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U. EASTER FORGIVENESS.
O 1' lOopyrlgbt, 181)0, by American Proas Association.] WOULD not live alway I ask not to stay!" quavered in Ms best clothes and new blue tie was play ing hymns and thinking of Lucy Allen's blos som like face and the soul thrilling prospect of seeing her at church. A trim, spry body was Miss Elizabeth. The only remnant of beauty left her after the frosts of forty-five years was a pair of limpid blue eyes that looked out on the world ao frankly that you knew instinctively that a woman with such eyes would have thrived upon caresses and tender words—and she had none save what Peter gave her. "Oh, who would live alway?"' she con tinued, her voice rising with an eager, falter ing strength as the hymn drew to a close, and then she stood still for a little while, her fin ger laid pensively on her lips. An Easter Sunday moruing of years ago— ah, how many!—had come back to her sud denly. Thousands of yesterdays faded away, And that one, glad morning came back to her, a living thing. She .*aw herself in her cool pink and white frock, her face, with a cascade of curls on both sides, almost hidden under a shadowy poke bonnet. She was standing with hei prayer book in her hand beside an ojeii win dow somebody was on tho grass outside, his face raised to hers, his touch upon her hand. Somebody else was singing tlie hymn which Peter was just finishing with a long drawn, sighing chord. She heard a voice: "The man who wrote that hymn was never in love, or ho had just been jilted don't you think so, Bess? Now, we would live always if we could spend our eternal lives together!" Then this somebody had opened her little prayer book, and with an unspeakable ten derness of look placed her fiuger on these words in the marriage service: "Until death do us part." "Never forget that. Bess." tie had said never will." But he had, oh, he had) Years of pain had been her portion. She bad suffered, and through him. The story was an old one. People had al most forgotten it. Sometimes a few of the oldest gossips touched upon it at quilting bees and sewing parties when chatting of old times. They wondered what had become of that handsome fellow, Dick Aspell, who had jilted Elizabeth Darrow for the actress from New York. And was that the reason Miss Elizabeth had never married? Or was it be cause, her sister dying, she had been left with all those Marvin children to bring up? They had all died, too—all except Peter. Peter's heavy tread upon the bare white boards roused Miss Elizabeth. She looked up at him. A quick sigh sent the dream back to the shadows from which it had crept, and ahe was herself again: practical, kind and nervously energetic. "Now, Peter, why don't you get your tie atraight just for once?" she exclaimed, stand ing on tiptoe and giving the big fellow's ahoulders a twist to bring him into a belter light. "There you aro now. Land sakesl your hair, too, is all awry. Whatever have you been doiif to yourself" "I poked my fingers th. ^.en 1 wa» thinkin'—thinkin'"— commenced Peter awk wardly, his face taking on a deep blush. "What's the matter with the boy?" ex claimed Miss Elizabeth, and then her quick mental perception told her that Peter was on the brink of aconfession of love. She whisked around and placed a chair before him. "Sit down, Peter Marvin," she said, point ing to it like a judge. Then she took a seat opposite him and smoothed the creases out of her apron. "You don't need to tell me who it is. It's Lucy Allen, that's who it is. You don't sup pose I haven't seen you castin' sheep's eyes at her this last three months, though I've kept my knowledge to myself. Have you asked herf The idea! it's nearly killing to think of you—deai-, dear—but have you asked her?" A lump in Peter's throat threatened to strangle him as he answered spasmodically: "Last night—singin* school—as we were *-walkin' home" "Yes, I know!" interrupted Miss Elizabeth sharply "moonlight—t.he gate—well, what did ahe say?" •'She said just 'Yes.' 11 "Oh, she did?—and didn't lose time about it, I'll wager. Girls nowadays do tuor'n half the love making. And what did you say j" Peter turned a deep, slow scarlet. "I didn't say anything at first." "What did you do?" "I didn't think I could, Aunt Liz, but 1 did. I—I—I can't say it nohow," lie said, looking everywhere but at Miss Elizabeth's faeo. "Peter Marvin," she exclaimed, pitiful break in her voice and her eyes Hide and humid "did you kiss her?" "Yes, I did," he said, little bit frightened. "And did you tell her you'd love her's long as you lived? And did you say nothing in the world could ever make you forget her (j Did you "They be the very words, Auut Liz!