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rwm ., Vbu '-•ESSIs isa loVeius—so *«r FOR HIS SAK£. Ifoili closer still my hand, dear love, Nor fear its touch will soil thine own No palm is cieaner now than this. So free from earth stain has it grown Since last you held it clasped so close, And with it held iny life and heart For my heart beats but in your smile, And life were death, wo two apart. I loved you so*?- And you? Ah, welll I have no wqfd or'thought of blatae And even now my voice grows low And tender, whispering your name. You gauged my love by yours—that's all, I do not think you understood There is a point you men can't reach, Up the white height ol womanhood. at least you say, 'With many a tender smile and word You kiss us both on mouth and brow Till all our heart within is stirred And having, unlike you, .TOU see, No other interests at stake, We give our beat, and count that death Is bleased, when suffered for your sake. MORTON BLAKE'S DILEMMA. '"Is it true, Norton? Is your uncle really dying?" The speaker's eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed, her fingers toying with the white robes of a baby upon her knee, her intonation that of elated triumph. Words and manner struck Norton Blake sharply. He threw down the telegram with a short "Yes." /'Are you sorry?" Mrs. Blake asked iti tart surprise. "Why, you've wish ed, a thousand times, I were mistress of The Court, h,nd now there's baby. Shan't I fell proud when I see him in velvet knickerbockers riding about that beautiful park on a white pony!" Norton regarded her with amaze ment—her speech sounded so utterly heartless. "Sorry!" he repeated slowly. "Sure ty, Myra, you forget that my uncle lias filled a father's place to me from :«iy childhood." "Oh no, I don't," she retorted with a disagreable laugh "nor the filial re spect you have always shown him. Also, I remember your many aspira tions that Providence would allow the same—a—calamity—to end this miserable concealment. Really, Nor ton, you have neither courage to face the consequences of your own actions, nor to grip the deliverance Fortune •sends you." With a muttered imprecation, Nor ton Blake left the room. Experience had taught him the futility of arguing with his wife but through the ensuing long journey he had leisure in which to ponder over and debate the truth •of her words. The sudden shock of his relative's danger had acted upon «his moral consciousness like a 'douche of cold water on the physi cal organization of a drunkard, recall ing him to himself, but stinging him with^tt sense of his own degradation. Treated by his uncle with an indul gence shown by few parents, he^had idled^ at ^school and scraped through gamed nor drank yet his fatal propen sity of snatching the moment's pleas ure, leaving care for the morrow, had blighted the sunny prospects of a life whose crowning folly he was too cow ardly to avow. During a long vacation—supposed Jby his uncle to be passed with a tutor in Scotland—he met, at a fashionable watering-place, a giri—woman, rathfer —whose blue-eyed, golden-haired charms and practiced graces had be wildered and captivated his youthful fancy. Hi3 superior in years and knowledge of the world, but be neath him in birth and education, she was too keenly alive to the social advantages derivable from an alliance with the heir of an old and wealthy county family to let him slip through her lingers. By artifice, cajolery, and •. fchneats of appealing, to the elder Mr. Blafce—the best thing which could have happened to him, had he but known .'it—she accomplished her purpose, and 1 he married her. His college life had •ended, and, fearing lest his rash act should be discovered, he persuaded his uncle that a continental tour was sfche fitting interlude between it and •settling down to the active duties of. life. The couple were at Heidelberg when -the news of Mr. Blake's illness ar rived. It betokened some latent good in Norton's character that, although these tidings might have been supposed to solve his difficulties, they awakened in his breast but a feeling of sorrow ful remorse, leavened, perhaps, by sat isfaction that, owing to the season be? ing winter, and the tender age of her •child, his wife was debarred from ac companying him to England. As the first misery lessened came the remembrance of a forgotten complica tion in his affairs. Mr. Blake's house hold numbered another besides his nephew. This was tlie orphan daugh ter of an old fellow-officer, to whom Mr. Blake had given the shelter of his home and the affection of a father. That Norton and Helen Venne Should be united—so sharing equally the •wealth and station he must in time resign—was his dearest wish. A tacit understanding to that effect had ex isted for some time. No definite promises had been exchanged, but Norton knew what was expected of him on his return. Also that were his uncle alive when he reached The Court, the disclosure of his marriage would becertainly fol lowed by disinheritance were he dead, it would deprive Helen of home aid fortune. Whichever way he looked he saw nothing but trouble ahead. How he cursed his weak, infatuated folly as the train whirled him through the dark night, the howling wind and dreary, up-piled snow! II. Night's silence brooded over The Court as Norton drew up to the famil iar door. Only a watch-dog's baying broke