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THE CHARITY GIRL
By CFFIC A. ROWLANDS CHAPTER XXIV. The Glendurwood carriage was stand ing where Jack had ordered it to remain when he arrived. Jack had thrown him self back in his corner and had folded his arms across his breast; Audrey sat bolt upright, her two cold little hands clinched tight together, her teeth set so that the sobs that rose to her throat should not escape her lips. Who shall attempt to describe the state of those two hearts, both wounded to the very quick, both heavy with that deep sorrow that comes when one has been deceived where one loves best? "Why did they take me fo him? Why was I married to him? I would sooner have died than have listened to what those women said to-night, and know that he has never, never loved me," said Audrey to herself, passionately. "And so my happiness is over," ran Jack's troubled thoughts. "Well, it has not lasted long. Fool—fool that I have been, to believe that any woman could be the angel I have pictured her ts be, and that she should love him—him, above all other men! I feel as though his very life's blood will not give me satis faction." They reached the gates of Craiglands at last; a few minutes' drive through the we*l-kept avenue, and then the door. Jack got out, and then forcing himself by an almost superhuman effort to appear nat ural before the servants, turned to as sist her. Audrey put her cold hand in his as she stepped out of the brougham. How little did either of them think that they would not clasp, or even touch, hands again for many a weary day. The fragrance and warmth of her bed room seemed to choke Audrey. Hastily flinging off her domino, she passed to the window and pushed it open, and then stood by it, the sound of her own heart beating in her ears like a sledge hammer. Would Jack come? She waited several moments. If he had come to her then she would have done that which would have put matters straight at once, for the agony in her breast was urging her to speak out to ask him why he had deceived her, why he had married her? The hot blood rushed to her cheeks again and again, as she recalled cne remarks those two women had made, and realised how cruelly the world judged her already. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by, and Audrey still stood waiting for the sound of her husband's footsteps on the stairs and the passage outside. Her happiness was ended; Jack no longer loved her—indeed, had never loved hen She was his wife, that was true, and it must ho-her lot to boar with the diffi culties as with tho joys that fell to her as his wife. "Still," the dilld thought sorrowfully to herself, "he has acted wrongly; he has been cruel to Sheila, to himself, to me. I am glad he did not come in just now, yes, glad, for it shows that he is tired of deceit and hpyocrisy, and—and I cannot bear to think that the nature I thought ■o honest should only prove false. What was it that those women said? "The worst day's work Jack Glendurwood did when he married me.' People should be careful how they speak out —the truth." Her lips but her face flamed with proud color. "The worst day's jvork for Jack," she repeated slowly, "and I am the one who has brought that to him. I—l who would lay down my life for him. Why did I ever meet him? Why did I ever leave home? Why did not heaven let me die before all thla sorrow came upon him through me? Jack! My darling 1 My darling!" Her hot, tearless eyes stared into the fire, as If to seek some eolution of this painful problem there. In her loving gen erosity Audrey made all excuses for her husband now. She no longer blamed; he was still to her the dearest creature on earth; and yet so great was the agony at thought of his deceit that, had he held out his arms to her and called her tenderly by name, she would have turned from him and stood aloof. CHAPTER XXV. Jeaa Thwait was lying in a delicious doze, bait waking, halt keeping, an the morning following the Dinglewood Masked ball, when a aharp Up at the door, fol lowed by Audrey'* rapid entrance, arous ed btr completely. "What ta It, darting? Something baa happened?" she cried, hurriedly. "Jean, can you park up a few thiaga and come with me at once?" Audrey ■poke faintly, her face was deathly white, ahe ahook la every limb; then before Jeaa could anawer, abe went on