-11 ex claimed Peter, wondering eyed. Miss Elizabeth started from her chair, and flinging her thin arms around his neck kissed hiiu for the first time in years. "Oh, Peter," she sobbed, and lie thought her sweet eyes looked for all tiie world liUe wet forget-me-nots "don't fail her. Be tru« to her, Peter! Be true to her." "I will, Aunt Liz," he said, softly. An hour later the brown pony was har nessed to the phaeton and Miss Elizabeth, by Peter's side, was whisked along the curving roads to the little church two miles distant. Oh, how fuir the world was! Across the rolling meadows alight breezecourteaied,the bliie sky was reflected in every little pool of water, and the budding pastures sent up that moist, sweet, earthy sutell belonging to the spring. She was very proud, very contented, ner mind busy with pictures of the coming marriage. Ah, it waa something to walk into church behind a prospective bridegroom. She almost felt as if ane were going to to married herself. Her little world had taken on a new significance. She sang the "Holy, holy, holy," with a feeling of elation which almost took her off her feet, and exchanged Easter greetings quite gayly with the mem lera on the church porch. Ja^^ Miss Elizabeth, in an uncertain so prano, keeping time at the same time with her foot to the strains Peter was drawing from the mehxleoii in the little parlor across Hit) hull. The old Dutch clock fn the corner of the kitchen pointed to 8. They wero early risers at the Darrow farm. Five o'clock never found Miss Eli/.abetli or Peter asleep. Hero it was only 8 o'clock on Easter morniug, and breakfast was over, Miss Elizabeth was taking the last pan of crisp gingerbread out of tho oven, and Petei 1 1-4- t^p^5 11 "DID YOD KISS HER?" "YES, I DID." at the gate and drew up a few yards from the kitchen door. Then she saw they were uot alone. Something was huddled on the lower step. Gradually as they approached it took form, and she saw an old man sitting in the sunlight, his head supported by his band. "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Miss Eliza beth "and the key under the mat. If he'd only known he wouldn't have left a thing, mebbe. You go on to the stable, Peter I'm not afraid I'll speak to him." She walked nimbly up to the despondent figure and touched his shoulder. "What's the matter?" she asked, with a touch of impatience. The man raised his head and looked at lier with a far off, dazed expression. His face was pale and refined and bore marks of re cent illness. He was pitifully thin and there was the suggestion of a life's disappointment in his glance. He seemed unable to speak. "Are you sick?" she asked again, and her voice was kinder the dovelike softuess had come back to her eyes. "Only tired," he answered, and his sad eyes looked at her quietly, intently. Miss Elizabeth felt uncomfortable. He did uot look like a tramp, although he was mis erably poor. His voice was soft aud pleas ant. Why did that strange, exultant chill creep through her blood? What if his eyes were gray and pleading like a well remem bered pair which had made sad havoc of her foolish heart? But there was a something else about him. Miss Elizabeth could not tell what—there was a something. "You're an old fool, Elizabeth Darrow,'! she said inwardly, and flounced into the house. By and by Peter appeared. "You're not goiu' to leave him sittin' there all day, I hope?" asked Peter in what he sup posed was a whisper "Lucy'U be along to tea this afternoon. Why don't you give him some gingerbread and milk. Aunt Liz, aud let him go on?" The man outside heard him. "Don't mind me," lie said, staggering to his feet "I'm going now. 1 only wanted to rest a little and the place looked so pretty." He leaned weakly against the wooden post and lifted his torn hat with a distinctive grace and courtesy. There is almost as much individuality in the way a man lifts his hat as in his handwriting or footstep, and the ease and freedom of this poor wretch's ges ture sent another premonitory thrill through the little spinster watching him. She darted down the steps and took hold of his sleeve as he turned away. "Don't dare go. It's Easter Sunday and 1 couldn't have it on my soul to treat any one so on the Lord's day. Come