the stillness. Brilliant, moon beamssilvered thesharp snow-crystals covering lawn and flower-beds ruddy firelight from within touched with iri descent tints those clustered on win dow-sill and pane. So had he seen the old house wrapped in its snow mantle many a winter night. Its unchanged jeauty awakened a yearning pain as for something unvalued before, whose loss brought shame, remorse, misgiv ing. The warmth rushed out to meet him t.. as the heavy door opened. More red I. ty fell the firelight on the oaken pan elled hall thin on tho snow without. It Hick ere. I softly on Ll. ltn shurnibhed Lead as she greeted him wit.h out stretche^hands, tender, shining, wel coming eyes, cheeks carmined jvith pleasure. Her loveliness struck him liko a rev elation. Thfe tbuch of her hands made him shiver. Imagination placed be aide her the figure of.the woman whom he had Imule h,is wife. He turned aside with a gesture of dismay—an inward groan. "He is alive—he is, indeed!" Helen said eagerly, mistaking his movement, thinkingNorton feared her uttering the grim 'Too late!' "He heard the wheels you must go to him without delay. He has watched for your com ing, oh, so anxiously!" The doctor came out of the sick room as Norton approached it. He had known Norton from boyhood, so understood somewhat of the anxiety he had caused Mr. Blake. "Your uncle longs to see you," he said, laying his hand impressively up on the young man's arm "but I can not allow you to enter his room unless you are sure you can control your feelings. Remember the least excite ment may—naj^must—be fatal. Gain say him in nothing. Let him die in peace." A choking sensation rose in Norton's throat as he passed to the bedside. The gray head lay motionless upon the pillow, but the dimming eyes Hood ed with affection, fastened on his face— the feeble fingers enclosed his lovingly. "You have come at last!" he mur mured, trying to lay his hand on Nor ton's bowed head, as he knelt beside the bed. "What has kept you from me so long—my boy, my son?" Norton muttered something unin telligible, the realization of his deceit bowing his head yet lower. With a sudden gathering together of his ener gies, Mr. Blake roused himself, and un heeding any reply, continued: "You are my heir, Norton. I have left everything to you—everything! Even Helen have I trusted to you. But now, lying here, I misdoubt if I have acted wisely by her. Promise, by all you hold most sacred, that you will make Helen and her in terest the first and chief consideration of your life." A warning pressure from the doctor's fingers and Norton promised. Sincer ely, too indeed he felt a sense of relief that the pledge exacted was one he could accept He would make Helen's well-being the study of his life. "It can be done but in one way," re sumed the old man with dangerous ex citement, "that is by making her your wife. You will fulfil the wish of my heart—ratify the tacit bond between you? Oh, Norton, say you will—do not deny me the only thing I ask!" Again the warning pressure as the doctor vainly tried to soothe his pa tient. Norton hesitated. What could he say—what do? The color mount ed to his brow, his lips trembled. "Say something for heaven's sake!" whispered the doctor with Energy. "Pacify him in some way—any way— or I cannot answer for the conse quences." Once more Norton's fatal weakness paralyzed his will. Through his home ward journey he had persuaded him self that nothing should induce him to let his uncle die in ignorance of his true position, his offense unforgiven as unknown. Disinheritance, pam, igno miny, were better faced than that! So he had told himself—and now? "Promise, Norton, promise!" The shrill voice rang piercingly imperative, tlie uyinj- cyes ibbK-ea u^rwit-ifrt-pTesa ing agony, the thin hands clutched .at his as if they would ring from him more than life itself, and Norton promised. "Bring Helen! Where is Helen?" Mr. Blake cried in feverish impatience. "Let me hear her promise too. Only then can I rest in peace." Helen came. She drew near to the bed with an expression of calm repose, of trustful strength, on her beautiful face. Quickly this changed to- one of shrinking awstruck reserve, as she glanced from the gray, imperious feat ures of the dying man to those of her —as she believed—lover set in a white look of pain and fear. Looking won deringly from' one to the other, the poor girl faltered out the promise re quired of her, Mr. Blake holding in his a hand of each as the words were spok en. It was to Helen but the sealing of a vow—unuttered. indeed, but long ex istent. No doubt of Norton's truth or honor assailed her. Yet, looking up into his pale, drawn face, a vague panic struck coldly to her heart, so joyless, so despairing, were the eyes that met her own. "Nunc dimittis!" the sick man mur mured, and sank back upon his pillows faint and exhausted. Ill To the amazement alike of doctor and friends, Mr. Blake rallied from the stupor into which he fell after his in terview with Norton, drank the draught prescribed for him. sank into a calm slumber, and awoke so much iitiproved that hope whispered anew that recovery was possible. Time proved hope right. After many fluct uations between life and death, dan ger gradually retreated health dawn ed once more. Through the week of convalescence the same imperious mandate wield edits iron sway. No excitement, no