swiftly, "My mother is very 111. She has telegraphed for me. Perhapa even now I may be too lata; ahe may be dead. I hare ordered the carriage to be her* la an hour, can you be ready?" "Yes," replied Jean, briefly. It needed ao worda to tell her that more waa the matter than thia telegram from Ger many. Audrey had never apokea like thla to her before, had, Beyer looked aa ahe looked now. Audrey made ao Inquiries about Jack, although ahe knew ahe muat acquaint him with her Journey before ahe started. Jean found plenty to do in the time allotted to her, but abe waa wonderfully quick, and waa in ber bat and coat when ahe went to the door to open It in anawer to a aharp anmmons. It waa Jack, also fully attired la outdoor costume, with a rail way rug over his arm. "Good morn lag. Ml as Thwalt," he laid, hurriedly. "Pleaas forgive me for thla uncoremonioua Intrualon, bnt I wanted to apeak ta you befor* I leave." "Are you aot going with ua?" abe aak ed la aurprlae. It was Jack's tun to show aatoalah ment "Where are you going?" he aaked huak »y. Jean ta three worda, explained what had happened, and then she knew some thing waa Tery wrong, indeed, by the ex pression on Jack'a face. "Poor Constance I" ahe heard him mut ter undar hla breath; then he gars a quick aifk. "I hope thins* may aot be so had, Miss Thwait. It is quite impos sible for me to gel to Cronstadt yet." "Does Audrey know you are not going with us?" "I have not seen her this morning," was the answer, given with much evident pain. Jean clasped her hands suddenly. Then her worst fears were realized, and some thing more had, indeed, happened; some thing. too, very terrible, to work such a change as this. "Lord John," she said, involuntarily, "you must please forgive me, but is your business so important that you are com- : pelled to attend to it rathef than acoom- , pany your wife on such a journey as j this?" "Miss Thwait," he said as well as he could speak, "the business I am going on touches that which is dearer to me than life—my honor! I am sure that you at least would not wish me to neglect any thing with which that is concerned." "I will answer for Audrey as for my self," Jean said, hurriedly, "if your honor is concerned, Lord John, no other reason is needed; but is there nothing I can do 7" "Give this letter to Audrey, Miss Thwait," his voice quivered as he spoke his wife's name. "It is a sacred trust, one that I would not give to every one; but I know you are her friend, you will comprehend and sympathize with what I am going to do." "Stay, Lord John; you must hear me!" Jean's gray eyes were full of tears. "I love Audrey better than anything on earth. Ido not ask to know the reason, but I see, alas! only too well, that some thing has arisen between her and you. I ask you now, and it is my love for her that urges the question, will you not see her yourself before you start on this journey?—will you not smooth awsy the qudrrel? She is in trouble—will you not take her to your arms?" "It is impossible," he said quickly, but with such determination in his voice as made Jean shudder, and sent a thrill of exquisite torture through Audrey's aching heart, as she, at that moment, opened the door in time to catch Jean's last words and her husband's reply. By and by, when they were speeding to Dover, Jean and Willie Fullerton—who. when he found Jack did not join them, insisted on going—in a corner talking earnestly, Audrey drew out her husband's letter. "Audrey—ln future, after the events of last night, it will be impossible for us to live together. This, I take it, will be as much yonr wish as mine. To continue to live as wo have been doing would be a mockery of marriage, a disgrace to our race, a dishonor to our name. This, then, is what I propose to do. There shall be no divorce; the pride and honor of the Harborough family protest against ouch a course. After all, you are very young, a mere child; you may have erred through ignorance, but be that so or not, from henceforth you oan never bo my wife In aught but name. My wife must be above suspicion—pure, sweet, true—not a girl who, before scarcely six months of her marrisge have gone, encourages a man for whom she openly expresses horror and contempt. "As for Beverley Rochfort, before pany hours are over—unless he be a cur, which I take him to be—ho will have answered to me for