inch beyond the wall which their own narrow-mindedness and common-place natures have built up around them. 1 do not. love Jussnltz; 1 write It down once more. How should I. Hilda von Zweldorf, come to such a pass as to be Interested in a married man? Good Heavens, It Is too utterly sbsurd! ' "Perhaps I may come home some day quite unexpectedly—for a short time. 1 think 1 shall try Munich by and by. And so l may appear sud denly In your old attic room, between the clattering sewing machine and the work-basket. Hood Heavens. how can you stand that horrible monotony children? "There is little enough variety here. Heaven knows, except the caprices of my host. Now he thinks he will paint: 1 (ling on my costume and pose myself—though, really, what remains to be done to the picture ! do not know myself; It might have been in Berlin long ago. so far as 1 can see — and in a quarter of an hour he finds himself too 'nervous.' not in the mood for it. and he wishes to talk instead. The next minute he says he will take a walk, if that ‘everlasting night lamp’ were not in the house with her faint but steady glimmer, which keeps the balance against all these whims, everything would be turned topsv turvey; but as it Is- good Heavens how can any one be so intolerably stupid as that woman? 'Do you remember that poem of Annette von Droste-Hulshoff. 'The Silly Woman'? 1 tell you. Tony, that the Hulshoff woman was a perfect model of sense and Intelligence com pared with Frau Antje. She had sense enough, at least, not to make her husband's pecuniary situation more difficult. But this one! And always with the same cool, friendly | manner! If she would only storm and scold once In a while by way cf variety, as Durer's amiable spouse used to and no; that never hap I pens. But what nonsense I am writ-, lug! Good-by. Love to my father and mother and my slaters. "Your •Hilda." When Hilda wrote the words- ! “How could I, Hilda von Zweldorf, ever come to such a pass as to be come interested in a married man?” she had only spoken the truth. The love that she felt for him had been destroyed by the great dis appointment she had endured, but in the place of that love something else had come to her, of a nature not less passionate—hatred, the longing to prove to him that she had never loved him. This longing made her blind and deaf to all other considerations, the more she became conscious that she had once betrayed to him the real nature of her feelings. At such times she clenched her hands and tears of wrath streamed from her eyes. There were days In which her caprices were many and un accountable, on which she longed to have him speak to ner of his love, on which she tortured him and enraptur ed him only in the hope that the moment would come at length when she could proudly toss back her head and say: "Sir, what do you mean? I do not understand you." This very day had been such a one. Tony's letter had aroused all the evil passions in her; there had been some thing in it about, a letter from Aunt Polly, who swore by all that was sacred that Hilda had not been in different to Herr Jussnltz. She had walked beside him In their excursions with fluttering breath, she had played with him as a cat plays with a mouse, but he had not found the courage to say what HMda would so gladly have trapped him into saying. Hilda was conscious only that he was having a struggle with himself. But some day he would speak, and she would leave the house that very hour, with the hope in her heart that he might only suffer half so much as she had done. Where she went was a matter of in difference to her. but she would go with her pride unbent, with smiling lips, and in the consciousness that he would search for her and not find her. that he would be sick with longing after her. While indulging in these reflections she had addressed the letter to her sister and begun to make her toilet. She knew that he was waiting for her downstairs in the yellow drawing room. She dressed very slowly—this “waiting" was one of her ways of tormenting him. She spent a quarter of an hour in curling the hair on her forehead and ten nilutes more in fastening a bunch of snow drops !n her dress. She could see him In im agination walking up and down, up and down, and her steps as she turne 1 toward the door grew slower at the thought. She found him as she had expected, only looking very pale. Was It be cause of the question she had put to him In the course of the day: "When will the picture be finished?” He had not answered her. Now site was standing before him in her best dress, a simple but perfectly fitting costume of garnet cloth, a few white flowers at her breast, and with the beautiful, apathetic face, which looked beyond him with an ah' of such utter indifference. "Shall we begin to read?" she said, wearily. He assented, and they took their seats in the chairs which were drawn up so cosily opposite each other be side the open fire which cast its re flections on the carpet. "Where did we leave off?" she in quired. suppressing a slight yawn. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Hilda, don't ask me. Heaven knows 1 do not hear what you read—l ” "What? You do not hear what 1 read ?" He shook his head. "No." he said in a low tone. "I hear nothing, 1 only see you. And then l ask myself how long I shall see you. And you ask me when the picture will be finished? Good Heav ns, Hilda, do you never suspect that 1 cannot bear the thought that the picture must be finished some day, of some day seeing that place vacant where you have always stood?" And he grasped her hands im pulsively and pressed them to his lips and to his eyes. Hilda started up. deeply shocked What she had so ardently longed for j now gave her a horrible feeling of j shame. She could not utter a word. I only n slight cry escaped her lips, and j her eyes were fixed on Antje. who ; was standing in the middle of the room. spellbound, with a pat-’, i haggard face and with her hair, damp with the night-dews, falling over her forehead. Her great eyes were fixed on Hilda for a moment with a piteous, i grieved expression, and the young | girl drooped her head beneath this look. She could not trass Antje, so ! she left the room by an opposite door which opened into the tea-room She felt as if she had been gaxing into an abyss of grief aud pain. Leo. however, went up to his wife "What la it, Antje?" he said, more gently thau he had ever spoken to h<r before. “Do you wish to go? If you are so very anxious, then go, go, for Heaven’s sake.” He caught at her hand, but Antje kept It hidden in the folds of her dress; she did not move, but only looked at him with the same expres sion with which she bad gazed at Hilda. "Antje,’ he said, "calm yourself; it cannot be so very bad with—" “With what?" she gasped out with difficulty. "With your mother. Go, child; we must get on here as best we can with out you—go ” "No,' she replied; "1 will not go, I see that I —can —not go—now. God will surely have pity on me!” She tried to say more, but her voice broke in a sob. "Antje, for pity’s sake do not be so horribly tragic, don’t fancy the worst!” "No, no!” she murmured. “I shall get over it!” And she put out her hand to wari him off, as if to say; “Do not speak of it again; have pity!" She went upstairs to her room and stood before her mother's picture. "You will forgive me,” she whispered, pressing her clasped hands against her lips—“you will forgive me if I do not come. I cannot suffer three people’s lives to be ruined for the sake of one. You loved your hus bapd, and your child, too, more than anything in the world; you will under stand that I must stay at my post.” Then che got out her pen and paper and wrote two telegrams, one to old Kortmer and the other to Dr. Maiberg in Berlin, which latter ran thus; "My mother very 111; cannot go to her; if you could go—very grateful "Anna Jussnitz.” CHAPTER XV. Antje did not come to tea that night, and Hilda did not appear again, but stayed in her room. So I*eo had the table to himself, but the food tasted bitter in his mouth. At length he gave up trying to eat and devoted himself to the wine. His thoughts were in a mad whirl —about his pecuniary affairs, the stock specu lations in which he had risked Antje’s lortune without her knowledge, the mother-in-law who was by no means iond of him and would have been glad to put him on an allowance. He had no luck! Weeks ago he had sent off a picture to the dealer, and had since sent him a water-color sketch, but neither had been sold, though never had he been in more pressing need of a few thousand marks than now. He could send Hilda’s portrait, but the thought of parting with it, of giving it up to some idiot, who would adorn his room with it, and would rub his hands and chuckle at the sight of her beauty, put him into such a jealous rage as nearly robbed him of his reason; and added to this there was the agreeable prospect of his mother-in-law's dying unreconciled to him She bad already sent for her lawyer, probably to bind the hands of her "extravagant son in-law,” so h< could not waste the principal. That scene with Antje—if he had only let her go! Now she would go about like a poor, betrayed wife, would jealously spy upon all his movements, would be cold as ice to that poor girl, and would sit op posite him at the table with that martyr-like air, and—lt is enough to drive a man mad! "The best thing I could do would be to drive into Dres den this very night—if it were only not for that sick mother-in-law!” And now Antje wouldn’t