thwarting was on any account to be permitted. Morning by morning Norton Blake rose from his bed, vowing that, at all risks, he would before night disclose the fact of his marriage to Helen and his uncle. Evening always round him forsworn. Gradually the stifled con science yielded to the fascination of the hour—allowed himself to drift aim lessly down the stream of circum stances Alas! the seductions of the moment were all too sweet, the flowery path only too alluring. Vainly honorspoke, and duty called, he was deaf and blind to aught but fear. Only when a letter from his wife arrived—coaxing, plead ing, threatening—did his cheek pale and terror gnaw his breast. Helen's clear brow wore, sometimes, a furrow of perplexity as she saw the strange handwriting on the missive lying by his plate at breakfast-time, and noted his futile efforts to conceal the effects of its unwelcome appearance. "Guileless by nature, and singularly unversed in the world's deceits, Helen trusted Norton with the whole-heart edness of one who, estimating others by herself, scorned to see spotorblem ish in those she loved. Norton saw, too late, what he had thrown away so recklessly—what infinite capacities of lifelong happiness he had blotted out forever. Yet no thought of sparine her cross ed his mind. If any remembrance of the anguish surely awaiting Helen momentarily disturbed him, he quiet edit by reflecting that chance often solves time's riddles in a manner equally unexpected and pleasant, and. unfortunately for all, cliance was his fetish. So tho year budded into spring, and the charmed dream nearod its end. Letters from Heidelberg became more imperative in tone, demands for money more urgent. Nor were threats for following Norton to England, and dis covering for herself the cause of her husband's detention, lacking on the part of Mrs. Blake. The master of The Court was intent upon accomplishing his nephew's mar riage. Helen was busy making her bridal preparations—the wedding day itself all but fixed. Norton alone was listless, preoccupied, depressed. A horrible tear, a terrible foreboding of calamity, had taken possession of him. The bright sunshine, the singing of birds, the scent of violets, the up turned, placid primrose stars, made hint faint and sick. Night and day he pondered over a way of escape, but none presented itself as feasible. He literally dared not encounter his un cle's wrath or Helen's scorn. Noth ing remained to him but flight—flight from a danger he was too cowardly to face. IV. But two days remained before that fixed for the wedding. The court was thronged with guests, and gay with merry voices, badinage and jest. In the ivy-draped windows lights were beginning to twinkle as Norton Blake walked homewards, wrapped in bitter —almost frenzied—musings. So ab stracted was he, that he scarcely no ticed a station fly which, entering through the lodge-gates, slowly passed him in the dusk. Neither did he re mark a face which, peering through the glass, swiftly recognized him, and as quickly disappeared into the recesses of the vehicle. As he wearily mounted the last step to the door he became aware of a strange hubbub of arrival in the hall. His eyes fell 011 a blue-eyed, blonde-haired figure he knew too well— his ears were pierced by a high pitched voice only too familiar. There, too, stood Gretchen, the maid—even her stolid German phlegm stirred to inter est as she presented her white-robed bundle to the astonished visitors and servants whose progress across the hall, or chatting by its wide fireplace, had been arrested to ascertain the cause of the tumult. Norton saw it all as in a vivid pho tograph. He heard his wife's shrill voice exclaiming, with a toss of her flaxen head, and the sarcastic laugh which jarred his nerves so acutely: "Oh, there's no mistake—none what ever, I assure you! I am Mrs. Norton Blake, and this is our little son. I have every proof of what I assert. I passed my husband in the avenue. In a few minutes lie will be here to cor roborate my statement. Gretchen, raise baby's veil, and let Mr. Blakesee how closely he resembles his father. The old man had tottered into the hall to see what the confusion meant. Norton saw his face harden into a ter rible sternness of disbelief as he con fronted the intruder. He saw the whitening of Helen's lips and the de fiant anguish in her eyes. The great door still stood open. The fly \vaitedir with its piled up luggage, below the terracesteps. Norton press ed yet closer into the shadow of the Eis ortico, and caught his breath taiiear wife's neat words. "My husbands continued' absence was so unaccountable," sfee-continaed, with again the harsh laughi she fancied so fascinating, "that I determined to ascertain lor nivselt the cause oft bis detention. I hope my advent is not utterly inconvenient, bint Nor tern— dear, easy fellow!