his own part in this affair. Audrey, I am trying to write kindly; I am trying to remember yonr youth and the many disadvantages that havs been yours since the first, and you—lf you have justice and honesty In your heart— you will recognise that I am not trenting you harshly. Tour future Is my care. This morning I have made my will. 1 leave you all the money I poosess, to gether with Minster, la Blankshlre, the property my father has just settled upon me. Whether I live or die, I wish you to make your home at Mineter. I should like to think Miss Thwait was with you. Yonr money will ho transmitted through my lawyers. I Intend to start at once on a tour of the world, giving the condi tion of my health as a reason for thus relinquishing my parliamentary oareer. I shall he absent, perhaps, two yearn, and I leave It In your hands to judfo whether at the end of that time yonr conduct has been such as to permit mo to occupy the | same house as yourself, and appear he fore the world in my proper position as your husband. "JOHN GLENDURWOOD." When Dover was reached a telegram was brought to Jean. "For Lady John Glendurwood," the waiter said, inquiringly. "Is that right, madams?" "Quite right." • Jean hesitated only a moment, and tore it open. She gave a little sound of sor row aa she read. It was from Marshall —poor, faithful Marshall—and ran thus: "Mrs. Fraser died this morning. Her last wish waa that you should not travel here, hut that she should be carried home and buried In England. I, therefore, beg your ladyship to obey this wish. I hare telegraphed for my poor mistress' lawyers. "SUSAN MARSHALL." Poor little Audrey ! Robbed already of the mother she had longed for so much, loved so dearly, and possessed so short a while 1 CHAPTER XXVI. There was nothing to do. Audrey fell into a sickness that threatened serious consequences. Jean sent at once for Lord Glendurwoed and Fullerton, and he came in hot haste from a Tain search for Bev erley Rochfort. There was nothing to be dons but wait. Audrey had fallen into a stupor. Her dear mother was buried without the presence of her beloved child. For three daya and nights Jean sat beside Audrey's bed, watching and dread ing for the moment when that fair, frail face ahould grow even whiter, the faint, low breathing even fainter. Three long, weary days the«e were; but if she found them terrible, how much more so did the one who had nothing to do put to pace to and fro ia the wet, leafless garden, his hungry eyes fixed alwuys on the tow, square window which hid his darling from Mi H»wt 11m dactew ferbada Jack Qlm* 4anrMd from entering his wifafc sick Ptoin. He had crept ia for a few ma- Bents the night he arrived—no argument or threat could keep him oat; and ss he hsd bait over the girl's silent form, call ing to her in his agony to speak to him, she had opened her eyes, and at sight of him she had given one little scream, and then had relapsed into unconsciousness, in which condition she had remained for three days and nights. When reason re turned Audrey was better, and Jean sought out Jack and told the good news. "And may I see her—when?" he asked, eagerly. "When may I see her? My darl inar! My darling!" "The doctor will tell you. Perhaps to night 1" As Jean sat by. Audrey's bedside that evening, resting back wearily in the ch;dr, now that all extreme anxiety was gr<ie, a small, sweet voice came from the pil low. and she was alert at once. "Jean," she said, after a little pause, "is —Ja—is my husband here?" "Yes, darling; he has been here neaWy all the time. Do you want to see hi:u?" "No, no, no! I will not see him. Jean. If you love me, send him away! I *hall go mad if he is here! Promise! Prom ise ! You must: you shall!" "It shsll be as you wish, my deurest." Jean said, softly. "You can trust me?" "Yes—trust —you —always." she mur mured, and in a few seconds she was asleep. Constance Fraser had been brought over to England and laid beside her moth er in an old-fashioned country church yard. It had been a simple. funeral enough, though flowers hsd come from far and near. High and low, rich and poor, one and all, had a sorrowful thought for the sweet, gentle woman, who had merited a better sojourn on earlh. Sheila was left to herself and her not very agreeable reflections. The masked bail bad cost her an enormous sum. Lady Daleswater had