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( 1g JJ,\, M.._.wv Wan.-. «AM- V v N,” l l l 7 A VVV WV WVV VM\.M/’V‘Nâ€"‘ ilk, . ‘ru. ’ was wroqu “" ~'â€"" ~‘*>â€"~â€"mnfiq "or s '- â€"_'..._ HIS HElRESS ; ORE LOVE IS ALWAYS ‘THE SAME. CHAPTER 'XXVIII.â€"(cox'ri.\'riin.) ~Her fingers are still in a listless fashion rippling the calm water of the fountain. Staines takes possession of them, and forci- bly draws them from the water. Murielj seems surprised by his action, but not in- ordinately so. “ Let my hand go,” she says, haughtily. “In one moment." Carefully. yet. with an obedient haste, he dries the hand he holds. Perhaps the impatience that thrills through it is not altogether displea’sing to him as he lifts his eyes and intently scans ; the lowered lids and silent face before him. i A sad face, pathetic in its studied coldnesss I that hides as if with a mask the working, i of its owner’s heart. She comes back to the present with a sharp sigh as Staincs lays her hand now dry upon her lap. “ Don’t put it in again,” he says, quietly. “ It is still early in the year, and the water is chilly. You may catch cold.” “ I never catch cold”â€"absentlyâ€"“ as you may remember.” “ Remember l” he repeats, “ 'When shall I forget, I wonder? \Vhat is there in all the sweet days we passed together that I do not remember? do not misunderstand me. Do not for an instant imagine that I regret one single hour. Memory is now the only I good that life has left me. The memory of a priceless past '3” " “Let the past lie,” returns she, coldly. “ \Vhat have we to do with it? It is gone, 1 dead. No ed‘ort, however violent, can bring it within our grasp again.” l “ I have at least one solace in my desola- tion,” says Staiiies. “ And that is the knowledge that I suffer alone. It is, it shall be, a lasting comfort for me to know that you are as free from regrets as I am overshadowed by them.” “Shadows are movable things,’ with a faint shrug of her shoulders. “It seems to me that at times you can emerge from yours with a very tolerable success.” “ Ay, but they always follow me. In finality there is no escape from them. But be happy in the thought that they do not trouble youâ€"that those old days are by you remembered as a foolish passing dream. ’ “ \Vould you have me believe you un- happy ;” demands she scornfully. “I would have you believe nothing displeasing to you. Mold your belief ac- cording to your fancy.” “ I have none. I have lost all beliefs,” declares she. “ But don’t waste time over that speech. You look as though you had something to say. Say it." “ You are wrong. I never felt more tongue-tied in my life. could tell youl nothing that is not already old and weary news to you. That I have loved, and thatl I do love, that I shall love you and you only â€"-for ever and ever !” She sits quite mute, with her eyes down- cast, and her fingers tightly laced, lying in her lap. l “ It is an uninteresting tale, is it not?” I continues he quietly. “ All on the one string. I can make my torture 8. little keener now and then by a careful remind- ing of myself that the woman for whom I Would have bartered every hope I possess â€"deliberatelyâ€"of her own free willâ€"sever- ed between us every tie.” “ ‘ For whom you would have bartered all?‘ Why did you never protest so much as that in those old days you are so fond of recalling '3” inquires she. “ I thought I had protested more. I be- lieved my soul as open to your gaze as I madly dreamed yours was to mine. I saw no necessity for words. I was mistaken upon both points. My failure was my own ‘ault, but it is none the less bitter for that.” “ If, indeed, you feel as youan pretend, you should never have. come to this house,” declares she, with slow distinctncss. “I know that now, but then-â€"- How could I tellâ€"how be sure how it was with me until I saw you again?” He is speaking with extreme agitation; at this moment indeed, he is sincere enough and the wom- an before him, standing gazing at him with head e ect in all her cold, .inperious beauty, seems to him the one do sirablc thing on earth. “It seems to me,” he goes on, vehement- ly, “as though I should come; as tlrough with my own eyes I must see you, if only once again.” “ Andâ€"‘3” Her tone is stern. “ Now I