in and have your dinner." A sigh trembled over the man's lips. He hesitated and looked at her. "That's good of you very good of you," he said gently, and followed her iu. At dinner, however, lie scarcely touched the food. "You're ill that's what you are," said Miss Elizabeth. "Where do you come from?" "I've been every where," he answered. "I have no home I've been a rolling stone." "I reckon you've been to sea?" queried Peter. "Many, many times. I've been in every country on the glolw. Had to give up when I got sick. I left the hospital three weeks ago, and I'm making my way back to New York." "Have yon no friends nor a wife?" asked Miss Elizabeth. ''My wife died five years ago lam quite alone." "Alone," she echoed, "and you scarcely able to stand." She leaned over and whispered something to Peter, then said aloud: "If you like I can give you a place to lie down in. Mebbe you'll feel more chipper in the morning. There, you needn't thank me. 'Tain't nothing to speak of." At twilight, while Lucy and Peter wert singing hymns in the parlor, Miss Elizabeth went up to the vacant, cobwebby attic used only as a store room, made a comfortable bed on a cot and then called to the stranger to come up. "You'd better Ho down now. You look lagged out," she said briskly "be careful t* put your candle out when you're ready for bed." The wavering light played with picturesque effect on the silvery hair lying softly against her brow. Her brave, self reliant little fig ure caught a mysterious charm from the shadows piled up behind her. "Wait—please wait a moment," said the stranger, iu weak, choked voice, as she turned to go. "Will you shake hands with me? Ttmuk you." as she gave her hand gen tly aud wonderiugly. "This day has been of pure gold. You're a good woman. Your charity does not sting.'- The undercurrent of feeliug iu his tones electrified her and she went away trembling. What was there about this homeless one that made her think of one dead to her these mauy years? Miss Elizabeth began to despise her self as a soft hearted old fool. Bedtime came and she and Lucy sat for a while by her window looking up at the clear sky where the large stars burned, shedding a halo of star dust on the world. Then her thoughts went back to him. Was he asleep? No, impossible. He was doubtless wonder ing wearily where he would drift ou the mor row aud how it would ail end- Suddenly she and Lucy looked at eacl other with startled faces. What was that sound? They listened again. A stealthy footstep, a voice and a little vibration as aomething fell. "He's not asleep at all!" she said in au ex cited whisper. "What's he doiuguow? 1 was a fool to let him iu, mebbe. How do I know the man's not a thief! There—don't you hear him apeakingf He's let in an accomplice whil^ we were downstairs. Oh, what a fool I wi I'm going to get Peter. I'll show hitn we'rj not so green either." "Let me go with you," chattered Luc taking hold of Miss Elisabeth's skirts, ai ffi twimfsw" 1 1 1 1 All the w*jr home ah* bummed matches of hymns and laughed merrily at Peter'a un eouth jok«, She was teasing him in h«r high iwwt voice as he turned the phaeton in without making a aound they crept through the dark halls to Fster's door. In a few momenta ho joined them, carrying revolver and a candle. Miss Elisabeth with stout cane followed, and Lucy, trembling with fear, kept cloae by her side. When they reached the door leading into theattio Miss Elizabeth pushed Peter aside. "Let me go first. I'll face him," she said in an indignant whisper. She paused and bent her ear forward. Yes, there was the sound again, and his candle was still burning, as she could see by the thread of light stealing under the door. She turned the knob quickly and the trio burst into the room without any sort of warning, and saw—not a pair of thieves plotting a rob bery—but the stranger sobbing like a child over a little book pressed fervently in his hands. "What is it? What's he got there?" asked Peter. Miss Elizabeth knew. Her face grew white as the kerchief around her neck. It was a little time stained volume of Goldsmith'* "Vicar of Wakefield," which her old lover hod given her in tho early days of their courtship, and it had lain for many years in the attic with babies' cradles, toys, childron't useless little garments and other dusty tokens of the past. She looked at the thin, wan face on which the candlelight played. It was turned from her now in shame. She stood erect, her eyes misty and