never offered to take her away with her: she had absolutely no no tion of what had happened to Jack and Audrey. Beverley Rochfort never made the least sign, and to crown all, Murray, the whilom maid at Craiglands. and her inuch too clever accomplice, took matters into her own bands and bolted one night with all the available jewelry and lace she could lay her hands upon. Enraged beyond all expression «t the loss of her property, Sheila nt once put the matter into the hands of the-police, and, in fact, was far more interested in this affair than she was at the death of her stepmother. But a more disagreeable condition of things than this awaited Sheila when the report of Audrey's disappearance spread to Mountberry. She was fairly frightened; ignorant of what might really happen, she conjured up all sorts of evil that would be visited upon her when the whole truth was given to the world, a» it most probably would be. She eagerly searched for Rochfort, to force him to exonerate her from blame in the mischief they bad brought about, but like a coward he was hiding from its consequences. Then one day she had a frantic visit from Alice Fairfax, vho was in great and terrible fear lest something would hap pen to her. She had seen Willie Fuller ton, who had boldly stated that It was Lord John'a intention to aift out the whole gossip that had been spread about his wife, and clear away much that ha could not understand. "And If so, we shall be ruined. Sheila," sobbed Alio* Fairfax; "but, anyhow, I shall tall the truth, and say you asked me to do—" "You dare to turn on me!" Sheila flashed, furiously, white with anger, and then she would have proceeded to fur ther ebullitions ot wrath had not the door of bar room baan opened at this moment and Ur. Fullerton announced by the waiter. A glance at the two flushed faces would have aatlafled Willie as to their guilt. If he had not, at that mo ment, reposing In his pocket, a complete confession aigned by Murray, whom Daw son, the detective, had easily found—this had been done at Jean'a auggeatlon—and who, discovering that her chance of a brilliant career on Sheila's jewels was briefly cut ahort, eased her conscience and her spite by diacloslng the wbola plot. Willie's interview with Sheila waa short and to the point; and whan he left the room he carried with him her slgna lure and a few worde at the bottom of Murray's confession taatifying that ail the maid bad written was true. (Ta he continued.) Tmllr «ulllri. "So you're after the job, eh?" sal* the milkman who hat advertised for a helper. "Yes, sir," replied the young nan. "Well, what experience have you had?" "Why, I've pumped the organ down to our church fur years."—Philadelphia Press. Akarat Mlalei. Stranger (with suitcase) —Can you adrlse me, sir, as to the nearest route to the leading hotel? The Native—Straight ahead three blocks. Two dollars, pleaae. Stranger—Eh 1 Native—Beg pardon. Force of habit My card. I'm Dr. Pellet—Cleveland Plain Dealer. tt» Graft !■ It. "See here," said the lieutenant of po lice, "that countryman claims he told you of his experience with a bunko man, but you paid no attention to blm." "Dot's all right," replied the cop. "He didn't Interest me none. He admitted de bunko man had took de last cent ha had."—Philadelphia Press. Vaullr tke Cut. "Say, pa," said Tommy, looking up from his paper, "what does 'obvious reasons' mean?" "Usually, my son," replied pa, "tt means reasons that the writer Is too lazy or too Ignorant to explain."—Phil adelphia Press. CesTHileit. "So you have three pairs of glasses, professor?" "Yes—one pair to read with, anotaer for nearsightedness, and a third pair to look for the other two with 1"-—I'lle genda Blatter. THE TBJLMF FLO WEB. Betty grew within a garden, Long ago. Tended by old-fashioned fingers. Trained just se! Fairest of the flowers they thought her, Lovers for their ladies sought her, And for love money bought her, Lady Bet Fair and fine was pretty Betty, Long ago; In her perfumed gown of lacework, Made for show. Freshest dews from heaven kissed her, Ne'er a balmy zephyr missed her, Sunbeams hastened to assist her, Dainty Bet. But their fickle fancies wavered, Long ago; And a rival flower won them, Ah, the woe! Fashion's cruel whim dethroned her, Robbed her of the prestige loaned her; Old-time friends in vain bemoaned her, Pretty