Isfzow,” returns be, “my love still livesâ€"may, has grown a thousand-fold in its vain strength. I have learned that timeliclds no hope for me. That I am as sick of life as a man may well be 1” “ \Vliy do you stay here if you are so un- iappy ‘3” cries she. “ \Vhy don’t you go ‘3” She rises and stretches out her hand with a I quick impulsive meaning. “ Go I beseech . you,” she exclaims, feverishly. “I can not! Some power chains me to the spot. It is a fear, undefined as yet,‘ but it is too strong for meâ€"it holds me I here.” “ A mere morbid fancy,” returns she. . “You should despise such vague warnings.” “ Not when they point toward you l” She pales perceptibly, and would have spoken, but he prevents her answer and hurries on- deliberately. ” If I could manage to forget, I might, ‘ indeed, make my escape; but that is impos- sible. Nor would I care for such oblivion. No l I would not forget. The very voyage u that wrecked my happiness will always be the dearest memory I have.” ’ “ It is follyâ€"madness,” cries she. should go.” “ Are these your orders ‘3" demafids he. I sadly; “ Do not enforce them. And there is another thing, how can I go, and leave you here alone, surrounded by those whoâ€"at leastâ€"bear you no good will '3” “ Give voice to whatever is in your 'mim ,” she commands him. “Are you afraid to put your insinuaiion into plain words‘? The worst enemies, they tell us, are those of one's householdâ€"«who is it you would bid me distrust? Speak hâ€"Branks- mere? His grandmother '3â€"or perhapsâ€"â€"” she draws her breath sharply,-â€"“ Madame vcn 'l‘hirsk ‘3”, “ You give me my opportunity,” exclaims he, eagerly. “Madame von Thirsk! Do not trust her. I know but little, I have no right to judge, butâ€"do llOlZ,”I implore you. place faith in that woman. _ I “I fancied you were madame’s friend,” She Nye “ Did I not see you talking to her, just now '3 It appeared to me that you Icll vcrv amicable relations with her. I 7 “You _â€" “ How can I say whether you are right or wrong? It is only some hidden instinct that bids me watch her, for your sake.” EIe hesitates openly. “ I would be rid of this accursed doubt,” he says, “tell meâ€"yon, who should know â€"what is it there isâ€"between her andâ€" Branksmere ‘2” Muriel leans heavy against the fountain â€"-uo answer falls from her lips. It is all over then? The disgrace is known l In- stinctiver as it were she has turned to him i for support. His pulses throb With unusual force as he recognizes this fact, and closes his own fingers firmly over the beautiful slender ones that come to him of their own accord. . Then in a moment it all passes awayâ€"her agitationâ€"the anguishâ€"the deadly shame. “ Must no man dare to have an old friend r3” she asks, with an attempt at light- ness that is only a miserable failure. “ My beloved ! That you should have to endure all this 1” murmurs Staines. And then in a moment, as it were, his ‘ arms are round her, and he has pressed her bowed head down upon his breast. She lies there passively. At this time, it seems to her as if there was nothing at all that inat- tcred. IVordsâ€"all words ! Nothing remains but the knowledge that all the world is at lib- erty now to jeer at her, and point the finger of scorn at herâ€"the despised wife. Good heavens ! Can such things be for herâ€"â€" Muriel Daryl? All at once arevulsion seizes upon her ; she drags herself out of his arms and stands back from him. Of what had she been thinking â€"-she‘3 A terror has fallen upon her, strange, vivid, horrible ; alooking into herself that has changed and darkened her face, and made her look like an incarnate fear ! Whither is she drifting? “Muriel, you shall not feel it like this,” cries Staiues. “Hear me i” “Nay, sir; be satisfied !” breathes she, heavily. “Am I not degraded enough '3 At your bidding all was forgotten. I do not see how I am to look any one of them in the face again.” . “Let us not talk nonsense,” says Staines, with a sudden roughness. “The question now is, how can I help you? I have noth- ing to offerâ€"nothing save my devotion.”