—will he delighted with the jpleasajit surprise-I have plan ned for him." Norton waited to hear no more. He slunk noiselessly down the steps, sped swiftly through the gardens' and fled away in the darkness of comicg night. Hidden away among the glades ®f the park lay a placid, hazel-fringed mere. Feathery larches waved over, lilies spread their broad leaves anad silver cups upon, its still waters. But the morrow's sunbeams, panrt ing the fragrant larch-plumes with slender, shining fingers,, fell on some thing which the spreading lily-leaves tried pityingly to* eonceal. From the yellow hazel catkins the dew dropped like tears upon tlie dead face of a man whose body drifted under the shelter of the bank, and that dead man: was Norton Blake. Out of his dilemma he had found road but whether tisat road was the aoward's one of sui cide, or that,, in his bewilder ment he had wandered unwittingly to the mere, missed his footing in the darkness, and slipped into its treach erous depths, it was an Impossibility to determine. A ca mekeeper, going his early rounds, found him in the pool. He wascarried back to The Court, and "Death by misadventure" was tlie verdict at the inquest. "Death through selfish weak ness" would have been a truer one. Mr. Blake never recovered theshock and disappointment of lus nephew's death. He sank into dotage, and for many tediousyears Helen—a sad-eyed, prematurely-aged woman—was his de voted guardian. Tht only bright thing ii» her life was Norton's Little son,whom—humiliated, frightened and subdued by the dread ful result of her mananivre—Mrs. Blake had consented to relinquish and leave in Mr.' Blake's charge, on the condition that his futur» should be provided for. On an allowance, also supplied by Mr. Blake, she returned to the asso ciates of her early life, and soon re married—to the no little satisfaction of others besides poor stricken Mr. Blake and his dear adopted daughter. Two churches, the Methodists and Baptists, dominate the Southern States in religious matters. In the eight. principal Southern States —Virginia to Louisiana—the Meth odists and Baptists together have very nearly a monoply of church membership. In Alabama and Missis sippi the members of these two sects each constitute 95 per cent, of the total church membership in Georgia, 94 per cent. in Florida, 93 in South Carolina, 91 in Louisiana, 90 in North Carolina, 86 in Virginia, 81. Throughout the whole Union the Methodist and Baptist churches com prise only a trifle more than 47 per cent, of the whole church membership. In the South these sects, therefore, have at least twice as great relative strength as they have any other part of the Union. In the North and in the West the church membership is so divided that no one or no two sects could exercise a controlling influence on all church sentiment. But in the South it is clear that the Methodists and Baptists dominate ecclesiastical opinion. SALLY ANN JONES' PAPERS. No, P—Bembilicenccs of Farm I.lfe—Th« Sad Results of JersmluU'# Joining the Farmer*' Club. A few years ago there was a good deal of excitement among the farmers about the Farnurs' club and the Grange, and Jeremiah, of course, had to belong to one or the other. After considering the maiter awhile, he con eluded to join the farmers' club, for the reason, he ssid, that women belonged to the Gnnge. Says he, "I know that where a lot of women are allowed to let their tongues run, a man can have no ihance to express an idea of importance on any sub ject." "But, Jeremiah,' says I, "even then, you might get a chance to express your ideas. But I should think you might find enougl to attend to at home to employ pretty much all your time, without joining either the club or the Grange. Tliere's the gate be tween the barnyarc and the ten-acre meadow hanging b'r one hinge. Yes terday, while you were gone to town, 1 had to run mysel: nearly to death to get the hogs out of the wheat field, because, when the tree blew down across the fence, instead of cutting it away, as you oughj to have done, you built the fence u? and left the trees there, and then tried to stop up the holes with chunccs where the rails wouldn't fit around it. The fence, back of the cornfield, is so rotten that a ten-year old boy could knock it over with a corn cob, and I've got about tired picking up sticks and bark to cook with. All the fence corners are full of briars, and the orchard—" I looked around and Jeremiah had vanished while I had been talking, and was nowhere tD be seen. Jeremiah joined the Farmers' club, subscribed for about half a dozen agri cultural papers, ai:d invested heavily in blooded stock. He bought a cow that was all horns, and a yearling call that was mostly iume. He bought a hog that had little or no hair on it, and another that vas nearly all hair, and wound up by jay ing an enormous price for two sheep with wool so fine that it didn't looklike it couldbeused for anything but to line bird's nests. And all this time I had no sewing machine, no pump in well or cistern, half the time had to pick up wood to cook with, did the washing and iron ing for Jeremiah, myself, the two children and the hired i»an, milked four cows, attended to the house work, and did the sewing for the whole fami ly. I didn't say as much as some women, and perhaps more than others would have said,, but I was getting madder all the time, and I soon settled it in my own mind, that the day was not far distant when there wo rid be a revolution! in the affairs of tlie Jones family. It is only for the last few years that I have secceeded in getting Jesemiah 'to mow the yard. He used to say that it saved time and trouble jiist to turn some off the stock into the yard to eat the grass where it stood. One morning,, just as the day dawn ed o'er the eastern hills, I arose with the lark, if not before him, cookedibhe breakfast, roused up the