Bet. Thrust from out her native garden, Long ago; Betty crept upon the highway, There to grow. Now she nods from every corner, Wildness has of beauty shorn her, Till the passiug children scorn her, Gypsy Bet. She that was so fine and dainty. Long ago; Tended by old-fashioned fingers, Trained just so! Grazing kine have tramped and maimed her, Long neglect has paled and shamed her, And the vulgar youth have named her Bouncing Bet. —Ainslee's. Someone's Letter "You nnd I have always been such good comrades, I'eggy, I am going io tell you something," Adams began, leaning forward to obtain a better view of Miss Brace's pleasant features. "Only a little while ago, as I was coming along the beach, the wind caught a scrap of paper and swirled it around su near that I grabbed It, and had read it, before I realized what I was doing. It was part of a letter in which some girl described ber ideal man for her best friend's information, and —I know you will laugh—l couldn't help recognizing myself." "What a conceited thing to do," Peg gy retored, smiling. "Girls write lota of nonsense." "This wasn't nonsense, If you please; it rang true. I mean to find out who that girl Is," he declared, "I believe you are half la love with her already," aha Insisted mis chievously. "Perhaps I am," Adoma admitted, calmly. "Oh, Mr. Adams," they beard In af fected tones, aa Violet Slncell hurried to where they were seated on a ledge of rocks near the sea. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." "That's all right," said Adam, ris ing. "We're going sailing, Peggy. Won't you come along?" "No, thank you, I hope you will have ■ pleasant time." She waved her hand In farewell, and returned to the Bruoe cottage, at which she and her father were entertalniug a small party com posed of Emory Adams, a young lawyer whom she had known front babyhood, and his mother, resides her two friends, Violet Slncell nnd Bernlce Shaw. Sea and sky were a soft, cool gray, the light changing from moment to mo ment. By the time Violet and Adams returned from their afternoon's outing an Impalpable curtain shut off the ocean from view, rain began to fall, nnd the waves dashed thunderously against the rocks. A constraint seemed to have arisen between Violet and Adams, and, after dinner, Miss Slncell, pleading fa tigue, wont to her room. The remainder of the party were engaged In a game of bridge, with the exception of I'eggy and Adams, Mlsg Bract, who Adams thought looked very well in a soft,,white gown, seated herself at the piano and began the Brnliuis Wlegenlled, while ue leaned against the instrument, listening to her playing. Suddenly she raised her brown eyes from the keyboard to his face, its strong features framed In smooth lustrous hair. "You look worried; Emory?" she ob served. "Did you and VI have a quar rel tills afternoon?" "Oh, bless you, no," he hastened to say. "She was frightened at the fog, and once she clutched me around the neck and nearly upset the boot. She Is a nice girl, and an awfully pretty girl; yet I think I should reel relieved If I knew that she didn't write that let ter." "Now that Is too bad," Peggy told him. "VI has taken n great fancy to you. She speaks of you and Boston In the same tone she uses when referring to heaven and the angels." The consternation expressed on Ad ams' face at the Information sent Peg gy into a gale of laughter. "Don't look like that," she gasped; "I don't believe ber Infatuation Is serious—you needn't feel obliged to propose." Adams came nearer to Peggy's side. "Miss Shaw Is hardly the kind of a girl who would disclose her feelings easily, it seems to me," he confided, in a low ered tone. "I like her; she has a strong, fine personality. But " "Arc you determined to ran that poor girl, wlio wrote a silly letter, to earth?" Peggy Interrupted. "Take my advice, and forget that you ever saw what waa not meant for your eyes." * "Probably that would be the more sensible course," he agreed, giving Peg gy's band an affectionate squeeze, as he recollected how often she bad coun seled and sympathized with hLiu. When he was in his own room he opened his memorandum book and took out the folded scrap of paper to reread the simple confession. He started to tear it into pieces, but some thing deterred him; he replaced it, half ashamed of Ids sentimentality. 