go, out or sheer jealouey! There would be a scene this evening, he knew that very well, and there should be one, too; he would not go out of the way of it. Better end it all with a crash than have this sort of thing going on forever. And Hilda? She had left him with out a word, looking every inch of her like an insulted queen. He gave a bitter laugh, took a cigar, and went upstairs to make a scene with hi3 wife. He expected to find her with the air of a martyr, with tearful eyes, answering “yes" and “no” to all his questions. That would he pirpibnt And Hilda? She had left him with out a word, looking every inch of her like an insulted quern. He gave a bitter laugh, took a cigar, and went upstairs to make a scene with his wife. He expected to find her with the air of a martyr, with tearful eyes, answering “yes" and “no” to all his questions. That would be excellent for a beginning, for then he could say: "Listen to me. my dear. I have had about enough of this sort of thing! if l cannot do anything to suit you, if you take offence at every thing I do. we had better put an end to It. No man could stand such a life '* At this moment he reached the door of her room and opened It. She was sitting at her desk, writing so eagerly that she did not look up She •Id not see him until he came close up to her. and then taking her pen in her left hand, she put out her right. ' Excuse me for a moment. l*e©: only the signature, and then I can attend to you.” She had looked up at him. Yea; i her eyes, her unfathomable eyes were stIH full of tears, but there was such a grieved, questioning look in them, under their dark lashes, that he could not begin his contemplated attack. He threw himself into a chair and began to stroke his beard. "Won't you keep on smoking. Leo?" she inquired, turning round as she perceived that he had laid down his cigar. "You are always more com fortable when vou have your cigar." "No. thanks." he replied, shortly "You always—you know I like to have you smoke. Leo." To be Continued. Our anual shipments of horses to Creat Britain have a cash value of over $5,000,000, not counting recent sales to the war office for use In the south African campaign. HAIR TURNED GREEN PRETTY PICKLE OF A NEW YORK ACTRESS. TRIES A NEW TONIC And Now Wears a Wig—Hysterics Follow a Faint and a Suit for Heavy Damages Naturally Comes Next on the Program—Fair Locks to Be Used as Evidence. once beautiful hair!” sadly murmured an exceedingly comely young woman as she swept through the green baize door in a lawyer’s office in the Pulitzer building a day or two ago. “This is not a hairdressing estab lishment,” volunteered a callow youth learning the intricacies of the law, as the young woman removed her sables. Then she lifted her heavy veil, removed her hat aud astonished all the office force. Her hair, right side, left side and coiled in a Psyche knot, was a rich olive green. The fair visitor was at oace recog nized as Gertrude Mansfield, who, with Caryl Wilbur, forms a sketch team at the vaudeville houses at the modest salary of $250 a week. Their sketch is called A Bird and a Bottle, and as the pretty young woman narrated her tale of woe to William Grossman, of the law firm of House, Grossman & Vorhaus. -she tearfully remarked that hers was truly a ease where the bird was caught by a bottle. Mr. Grossman asked one of his young women stenographers for a pair of scissors and snipped off several samples of the vivid-green locks for use as exhibits in a suit Miss Mans field instructed him to bring. She seeks to recover $5,000 damages from the alleged manufacturer of a hair tonic, the application of which. Miss Mansfield declares, is responsible for the present emerald hue of her hair, which originally was chestnut brown. Miss Mansfield says that a week or so ago she was pondering over the problem of cleansing her hair, when a woman friend commended to her the use of a hair tonic. “Where did you get it?" asked Miss Mansfield. “Oh, any old place," answered her friend, "but I happen to have two bottles on hand and I shall be glad to present them to you.” Miss Mansfield accepted the gift, aud a night or two thereafter followed the directions to rub the mixture well into her scalp. There was no visible change in the color or texture of her hair until she arose of a morning. She pulled up the ohades of her boudior windows and with pardonable feminine vanity locked at herself in the mirror. There was a gasp, scream and a fill. Friends rushed into the room only to see Miss Mansfield in a dead faint. Then they alternately screamed and laughed, for the cause of Miss Mansfield's plight was easily discern ible—her hair was a bright olive green, save for a patch on the top of her head. When she recovered con sciousness she took a