men folks, washed the dishes, cleaned the rdbms, milked the cows, and then went to work at the -washing. I had put my first boiling oftclothes on the line, and gone to the cistern for a bucket of ivcaiWr, wliun saw Jeremiah's -Iona-~ horned Cow iri« he had turned intto the yard to graze pulling at a sheet and trying to gut it off the line. I dropped the bucket and took after her with the cistenn hook, but before could make herl'et go her hold of the sheet, she gave it a jerk, broke the line, and ran off, dragging the sheet after her. Some women would have cried at the thought of having all that lot of clothes to wash again, but I didn't. I knew, that Jeremiah and the hired men were taking a lunch and a. rest, in the kitchen, and thither I wencled my way. Just as I reached: the kitchen door I heard Jeremiah say^. "The Farmer's-ulab is"— "Jeremiah," says I, "where is that club?" "What club?" says he. "The Farmers' club," says I.. "I' think if I hadiit cow, I could put it to-1 good use for oncet. I would break it over your head aaid start you to doing I a few things that: are needed to be done around here—suufa as mowing the yard, and fixing fences,, and the like. Then I'd split the fragments into kindling wood to make a, fire to boil the clothes over, for I've picked up every stick and shaving withinm mile around, and I can't pick up any more, and if' you don't haul upsome wood, there'll be no more cooking nor washing done here, unlessa new family moves in. I've done my Lost job of picking up wood, now rememberthat and thenext thing that you turn into the yard tx graze,, I'll set the dop after it." Tlie hired man put on his hat and left the house, and Jeremiah, tried to, do likewise, but I stood between him. and the door till I made hixn under stand that 1 meant what I said..! "And," says I. "you have jjast got to stop going t© that Farmers-' club do ings. If you must belong to one or the other, you have got tan join the Grange, tor women attend that, and maybe youfll learn that women have 1 some rights and need some accotn mediations, and that men are not the oi Jy being3 in the world whose welfare is. worthy of consideration." Jermiah tried to dodge past mo again to get to the door. "Not yet,: Jermiah," says 1. "Will you quit the club and join the Granee?" "Laws, yes," says he. "That or anything else. I'll join the Mormons, if you'll only stop your everiasting clatter." "You arenot in Utah. Jermiah, and A C001)-NIG11T. Bv and ly tho evening falls, SODH of labor rest, Weary cattle neck the stalls, Bird* are in tliQ nest. By and by the tide will turn, Clians'9 come o'er tho sky, Lite's hard task tho child will learnt By and by. By and by the din will cease, Day's long hours be past, By and by in holy peace We shall sleep at ltist. Calm will be the sea-wind's roar, Culm we too shall lie. Toil and moil and weep no more, By and by! PINKIE'S REVENGE BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON (H. H.) "What a perfect shame that she got here to-day!" "Sh—sh—. She might here you!" "Nonsense! She is down in the re ception room. I don't suppose, if she is from tho backwoods, she has got ears that can hear through tloors." "Girls, I am ashamed of you. How can you be so unfeeling toward your own cousin!" "I don't care, mamma, she is sure to be awkward and dowdy. How can we have her at the dinner table to night? I shall die of mortification to have to introduce her to Mr. Morris as our cousin." "Perhaps she will bo too tired to come down to dinner after such along ride. It is a little awkward to add an other to a set dinner party." "Oh! mama, bless you for the thought. You can tell her that she is too tired. You can arrange it, I know!" "Well, I'll try." These were the sentences which fell on the ears of Priscilla Bent as she sat alone, waiting to see the aunt and cousins whom she had come all the way from Kansas to New York to visit, of whose welcome she felt as sure as if she had known them all her life. It was by a blander of the ser vant that she bad been shown directly up stairs into thedrawing-room, which communicated fey folding doors with the room where- were sitting mother and daughters. "Pinkie! What aname!" continued the first speaker. Who eyer heard of snch a name, except, for a dog?" "Her name is Pfciscilla," replied the mother, "but Pinkie wa» given to her by her father, when she was a little girl, on account of her pink cheeks." "Well, I shall call her Priscilla." "And I too." "Your father will' net like it," said Mrsc Bent. "But we must godown." A swift rush of three' women down the-stair case, three loud exclamations of dismay at the sight ofr the empty reception room, looks of. dismay and a smothered whisper of vexation. "How stupid of Bern. Do you sup pose she heard—" Tliese were the next tfAings in the swift little drama which here began so inaunpiciously under M11:. Silas Bent's roofi this morning. And.next to these followed one which-seemad almost a ]UsiHication of Hltthacthe Mlss«a Dent had said in regard to tUueir cousin. Slowly rising to her feet, grasping her umbrella firmly in her left hand, rose a tall, an exceedingly, tall young wom an,. who exclaimed: in at nasal voice, "Well, I was jest a comin'to look ye up. I didn't know as-tliat fine black gentleman o' yourn had condescended to leis you know I was hera. I'm most tiredito death, I tell y,ou:. Four