11. "What are you young people going to do to<lay?" queried Mr. Bruce, after breakfast the following morning. He was a rotund gentleman, a favorite with Peggy's friends. "Come out to the quarry this afternoon, if you've nothing else on hand." "Perhaps we will," Peggy answered; "we want to go to Gloucester to shop this morning, if you will let us have the automobile." "1 can do without It, I guess," lie said, pinching her ear gently. "You'll look niter them, won't you. Adams?" "What 11 in I, a mere man, when girls are on sli piling bent," he rejoined gay ly. "I'll do my best, Mr. Bruce." Their departure was made In high spirits. The short distance was trav eled in good time, and Adams left the girls at a milliner's, with the un derstanding that he would 'meet them in two hours at a drug 6 tore. lie visited one or two shops to make a few purchases on his own account. Then, as considerable time remained, he went to the library, where. In the reading room, his eyes fell at once upon Berulce Sliaw. "I thought you were buying frills and furbelows with Peggy," he re marked In surprise, sitting down In a chair beside her. "I dropped In to read an article a friend of mine has in this magazine. 1 want to tell him I've read It, when lie asks nie." Miss Shaw appeared disturbed by his presence, turning the leaves of her magazine without reading them. Ad ams glanced over the articles In ques tion, and retired In a discomfited frame of mind, as he had hoped for a quiet little talk with Bernlce: As he lounged on the beach behind a summer hotel he pondered deeply over the mystery of the authorship of that confession. I'erhaps Miss Shaw's embarrassment was caused by her con- "MD YOU AMD VI HAVE A qUABBELf" sciousnesa tlmt the letter was In his possession. Certainly he was m a pre dicament, for he was obliged to own that he did not feel either one of the two girls would satisfy him In a wifely capacity. When he went for them Peggy tald Rernlce was not coining then, hut would come later by trolley. lfy the tline the hour arrived when tliey were to visit the quarry, Violet excused herself ou the pjcn < f fatigue, and Bernlce had not returned. "There will be-only you and I," said Peggy dubiously; "perhaps wo would better wait until another time." "There Is no reason why we should not go," Adams replied. "It won't be the first walk we bare taken together, by any means." They sauntered along In a merry mood, Adams thinking that, after all, there was no girl quite like Peggy. When she married, things would hardly be the same, he reflected. The Idea did not suit him; he became more seri ous. "I think Bernlce expected to meet Mr. Totherob," Peggy condded; "It Isn't announced yet, but I don't ulnd telling you they are engaged. "lleally!" Adams replied, absently. "He Is a good fellow; I know him well." "Don't be so glum," Peggy answered after a little, when significant silences were punctured by remarks on the weather and the scenery. "If you are still worrying about VI, I will tell you that I saw that new boarder we met at the Ocean View going out with his camera shortly before she decided not to Join us." "Then her young affection* are not blighted," he responded, with an at tempt at jocularity. When they reached the quarry Peggy clambered around here and there in a fearless manner. Her father, who had expected to meet tbem, had been called away, but all tha workmen knew Miss Bruce. Adams watched ber small,"trim figure as she sprang from rock to rock with the increasing conviction that no woman could ever be to him what Peg gy was—tlie truest, dearest little com rade In the world. Suddenly Ills heart leaped Into bis throat "Peggy!" His voice rang out, stern. Imperious, as he rushed forward and, seizing her arm, Jerked her violently out of the dangerous position she was [ In. There was ■Ml roar, and a gran ite ledge was riven apart A block fell precisely where she Had stood. The color died out of Peggy's face, Adams drew her hand wtthiu his arm. "Steady, dear Peg," he said tenderly. "Foreglve my roughness. I hope I didn't hurt you." "It didn't matter. T—l don't know how to thank you," she stammered. In the twilight they walked home to gether, both sobered by the danger Peggy had escaped; Adams quite as much by the new knowledge of bis own heart "Little girl," he said, abruptly "I dkln't know how much you meant to mo until I thought I was going to lose you. I've fallen In and—our of—love any number of times, as you know; but I am done with trifling. I belong to you; please, Peprgy, will you marry me?" A crimson wave replaced reggy's pal lor. After a brief silence, she mur mured : "I never thought yon cared for me— ill that way. What nbout the girl whose letter you found?" "Really, I don't care who she was," he returned Impatiently, "pon't you love me, dear?" Peggy's dark head dropped until h» could not see her eyes. "I may as well tell you," she avowed, "that I wrote that letter."