ques tioning, her hands folded tensely before her. "Is it Dick?" she asked. "I meant you should never know," tho old man stammered, and she saw tho tears steai from beneath his lowered lids. Wiiy did she not hnte him': Why did she almost forgive him without question? The why or wherefore was past her knowing. She only knew that the sight of him moved her deeply. But she struggled against the feeling that well nigh overmastered her, and the pride of a stanch New England woman flushed bet cheek. No, she could not forget the bitter ness of the past. She felt the warmth ooze away from hei her heart. She became his judge, and all the details of her unhappy past rose one after an other as witnesses against him. When she spoke her voice was cold, and Peter had never before seen such a bright stern light in har eyes. HB LEANED WEAKLY AGAINST THE WOODEN POST. "It's time we were all asleep," she said. "Put away the book, Dick Aspell. What's done is done, and there's no use shedding tears over it." She hurried away, Peter and Lucy follow ing in wondering silence. And was this the end of it all? And did Miss Elizabeth, strong in her pride, see her old lover depart next day without a pang? Ah, not so easily are old memories forgotten and put aside. Lucy had a dim remembrance Afterward of waking several times and see ing a lonely figure sitting thoughtfully by the window through the long night and in tie grayness of the dawn. When at length Miss Elizabeth rose and ipoked in the little mirror she shrank back with a startled sigb. The peace had vanished from her face. The interview with her heart in the still watches of the night had given a new, stormy depth to her eyes and left new lines of pain about her mouth. "Shall I let him go without a word?" she thought. "It's only what he deserves and talkin' '11 do no good. T'm not one o' the kind of women who thrive on cruelty and deceit. But is it Christian like to let him go without saying I have no hard feelin's for what's dead and gone?" After brushing her hair aud dipping her face in a basin of cold spring water she felt better and again took her seat by the win dow. "After the ivay I acted he'll be sure to creep off early without seeing me again," she thought "he's as proud in his way as I am, and that's what I'd do in such a case." The light strengthened and advanced in the east as if marking the invisible footsteps of a god Peter passed -whistling on his way to the oarn but still he for wnom she wan,, not come. At last Blie could bear it no longer and hur ried out to the barn. "Peter, go and see if lie's up," she said, try ing to sprnk carelessly and with an emphasis oil the pronoun. The thought that he might be very ill made her heart beat rapidly, but that was nothing to the remorseful pain wltich shot through her as Peter returned, swinging his hoe and calling out lustily: "He's gone, Aunt L«z." "Gone? No, it cau't be," she stammered. "Dead sure," said Peter. Miss Elizabeth weut to the bam door aud sent her eager gaze over tho level pasture lands sweeping to right and left. What was that dark object three fields awav moving slowly by the low stone wall? "That's him," said Miss Elizabeth, catching up a sun bonnet hanging on a rusty nail near by. "1 must speak to him ouce, Peter, for— for the sake of old times." She ran down the pebbly stable path", jumped as lightly as a girl of 10 over the bars at the end of it, and ran across the fields until she was only a few yards from him. As she waited to get her breath she noticed how weak he was, and how deathlike his face in its ivory whiteness. He did not see her until she stood beside him. "You might have waited for your break fast," she said rather awkwardly. "Why annoy you further?" he asked quiet ly. "You were far kinder than I had dared to hope. Few homeless wauderers fare as well. I thank you for the charity you gave me before you knew who 1 was. I thank you very much." After au effort she spoke again. "I followed you just to say that I—I—lear uo grudge for what's past. The sermon yes terday was about forgiveness, and I forgive you. This is all I thought to say to you. But there's one thiug now I'd like to usk." She looked away front hitn, a piteous romolo in her proud tones. "Why did you do what you did, Dick Aspell? Or why did you do it the way you did? 'Twan't by uo mentis nee 1^.,ii.^w.