- “I want nothing from you,” cries she, passionately. “That least of all. Did the whole world combine, do you think it could avenge such a case as mine? And you, of all others, how dare you offer me help 2 You, to whom I have showuâ€"” Further words refuse to pass her lips. “ Noâ€"no help from you to me is posSible,” she says, presently. "Be sure of that. I will accept nothing at your hands. Oh, that I could trample out of sight all that troubles me,” she cries, her fingers plucking convulsiver at the soft laces that lie upon her bosom. As she so stands, beautiful in her grief and her cruel self-contempt, a soft, low laugh rings through the shrubbery upon her left. _.,_.._. CHAPTER XXIX. “This retreat of yours is a posdive sanc- tuary,” says Halkctt. in this corner of the balcony, and there is something soothing in the thought that every one is dancing in the rooms within, and that one’s own body is idly resting.” He had adressed Margery Daryl, but there are two or three others lounging ii this quiet, forgotten little spot, hemmed in by the tall shrubs in their huge pots. Mrs. Daryl is sitting on the sill of the curtained window ; Curzon. Bellow is lean- ingr over Margery’s chair. Peter, and a. tall artilleryman called Herrick, are lean- ing against the ivy, and Peter’s last pretty partner is amusing herself with him from the depths of a. cushioned lounge. “ If a sanctuary, who gave you permis- sion to invade it? ” asks Margery. She has been particularly rightminded up to this rather late hour, and CUI‘ZOII’S 80111 has been quieted within him, but now, all suddenly as it seems, she wakes into a wicked life, and turns a be .yilderiug smile on Halkett. “\Vliat an unkind speech l Have I not flown to you for refuge ‘3 And is this the spirit in which my prayer is received ! Seeing you not, alone, Miss Daryl, or even a. dean: I took the libertyâ€" ” “ Oh, that is nothing. You are always taking that,” rctorts she. “ The question is, what brought you ‘3” . “Need you ask ‘3” reproachfully. “ You know I am always unhappy whenâ€"‘3" “ She proves untrue ?” This speech has allusion to Mrs. Amyot. “ She always does,” says Halkett. “ Who should know it so well as you '3” “ \Vho, indeed ‘3" E55,“ Yet you have most cruelly deserted me all tc-night ; most wantonly you have flung me amongst the Philistincs. And all the time you have been dreaming here, or in some other fortunate Spot, whilstlie who- would die toâ€"toâ€"” “ Yes. Don’t let it embarrass you ; I know all the rest,” puts in Miss Daryl, kindly. “ You should ! You have served an ap~ prenticeship to it. To know that all the world is grbveling at your feet might make ' you iiiei'cifiil instead of cruel.” “ Perhaps you think you are amusing me ‘3” with asoft disdainful uplifting of her dainty chin. “ My natural self-conceit never carried me as far as that.” “ That is just as well. "' “ I don’t think you are in a very pretty temper to-night. A generous mistress uses the lush sparingly to her slaves.” “ Her favorite slaves, perhaps. who told temper ‘3” “ No one. I think myself, so far as I am concerned, you never are.” “ The lady of your heart is always good- tempered, of course i” There is another in- nuendo in this remark ; Mrs. Amyot at times being a little impetuous, to say the lean of it. “ No. Have I not just this moment told you she never isâ€"to me ‘3" “ The object of your affectionsâ€"J’ she begins, saucily. “ Oh, Miss Daryl ! ‘ The object !’ For my sake, if not for your own, refrain ! I really can not sit silent and hear you call yourself names." ' “'illielinina in the background here so far forgets her self-imposed mission as to burst out laughing. Besides, you I ever was in a pretty ,gresently Mr. Halkett joins in also. \Vhat are honor, loyalty, faith?‘ “ It is very dusky l Margery follows suit, aiidl “ Now where does the joke come in ‘3” demands he, mournfully. “ That is what we all want to know,”~ says Curzon. “ All ‘3 I don’t,” says Margery. I Is a blush a sin ‘3” asks she. “No. But I will tell you what it isâ€" the deliberate breaking of a man’s heart. I have loved you all my life I thinkâ€"and t: No ? You are happy then in not being you have suffered me, only to tell me now a prey to the unsatisfied curiosity that is you are gomg to marry Herrick. ” ‘ consuming me.” “ I am so far a prey to curiosity am dying to know what you mean,” says Margery. ‘ “ I should think my meaning has always been perfectly clear to you," returns he. “ By