—New Orleans Times-Democrat. He Wmi Slttthfg Down. The late James A. Bailey, famous a»- the successor of P. T. Barnum. once ac cepted an Invitation to a dinner ten dered to a bride and groom among the "freaks" of his circus. He was late In arriving and found the company po lltely awaiting him. There were living skeletons, dwarfs, Clrcasslons, snake charmers, the "girl that spoke seven languages and had two heads which made fourteen languages In all," the "dog-faced boy" and others. Beaming upon them with paternal air, the happy manager acknowledged the genial "Hel lo, pop," that went_ around the festal board. "I am sorry I kept'you waiting," he said, taking his place at the table. "I believe there are several new additions to the company. Is this the groom?" "No," replied a deep voice from the full beard addressed, "I am the bride." "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Bai ley, "I did not recognize the bearded lady. But, tell me, which Is the groom ?" "I am," proclaimed a very thin voice. In astonishment Mr. Bailey glanced up at the figure towering near his el bow. "I congratulate you, my man," said the manager. "Kit down, let us on with the feast—sit down." The guest addressed at once began to nsceiid seemingly until his head was la the neighborhood of the canvas roof, from which height he looked down and said: "1 was slttln' down, pop—l was lit tin" down!"— Success Magazine. The Ptrat Boy Journal!**. When tlia library of ex-Governor Penny packer of Pennsylvania was sold recently, there turned up among other odd volume* a complete file of the first magazine edited by a boy. It iva» bought by Mr. Beck, formerly assistant attorney general of the United States. This unique volume was entitled. "The Juvenile Fort-Folio and Literary Mlcellany." It wns named for one of the earliest American magazines. Its editor wns Thomas O. Condle. Young - Condle's father was the publisher fort one year of a monthly magazine for adults, and wns engaged for many years In the general publishing business in Philadelphia. His son, who was born in 1797, had a natural fondness for the business, and iu 1812, when ha was 15 years old, founded his own monthly. The "Juvenile Port-Folio" consisted each issue of fonr pages, a little larger than eight by five Inches, and with two columns to the page. The editor made a house-to-house canvass for subscrl l>ers, and a list of more than six hun dred of thein is printed In the bound file. The magazine had a life of a little uiore than four yean until young Con dle graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and began the study or law. Although Condle has often been re ferred to as the founder of Juvenile Journalism, this is the first tluie evi dence has been found to support that title, as the other files of his paper have disappeared. Tka Hreu l> IhakupMre'i Tim*. John Trevlsa wrote that "the hyoena Is a cruel beast like to the world in de vouring and gluttony. It is his kind to .change sexes, for he is now male and now female and is therefore an un clean beast And Cometh to bouses by uiglit and felgneth man's voice as be may, for men should trow that tt is • man, and herds tell that among /(ta ble* he felgneth speech of mankind and calleth some man by his own name and rendeth him when he hath him without And he felgneth oft the name of some man for to make hounds run out that be may take and eat them."—Shakespeare's Natural Hl* tory." A Paaai>o Thought. A polite little girl waa dining one day with her grandmother. Everything at the table was usually dainty and unexceptionable, but on this particular occasion tbe little girl found a hair la her fish. "Grandmamma," she said, sweetly, "what kind of flab Is this?" "Halibut, my dear." "Oh," replied tbe child, "I thought perhaps It was mermaid."