^.iii^iiM^i#itai"' a esaary to throw me over without a word and sneak ofTs if I'd have kept you when you wanted to go. If you'd told me you cared more (or that other girl than you did for me and told mo in the right way, I'd have seen you couldu't help your feelin's, and 'twouldn't have been Elizabeth Darrow who'd hav* made you stay, not if the givin' you up hat brokon her heart, aud that's why" There is little more to be said. Miss Eliza beth was content to gather up the tattered threads of her old romance, and there was a double wedding on the June day set by Peter and Lucy. "And to think," ruminated Miss Elizabeth, t'i she walked up tho aisle dressed in a rust ling gray poplin aud leaning on her lover's arm, "that 1 might not have followed hitn if my heart had not been made tender l\" thinking of that other Easter morning." T* She stopped, losing the thread of her long speech in a growing inclination to burst into tears. "What are you saying?" asked tho man be fore her in a slow, amazed tone "I didn't think you could be so unfs.ir. You ask me why I went away when you sent me off your self, and in a spirit of pique I married the woman I had been only flirting with." "I sent you away!" exclaimed Miss Eliza beth, scarcely believing her ears. "A likely story. You musn't say that to me, Did Aspell. 1 remember everything as if 'twere yesterday." "And so do 1. I remember tho letter you sent me the bitter letter, where you told me in pretty plain terms what you thought oi me. But perhaps that existed only in my fancy, too?" "I sent you no letter," said Miss Elizabeth breathlessly, and sho stood with her eyes looking past him as if peering into tho van ished years for some explanation of this ap palling fact. "Oh, wait!" she cried "I see it all. How everything becomes clear. Oh, Dick, Dick, listen," and she held hts arm in a tight clasp "Mary—you remember my elder sister, Maty?—she never wanted mo to marry you. She thought you would come to look down jn me because your father had given you eucli good education, and she thought you Too wild. When people liegan to gossip about you and that actress she grew very bitter. She sent the letter, aud this is why I know: When she was dying' she said she had done me a wrong and wanted to confess. She struggled hard to tell me. I thought it only the raving of the fever when she kept mut tering about a letter, and before 1 could make out anything at all plain she died. Oh, Dick—oh, the dreadful years that have passed—aud 1 never knew!" EVELYN MALCOLM. AT THIRTY-THP.SE. The sheen hath passed from tho rainbow, The dew from the lily is sipped. The glory is flwl from the dawn light, The pearls from youth's chaplet hath slip ped But, oh, little heart! tiny baby— With red lips so warm at my breast— You and I make a world to ourselves, love To ourselves, and apart from the rest. My feet have trod many a pathway With briar and blossom astrewn Life's fragrance and bloom brushed my gar ment'?. But vanished and faded too soon Yet, oh, little bud! human flower:— Nestled tenderly now on my arm Life lingers with still one fond blessing. Love leaves me still one precious charm. Looking back on strange trouble and sorrow. Lost hopes, wounded pride and long pain, I deny that life brings compensations— And for all that we suffer find gain Yet, oh, in the joy of thy smile, sweet So innocent, cherubic, bright, There is balm for the hurts of a lifetime. Nepenthe for world's chill and blight. Whom I lean on may coldly turn from me Whom I love may love others instead Whom I trust with a kiss may betray me And leave me alone in dark dread. But thou, with thy blue eyes on mine, love With thy musical, dear, cooing call— To thee I am still the most welcome.' To thee I am still all in all! —Kent Keithe in Chicago Times. In Ut« with English IUilroadi. An American actor who is traveling through England writes: "Let me assure you that I am as patriotic as whenl sail ed out of New York, but really I jaust take off my hat to the superb railroad system of carrying theatrical troupes in England. We have been on a tour two or three months and we have always had two elegant carriages or cars entirely to ourselves. These are not compartments like the ordinary English carriage, but saloon carriages, with another for our star and her maid. Tlte roads make up these special trains oti Sunday for theatrical people only. For instance, our troupe desires to go from Birmingham to Manchester another troupe is booked from Birmingham to Derby, and still another from Derby to Liverpool. The railroad makes up its special, takes tlie two companies from Birmingham, drops one at Derby, takes up the othor there, and carries the last to Liverpool. It is economical and it is comfortable. This is going on all over tlie Kingdom on Sunday, and the Midland carries an im mense number of traveling players."