days an' four nights in the cars i'senough to kilLaxi ox. But I'll be all right's soon's I get my coffee. I reckon: breakfast's all cleared away by thieUime, but I don't want much, only- A'-cmp of coffee if tike cook hain't thrown it out. I'm real glad to soe you. I 'spose uncle got my lbttfer, didn't he?" And pausing in her breathliess speech, pratty Priscilla Bent looked sleepishly intot the faces of her-equally shame faced relatives. If. they hod not been tQOguilti]y disturbed in- their own mind of fears of having been overheard iii their inhospitable comments, they might have detected a strange look on their Kansas cousin's-face, a mix ture of twinkle and terror. But they saw, heard nothing except what so thoroughly corroborated their worst fears. Even Mrs. Btent herself, who had resolved beforehand to be thor oughly kind to the child of her hus band's favarite brother was thrown off her balance, and in spite af herself, the welcome she gave ^ras curt and cool. But nothingappeared to daunt the terrible Pinkie. Radient good humor shone in her face hen tongue rani like a clapper,, and when the dinner party was mentioned, Pinkie cried: "Not much! I aiii't too tired.. I'll just bunk down ami by 6 o'clock I'll be fresh as 3 rooster! We don't often get achance-to a regular dinnerparty out in £mpcxria, and I don't mean to miss one this* winter. Say—shall,! wear my very bost? I've- read about tlae kind of clottees you New Yorkers rear to dinners. f$ut I've got some A. No. 1 gown's, I tell you. Now, jou just show »ie my room, 1 Mormonism is not tolerated here," says I "so I'm not afraid*of your join-' ing the Mormons, though I don't doubt 1 your willingness to do so." I went out to pick up the clothes, and Jermiah went after a load of wood, since that memorable day, I' have always contended for my rights, and I generally manage to hav« them. The students at the university of Texas are always playing some game on the professors. Old Professor Gasa way is generally selected as the target. About 3 o'clock in the morning a few days ago he was disturbed by the ringing of his door bell. Hastily en veloping his figure in a dressing gown he threw open a window ami sticking out his head asked what was the cause of the disturbance. "The burglars are bad, and we only wanted to tell yon that one of your windows is open." "Which one?" he asked anxiously. "The one you have got your head stuck ont of, professor," replied the students in chorus—Texas Sittings. and I'll go straight to be2 an' stay there till dinmer time. You fet your Wack man bring me up. a tumbler ofmiiflc, will ye, a'Jongabout 1 o'clock, and a doughnut or a hardl tack. I'm used to eatin' heartily in the middle o' the day." When tlie'door was finally shut up on. Pinkie, bar aunt and cousin ex changed looks. "Horrible-." cried the youngest daughter, Carrie. "It's worse than I «ver conceived. How could papa send for her?" "He has not seen her since she was 10 years old," said Mrs. Bent, dismal ly. "Of course he could not dream she would be like th». He has always said her mother was a charmingwom an and they lived in Europe for sev eral years when she was little. It is horrible, girls!" "Bunk down!" ejaculated the eldest daughter, Sophia. "Fresh as a rooster?" echoed Carrie. "Mamma, I shall go to bed myself and be too ill to appear to-night. I never can live through it never! I don't believe Mr. Morris will ever cross our threshold again." "Then he is welcome to stay away," said Mrs. Bent, hotly. While this distressed consultation was going on between Mrs. Bent and her daughters. Pinkie, safe-locked in her room, was holding one with her self. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but her face was full of mirth. "I will!" she muttered, "I will do it! It will be good enough for them. I, know I can. It will teach them a good lesson. But I will have to work like a Trojan to get the dress ready. Let me see what I nave got that will do? Ha! I have it! That old tableau dress will be just the thing." '•How lucky I brought it!" she chuckled, as she shook out the foldsof a white muslin made in the most anti quated country fashion. "Now I can go to sleep and rest easy for an hour, 'awkward and dowdy.' That is what I will be," and in five minutes mis chievous Pinkie Bent was sound asleep. Anxiety and vexation had maae Carrie ill, and it was with a most un becoming flush on her harrassed face that she appeared in the drawning room a few moments before the din ner hour. There sat the cousin from Kansas! Was ever such a figure seen in a New York drawing-room before? A plain white muslin, made in the shepherdess style, very full and very short, scarlet stockings, abroad scar let sash, and worst of all on the head a turban of white muslin, with a scar let poppy flaunting in front! This was what the malicious Pinkie had done with herself, malicious Pinike whose trunks were full of exquisite French gowns such as her cousins had never owned, and not often seen. She know at least that the opals on her soft white neck would command a certain sort of respect, even from her inhospitable relatives. 