second look in the mirror and then went into hysterics. Being of a practical turn of mind. at the earliest opportunity she journeyed downtown and instructed Mr. Gross man to bring a suit in her behalf. The necessary legal papers were completed and placed in the hands of a process-server. Miss Mansfield has been filling an engagement at an uptown theater dur ing the week, and she says she has been compelled to wear a wig for the first time in her stage career. FACTS ABOUT IMMIGRANTS. Interesting Ones Revealed by the Census Report. During the year ending June 30, 1900, the total number of immigrants New York. Dec. 21. —“My hair, my VERY COOL HEADED. Halfba k —" That man Punter, the fullback, never lost his head in a game of football yet. did he?" Right Halfback (a joker!—"No. I think not. He's lost an ear. part of his nose, five teeth, but I don't remember ever hearing of him losing his taea i." was 448.572. Of this number 2,392 belonged to the professional class, 61,443 were skilled laborers, 163.508 were laborers, while 134,941, including women and children, had no specified occupation. The distribution of our immigrants from a religious point of view cannot be stated with statistical accuracy, be cause the census asks no questions iel ative to the theological beliefs of the people; but taking the sources from which immigrants come as a basis for rough estimate, it is quite safe to say that our immigrants have been equally divided between the Catholic and Protestant faiths. If there is any preponderance over one-half, it is on the side of the Pntestants. From a political point of view, it is generally supposed that the majority of immigrants join the democratic party, but when we study more close ly into the matter we find that the re verse is true. It may be chat the con centration of one class of immigrants in particular localities gives the bal ance of power to the immigrants join ing any particular party, but if we look at the general influence of im migration throughout the country the conclusions as to the political bearing of immigrants are somewhat confus ing. For instance, at the last presi dential election the statistics of the vote show very clearly that in most of the states having a large proportion of foreign born, say from 12 per cent, upward, the republican ticket pre vailed. There are a few exceptions to this, as notably Colorado, with 16.9 per cent, foreign, and Montana, with 27.6 per cent, foreign. The state having the largest per centage of foreign born in 1900 was North Dakota, that element constitut ing 35.4 per cent, the next largest being Rhode Island, with 31.4 per cent. The other extreme is found in the southern states, where the lowest per centage is in North Carolina, her for eign bom constituting but 2 per cent, of her total population. Nearly all the states in the southern section come below 5 per cent. The number of foreigners in some states seems to be decreasingi’in fact, the percentage in the whole country has decreased 1 per cent. The migration of immigrants from states is a very interesting subject. South Carolina, with a very small per cent, of her whole population foreign born, lost 11.8 per cent, of it during the last decade; Nebraska 12.4, Kan sas 14, Kentucky 15.3, Tennessee 11.4 and Nevada 31.4 per cent. This shows that the foreign born element is adopt ing the ways of the native element in changing its habitat as industrial interests demand.—Carroll D. Wright in Boston Transcript. HE SAW ALL THE SIGHTS. The Man From the Interior Visits Atlanta With Disastrous Results. “You were drunk last night, Reuben,” said the Recorder to a (ountryman who looked as if he had ben through a cotton gin. Vou uns can have it all your own way, Mister Briles,” replied the prisoner. “I drapped into town tu see the sights, and I’ve seed ’em. Jeet when I landed in Atlanta 1 slipped down in the mud in the car shed and wrinched my leg. Ez I stepped out intu the street a hundred niggers with whups ketched me and yanked me about tu git me tu go tu a hash house. I took in Decatuy street, an' every feller I meets was my friend. I didn't know ’em all, but I reckon I muster met 'em somewhars er nuther. A barber man ketched me ana dragged me intu his shop and he cut my hair, shaved my whiskers off, washed my head with soap suds aud dyed my mustache till it looked as black ez er b'iling kittle. He charged me $2 for the job. Er nigger boy grabbed holt uv me on the street and blackened up one shoe and let tother one stay ied and muddy because I wouldn’t pay him er quarter. Then er feller got me intu er dram shop, and after the fuss drink I felt like I didn’t care what the price uv corn wus, and I sit up the drinks tu erbout forty fellers. I got intu er path behind er store and er nigger robbed me uv all the money I had left. Er policeman carried me tu to the calabose and too* my watch. He said he would give me er bed and charge me $5 fer it. I reckon when yer get through with me I will be ready for the grave diggers. “You’ve had tough luck, the Re corder told him. lour getting through the old car shed alive was a narrow escape of itself.” “I hain’t er going back that er way, Mister Briles," said Reuben, “fer I lows tu walk back tu home.” “On account of your tough time in Atlanta." said the Recorder, “I am going to dismiss the case against you and will make that policeman give you back your watch. The next time you come to town hire a guardian and put your money in your socks.’ Atlanta Constitution. UTILIZING LEAVES Product Too Commonly Allowed to Go to Waste. The great winrows of dead leaves swept together by the winds of fall, along the highways or on our lawns, make a strong appeal to our Yankee thriftiness. They are so light and easily handled, and withal so clean, that they seduce us into gathering them while dry and storing them protected from the weather. For use as bedding for our domestic animals, to make a warm floor for the poultry or to protect plants and vegetables from a temperature too severe for them, the leaves are excellent, for the slight investment in time and trouble will pay. There is another value claimed for them, which I believe to be founded more on mere sentiment than on real knowledge, and that is that they make a good manure. As ab sorbers of the urine of animals, when used as bedding they certainly have a degree of value of the minor sort; but I believe that a little close observa tion. enlightened by knowledge, will soon satisfy any one that the manurial value of the leaves them selves is that it will not pay for the labor of gathering them, how ever little that may be. Take the leaves of our shade trees—the elm, the ash. tho maple; I think it is safe to say that a (Artload of these gather ed dry, when trodden fine would not much more than fill a bushel-basket, and tha.l si! the plant food they con tain would be found in no greater quantity of muck than could be cou- I veinently taken upon a common dung fork. Chemical analysis would show but little difference between the ele ments, in kind and quantity, that enter into each, for muck itself is but de composed vegetable matter, a lar;e proportion of which is leaf growth, and wherein the leaves do differ if. for the most part, in their possessing more silica, an element in plant structure which is so generally dis tributed as to have no market value. The leaves of the oaks would make a better showing as to bulky substance: yet my twenty years of experience in utilizing some 60 or 70 cords annualiy. in protecting my seed cabbage from excessive cold, still leaves me in won der at to what lias become of the great mass when I uncover the bed In tbe spring and cart it away in such a few loads. UNLUCKY THIRTEEN. The Superstition Has Existence Even, in Royal Circles. A curious incident occurred in con nection with the royal journey from Balmoral to the south. The duke of Athol traveled from Dunkeld to Perth with the intention of awaiting the arrival of the royal train. In con sequence of a delay on the Highland railway the train by which his grace traveled was detained, and the duke did not reach Perth until a few minutes after the royal party. Their majesties had by this time sat down to dinner in the Station hotel, and the Marquis of Breadai banes had been asked to dine. As soon as the Marquis was made aware of the Duke's arrival he informed his majesty, and suggested that his grace should also join them. Some of the ladies, however, pointed out the fact that the duke would make the party one of thirteen. The Marquis of Breadalbane promptly offered to sacri fice himself, and with his majesty's permission retired, the duke of Athol taking his piace.—London Express. Stabbed His Rival. •Bridgeton. N. J., Dec. 21.—Stirred by jealousy because Edward Moore was talking to a girl named Lewis. Sherman Pierce stabbed him in the neck. inflicting a probably fata! wound. Pierce was arrested. All the parties are negroes. Hia Way of Putting It. Tt is true." said the person of high ideals. that you have attained pros perity by your writings. But you have produced nothing that will live.” "Well," answered the comfortable literateur, "when It comes to a ques tion of which shall live, myself or my writings. I didn’t hesitate to sacrifice my writings."—Washington Star. A Long Liet. Parke "Have you decided what to give your wife for Christmas?" I^ne—"Not yet. There are so many things I can't afford.”—Judge Smart Boy, “I wonder what brought the fire engines out today?" "Guess it was the horses, dad." —Cleveland Plain Dealer.