— New York Sun. Tlie Best Wearing Leather. But very few people who wear Cordo van shoes have any idea where the leather bearing that name comes from, hence the question is often asked, "What is Cordovan?'' '•Cordovan,*' the name by which leather made from the hides of horses i? now known, was first finished in Hani burg, Germany, under the name of Iio- leather. In combination with it the hide has four layers of muscular skins which, with the "shell," give to the horse the great and tremendous pulling power that makes the animal so serviceable to man kind. This "shell," if properly tanned and shaven clean of its sinewy matter— a most difficult task—makes the best wearing leather in existence, and proves the theory of old time shoemakers—that only leather of a long fiber will wear to be a mistaken one. as the ''.shell" has no fiber. In this it has a decided advantage over calfskin with its fibers the breaking of anyone throws additional strain upon the other, and a break in the leather soon fol lows. Experience has demonstrated that the "shell" will wear two or three times long er than calfskin. Cordovan possesses another great ad vantage in being the nearest waterproof •f any leather made. The fineness of texture also permits its taking a very Vgh poiisii.—.St. Louis Republic. A Flay Is an Animated Picture. I remember that during the rehearsal of "The School for Scandal" I was im pressed with the idea that the perform ance would not go well. It is always a difficult matter to bring a company of great artists together for a night and have them act in unison with each other not from any ill feeling, but from the fact that they are not accustomed to play together. In a fine mechanical contrivance the ease and perfection with which it works often depend upon the fact that the cog wheels have their dif ferent proportions. On this occasion they were all identical in size, highly polished aud well made, but not adapted to the same machinery. Seeing a hitch during tlie rehearsal in one of the important scenes, I ventured, in my official capacity, to make a sug gestion to one of the old actors. He re garded me with a cold, stony gaze, as though I had been at a great distance— which I was, both in age and in experi ence—ami gave me to understand that there was but one way to settle the mat ter, and that was his way. Of course, as the company did not comprise the one regularly under my management, I felt that it would be becoming in mc to yield, which I did, not, however, without pro testing that the position I took was the proper and only one under the circum stances, iind when I saw the scene fail and virtually go to pieces at night, I con fess that I felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that mv judgment had been correct. In fact, tlie whole entertain ment, while it had been a financial suc cess, was an artistic failure. People wondered how so many great actors could make a performance go off so tamely. Harmony is the most important ele ment in a work of art. In this instance each piece of mosaic was perfect in form aud beautiful in color, but when fitted together they matched badly, and the effect was crude. An actor who has been for years the main attraction in his plaj's, and on all occasions the central and conspicuous figure of the entertain ment, can scarcely be expected to adapt himself at once to being grouped with others in one picture having so long performed the solo, it is difficult to ac company the air. A play is like a pict ure: the actors are the colors, and they must blend with one another if a perfect work is to be produced. Should they fail to agree as to the value and distribu tion of their talents, then, though they be ever so great, they must submit their case to the care and guidance of a master hand.