'Thank heaven she wore tliern. That will show people she at least has mon ey. That necklace couldn't have cost less than $1,000." "Yes," replied Pinkie, nonchalantly. "Ma likes 'em best of all she's got. They're ma's. I like flowers better. I'm great on artificial flowers always wear 'em every day." The guests were already arriving, Mr. Bent liimsrffamong them, he hav ing, according to the fashion of New York business men, arrived home in time to dress for dinner. His heart was so full of affectionate welcome for his niece, whom he remembered well as a beautiful child of ten. only half a dozen years ago,, that he did not at first note anything but the uplifted! eyes, and the afiectionate voice. As the dinner progressed even unob servant Mr. Bent b»eaj»ie aware that his niece's attire was not what it should be, and that her voice was too 3oud. "But the women folks can soon straighten that all ©wife, and the child's as pretty as a picture'.."' So also thought the Bon. Mr. Mor ris, who, to Carrie's vexation, on be ing told by her that the-young lady in white was a cousin, who had arrived most inopportunely from Kansas,had exclaimed: "From- Kansas! How delighted I am. That is-tSie state of aill others I am most interested in see ing. I am going out tlk«re in the spring "If all the Kansas liufies have so wonderful a complexion as your cou sin, that is another reason'for visiting tlie region. Pray, present n»e to her? I should like to ask her- many ques tionsv Perhaps, ah—" hestammered, with tbio curious mixture-ofi diffidence and a-udacity one so oftentwes in Eng lishuiRnv "perhaps your motiker will be so very good as to let me- have the pleasure of sitting by her side at din ner—that is, if it will not: disarrange youivplans." "IIam: quite sure mama will not re linquish: the pleasure of Raving you chiefly.'to herself at dinner,-!" quickly responded Carrie, her heart full of anger amd mortification.. Neverthe less,. several times in the course of the dinner Mr. Morris heard the- shrill voice,- and thought to himself!": "What a pity, the American vok».- is- a© high pitched..'* When the gentlemen joined'the la dies in tltB drawing-room. Mr. Morris looked eagerly for the Kansas cousin. Not seeing her, he accosted Mrs. Bent withitrua-English bluffnesas "I don't see-your niece from Kansas I hope she has not gone I was counting on talking' with her all tlie rest of the evening:"" With.minded resentment and con fusion Mrs. Bent replied: "My niece wont upstairs immediately after din ner.!" Ih' truth, Mrs. Bent was in a., state of nervo«s bewilderment. Without for, a moment suspecting the real rea son oft' Pinkie's withdrawal, she had perceived that the girl was greatly moved ass she caine swiftly to her when they were entering the.' drawing-room. "Aunt, I must asiA you to.excuse me. I am going up-stairs to change my dress. I was net dressed as I should, have been." "NOVOT mind, child,.never muad." Pinkie was gone. It did not take longpfor her to finish her transformation" touches. The dainty white surah s3k, with willowy reaches of white lacofrom belt to hem, the soft, clinging gloves to tlie shoul ders,, the opal bracelets, the white os trich, feather fan, tile white slippers— all were in readiness. But at last Pinkie's heart tailed her. "It was a shamefhl trick to play on tllera. I shall cry I know I shall, and I'd rather die thaucry before that En glishman." At last she stolfr down slowly, hesi tatingly. Black Ben caught sight of her first, and reelwl back with excite ment. It was an unerring instinct which led Pinkie, on entering the drawing room, to glide swiftly to her uncle's side, and putting both haads into his, say: "Dear Uncle Silas, wonft you mako my peace wit lit aunt, and ask youn friends here to forgive mr*for masquer ading at youcdinner?" Before she Ifcad half-finished speaking the compajay had gathered close around her.. "I must say," begfm Mrs. Benit in an angry tone. But Pinkie went: on resolutely:: "I could not resist the temptation to live up to the New Yorkers' idlea of a Kansas, girl just for an hour or-two. You know that I was exactly the sort of a perswn you all «xpect to see from the West." Shegatheredcouragaasshe saw snides. "Yes,you all knowit,"em bracing the group in her appealing glance, "and we cunt West all Know it. Then.forgiveme. You ask them to for give me, dear UitHe Silas, won't you?" But Uncle Silas was laughing too heart ily. He bent over and kissed her fote head. "I ask then all to forgive me for kissing vou,"hesaid. "A capital joke, Pinkie!" "The best of acting I ever saw," cried the Hon. Mr. Morris "quite clever very neat. Upon my word, though, I do think now, really, Miss Bent. I should have seen through it I don't think you could have deceived me." "I should not have tried," replied Pinkie, very simply. Yet there was a certain indefinable something in tone which made the lion. Mr. Morris change col«r. lv,'^':.4«A.''