—Joseph Jefferson in Tlie Century. At tlie Cw Office Window. "Anything new this year for the peo ple in the way of gas meters?" asked a subdued looking citizen at one of the windows of the gas office on Dearborn and Lake streets. The man on the inside, whose long at tention to duty at that post has made him look haughty, tried to thaw out in front of the inquiry. '•You may say," lie replied, as if he were conferring a favor, "that our gas meters will run this year as usual— which is to say, all right. And let me say another thing. There has leen a good deal of complaint in the year gone, at this very window, and to this very person now speaking, sir. that we have rendered bills to people for gas who were out of town and who had not lighted a burner in six weeks. They have come to us and exclaimed with air of triumph, sir, that they had us at last. A sort of ali-ha business, you know, like the villain in the first act of the play." Then the man at the window paused, took a fresh grip on his breath and re sumed: "You may say to these deluded peo ple that a certain amount of gas is forced through the meter, any way. and if it isn't burned it will leak, and the register marks it up just as if it were burned. So you see that the gas com pany is not a robber after all. Tell that to the people." The man without gave a longing look and gasped: "Then there is no hope?" "You can take out tlie meter," said the wretch inside, as he resumed his work of compounding.—Chicago Trib une. The Oldest American Hos]it:tl. After thirty-live years burial from the light the corner stone of the Pennsylvania hospital at Philadelphia was uncovered the other day. In 1S55 some alterations were made in the east wing, and at that time the stone, which is a white marble block, was ro vealed and the inscription read, after which it was covered up again, recently Superin tendent Hoones read an old historvof the IN THE'YEAR Of CHRIST MDCCIV GEORGt THE SECOND. HAPPILY REIGNING (TOR HE SOUGHT Tlti-turt'liESJ OF"HIS PtJHE) PHILADELPHIA FLOURISHING ..-THIS BuiipiNG BY Tk BOUNTY OF i£ GOVfMI'pT AND Of MANY fm"L PEOPlS^r WAS Pioustv foiniioeo y'\ fORTHt flELICf OF THE SICK AO'D^MIStSABUr ',iw 1 MAY THC too 0FM?RCY y' BLESS THE U.mKT/WlftS.- THE I'NI:AKTHEI COH.NKII STONE. early days lit' tlie hospital written by Benja min Franklin. Kroni this he learned the ex act location of tlie corner stone, and set a la borer at work to clear away the dirt. In a little wbile the face of the stone was exposed with the inscription as shown in the illustra tion. It, was laid May 17.V. At that time the hospital was some distance from '.lie built up portion of the city, and was reached Uv a path through the fields. The ground on which the building stands was purchased for JEoOtJ. The president of the board of n.an ogers in I0V1 was Joshua Crosby.' The hos pital is the oldest in the United States. loreiK'e 'iglitiic»lr's Srvtutlelli liirllnluv. In May of the present year Florence Night ingale will celebrate the seventieth anniver sary of her birth, and the day is to be appro priately obscrveu iu many parts of the civil ized world. She is now living at her home, Lea Hurst, in Devonshire, England, and is a confirmed invalid. Her lifelong work in lie half of the sick and suffering is well known, and her t,pecial services personal during the Crimean war and advisory at the time of the American civil conflict.—have endeared her name to uutold thousands of beneficiaries. .n^M^c, ATLANTIC ICE RISKS. •MM of the Daagars ATOM iMbtrp la |kt Early Month* of tba Year. Tmnnatlantio steamship owners have become quite exercised over the frequent reports made of ice during the past ten days. The Rotterdam, Scandia and P. Caland are the most rewnt arrivals that have sighted these dangers, which were encountered during their last voyages across the ocean between latitudes 45 degs. and 47 degs. and longitudes 44 degs. and 49 degs. The most definite de scription of any of the icebergs encoun tered was that at a distance of three miles they appeared to be about 100 feet high. Next to fogs, or perhaps together with fogs, there are no more disastrous expe riences related than those we hear of in connection with ice encountered during a passage across the ocean, and it can not be wondered that in these months. whei»- fog is at a minimum and com manders of vessels have time to devote their whole attention to battling with the elements and trying to reach port on time in the face of the tremendous gales that sweep over the ocean, the report of ice should arouse their fears and re double their caution. With the low temperature of the sea son, both of the air and the water, one great means of detecting the presence of ice is to a considerable extent denied the navigator, and the deafening gale dead ens sound from a distance as it whistles through the cordage and smokestack guys, so that the roaring of the sea at the base of an iceberg cannot be heard until it is almost too late to avoid con tact with it. The ice blink, which fre quently renders ice floes visible, even in the darkest night, can perhaps be relied upon to indicate their presence, although the blink that attacks the strongest eyes of the brightest of lookouts when he is trying to see something through driving sleet and snow, effectually prevents his seeing to any great distance. The ex perience of the past few years has not recorded ice at this season, but accounts of former years show that it is occasion ally to be met with and unhappily, as a rule, disaster is included in almost every account, so that it need scarcely be men tioned that great circumspection is nec essary in passing near the regions where these dangers may reasonably be expect ed. Some few instances from the many recorded are quoted as of interest, show ing the peculiar and irregular tactics these huge masses of ice follow, as they charge about from place to place, some times urged on by a fierce gale, and then again floating placidly along in an en tirely opposite direction at the mercy of some one of the currents or counter cur rents to be found in the ocean, the di rection of which often becoming tran sient and contradictory owing to gales of wind that aifect the surface of tho water very strongly as far as they ex tend. In January, 1818. the brig Anne left the harbor of Greens pond, Newfound land, in the morning and in the evening of the same day got among ice proceed ed thus about forty mile3 and at day light next uiorning was completely beset, with no opening to be seen in any direc tion from the masthead. In this state she continued about fifteen days, drift ing with the ice about sixty miles south east by east, or about four miles in ev ery twenty-four hours. The ice had now become very heavy, high above the sur face, and about twentv-nine large bergs were in sight. She was altogether shut iu twenty-nine days, in the last fourteen of which she drifted from latitude 46 deg. 57 min. to latitude 44 deg. 37 miti. before tremendous gales of wind blow ing the whole time from west to north west. In the course of this two hundred and eighty mile journey more than one hundred large islands of the solid blue "Greenland ice" were sighted. On the 12th of March, 1826, the brig Ajax, when between latitude 42 deg. and 44 deg., weather thick and cioudv, with squalls of hail and snow, ran right in between two reefs of ice, jammed to gether apparently in a solid mass, and when daylight dawned thirty icebergs 150 feet high were found surrounding the little craft. The crew got up wood en fenders and slung tliein over the side to prevent being ground into toothpicks by the surging masses of ice. Spars, bales of cotton and lengths of cable were one after the other added to save the brig from destruction. In January, 1844. Capt. Burroughs, in the ship Sully, met with an iceberg in the Atlantic in latitude 45 degs., longi tude 48 degs. Later years have proved the experiences enumerated above, and this year of exceptional weather, both afloat and ashore, has thus far been pro lific with reports of ice encountered in the same general region that it was met with iu the cases cited. The theories lately advanced that the arctic current, which sweeps along the northeastern shores of this continent and the island of Newfoundland until it loses itself under the heated waters of the Gulf stream, has had uo existence the past few months, and that consequently the Gulf stream has come in nearer our shores, will hard ly stand when subjected to the searching light of scientific inquiry. And a prac tical refutation of this theory can be found in the changed positions of the icebergs thus far sighted, which show plainly that they are being moved by ocean currents in the direction hereto fore taken by this polar or Labrador cur rent.—New York Herald. A Letter iue Years ou lu Travel*. A registered letter, supposed to con tain something valuable, was returned to the Baltimore postofiice recently. It was sent from here to New York city for a party there as far back as March 15, 1881. The regulations require regis tered letters to be returned to the sender within thirty days if undelivered. The letter had no explanation or indorsement after its nearly nine years of sleep in New York. If* the woman who sent it will call at the postoffice she can get it back now, but she will be required to identify it.—Baltimore^American. •iMf