-'WVY#RF^^S^'*^'L'^'- IL*^'LT',,,V'^,'''I refc.'gaBaaBMujttaag.iiMMi JMWM There ft re no words in which to dfSviribo i.lie embarrassment of Mt-& lie'ic and her daughters. "Had Pinkie overheard what they said about her?" They sounded her as far as they dared. But they never found out. To only one person did Pinkie ever tell the whole. That was to the Hon. Mr. Morris, after she lia.1 been for soma weeks his wife. "I thought it was so unjust in them, Frank," she said "so cruel. I'd just give them a lesson and let them see that manners may be only skin deep—easily put on or off. But I'd never have done it, Frank, if I had seen you first—never. I wanted to run out of the room aa soon as I saw you look at me." "You needn't to have," replied the Hon. Mr. Morris, "for I thought as soon as my eyes fell on you that lhad never seen so lovely a face before." "Did you really?" asked Pinkie. "Really," answered the Hon. Mr. Morris. NOT SLANGY. A Chicago CUrl lefatti H(sndtr from Boatou. A Chicagoan visiting in Bostn waxes indignant at an article regarding Chi cago girls which appeared in an east era journal. The article charges that Chicago girls are in the habit of using such expressions as "getting left," "rustled'round," "went back on him," "corraled her handkerchief," "in the swim," "made the riffle," and "put in nis best licks." The Chicagoan writes to the papers here to say that since his arrival in Boston, six months ago, he has not seen a pretty woman. We think it highly probable. But, re garding this charge that Chicago girls use slang, in order to obtain the facts a representative of the Rambler called upon a Michigan avenue yonng lady who is a typical belle of the Garden City. The reporter was ushered into a resplendent salon furnished in the style of Louis Kanze—or maybe it was Louis* Katorze. He seated him self upon ain old gold fantend, and piesently the young lady referred to materialized, heralded by the frou-frou ®f her silken dress upon the stair. Tho article referred to was shown to her, and she became exceedingly indignant, .observing: "That isaflshstory. The fellow who wrote that iB- 'way off his base:." "You tlimlfc,, then, that there isno truth in the- assertion that Chicago girls are addicted to slang?" "Well, now,, hold on, I don't mean exactly that.. There may be some'of them who sling siang,but I never work ths- slang racket myself. I suppose some of the girfe do use slang some times, but thischild is not one of them now you hear my bazoo." "What is your opinion of Bbstom bellas, compared to those of Chioago?" queried the scribe* "I think we oam discount Boston! ow beauty, and as fir accomplishments,. whyr that's wherewe hold a full hand Take-me for example—" "I should be most happy," saiditJie' reporter, gallantly. "Come off!" she ejaculated, playful ly. "Tiike me fbiTexamyle I can.paw the ivory with thrt-best of'em. Ifoam warble a few warbs, and I can elocute,. too. No) sir, lean tell you. Boston' girls Save got tothustle to keep even' with us,.and it i»very seldom I hear any ofr'the girlsusoslang, Well.Imust go and get ready,for the matinee so,, over the river." "Au s^nvoir,"' responded the jour nalist, making liis best three-for-a quarter bow, and withdrawing with-, his usual grace.. This interview effectually gives the lie to the allegation that the daughters of this metropolis are addicted to the use of slang.—From the Chicago R&mv bier. Hcl^htef Waves. The Height of the waves produced'at' sea in atstorm depends mainly on- the two conditions of the depth of. the water through which they travel! and of the-lfength of. "fetch" or unbroken, space which extends from the shore. It follows that the most gigantic waves are produced where tha sea rushes foi the longest distance and at the-great est depth directljf on the shore. In the long duel between man andnature we here arrive aa the term of: human po wear. At Wialij with a fetch x»f about (500 miles, waves of 40 feet in height from' crest to trough have been ob served to smite-fche breakwater. Com mander Dayman observed that th« liighost waves off the Cape of Goodi Hope rose 20 fiiet, the gales which pro duca them extending over distance of from 300 to600 miles. !n the At lantic Ocean lUr. Scoresby measured! the-waves witliigreat care and accuracy, on different occasions. In March, 1841, he wrote: "In, the afternoon of this day I stood sometimes on: the saloon deck or cuddy roof watching the sub lime spectacla-presented biy the turbu lent waters. I am not aware that 1 ever saw the- sea more terribly mag nificent." Looking fronu the port poa dle box, he says: "I found at lbast one-half of the waves which overtook and passed the ship were far abov*the level of my eye. Frequently I observed long ranges (not acunainated peaks) extending 100 yards, perhaps on one or both sides of the stop, the sea»then coming nearly right oft, which r®se so high above the visible horizon, as to form an angle estimated at two 01 three degrees, when thedistanaeof the wave summits was. about 10Q yards from the observer. This measure ol elevation was by nomeans uncommon, occurring, I shoald think, at least once in half a dozen wavea. Some times peaks of crossing or crests ol breaking seas would shoot upward at least 10 or 15 feet higher." The mean highest waves, not includingthe broken or acuminated crests, Dr. Scoresby estimates as rising about 43 feet above the level of the hollow occupied at the moment by the ship.—The Edinburgh Review. Clara Louise Kellogg tells the fol lowing story of the tostly breastpin she wenrs: "It was given to ine by the Dukeof Newcastlein 1868. It was during the Brighton races that the Duke of Newcastle invited mother and myself to be the guests of his fam ily at the races. In the invita tion be said that he had been losing Suite heavily, and jokingly wrote that I came it might chance his luck. W went, and that very day the duke won $50,000, and had th»V*pin made in commemoration of the event Awith the picture of the winning horse awl rider, with hiti colors, And presented it tc me,"