the bye, this is our dance, I believe.” “ Is it? 1â€"1 don’t think I want to dance,” returns she. “ Don’t you? I wonder then why you come here '3” says Mr. Bellew. “ The busi- ness ofa. ball is dancing ; one can sit and doze at home.” ' “ There are other things besides danc- ing." “ True ! There is flirting,” says he, hit- terly. Tommy Paulyn runs lightly up the steps to their left and precipitates himself among them. “ “'liat are you all doing here in the dark?” asks he. “ All in dumps, ch '3” With a glance at Margery and Bellew. “ Been to the gardens? They are looking lovely. Try ’em and takeiny advice. they’d kill your blues in a hurry.” “ Did they cure yours. Tommy? Was that why you sought them ‘3”, demands Margery. “ No, my dear, I leave the vapors to such thinly minded little girls as yourself. I defy any man, woman, or child to affect my nerves. To deviled oysters alone that proud boast belongs. But the gardens are awful- ly well got up. Lamps everywhere, and stars and things. The committee ought to lbe congratulated on its arrangements. They ought to be presented with a Bible or something.” “ Not good enough,” says Miss Daryl. “According to your account they have managed even the heavens admirably. I don’t see what could repay them.” “ 'Will you come and look at them?” asks Curzon, meaning the gardens, not the committee. “ It is a charming night, quite sultry.” h“Cold, I should have thought,” replies 5 e. . “Pouf l” exclaims Mr. Paulyn, lightly. “ I like to hear you beginning to be carc- ful of your health. You aren’t more deli- cate than Muriel, are you? and she has been enjoying the midnight breeze with Staines for the last hour.” Tommy says this quite gayly, being ignorant of any rea- son why she should not so enjoy herself. “Come,” Bellew says, earnestly. This time without a word she rises, and moves listlessly down the steps into the scented darkness beyond. “ What a follow your cousin is to talk," he says; “ I quite thought by what he said that Lady Branks- l more was somewhere out here ; didn’t you, eh ?” “I know Tommy, and the wildness of his surmisings, better than you do,” returns she, evasivcly. How foolish she was to place any dependence upon any words of Tommy’s! With the restoration of her peace of mind returns also her sense of aggravation. And it is at this very mom- ent that Bellew chooses to make a rather unfortunate remark. “ You look pale,” he says, solicitously. “ I am sorry I can’t look like a dairy- } maid to oblige you,” she says. “ However, ifmy appearance offends you, I must try to correct it.” She lifts her hands and ad- ministers to her poor cheeks a very vigor- ous scrub that almost brings the tears to her eyes. “Now, are you satisfied ‘3” she asks, irately, turning to him a. wrathful, crimson countenance. “ I don’t know what you mean. I can’t see why youshould speak to me like this,” says Mr. Bellew. “\Vhen did I express myself as dissatisfied with your face? Tome as, you well know, it is the most beautiful face in the world.” “ There are a certain class of people whom I detest,” returns Miss Daryl, un- plcasantly. “ You are one of them. Flat- tcry is their strong weapon, and I’m sure you’ve been paying me mcaningless compli- ments ever since I was born.” “Born!” with a rather derisive laugh. “ You can remember since then l" “ I have often heard,” icily, “ that there are few so clever as those who have at com- mand an unlimited amount of repartee. Experience has also taught me that there are also few soâ€"wearying.” “ If I bore you,” says Mr. Bellow, “it is most unreasonable of me to, inflict my presence on you any longer. \Vill you come back to the house, or say here whilst I tell Halkettâ€"â€"” ' “ There ! I knew it 1” breaks she in. “ Anything like your abominable jealousy I have never yet known l I am accustomed : to itâ€"butyourrudencss to that very inofi'en sive person does call for comment." “ How was I rude, may I ask ‘3” “ Do you then deny you were in a raging temper all the time he wasâ€"was courteous- ly endeavoring to entertain me ‘3” " Openly endeavoring to make love to you, you mean,” exclaimed Bellew. “ Do you think I am blind. era fool, that I can’t see through things? I tell you, you were encouraging Halkett in a disgraceful fash- ion, and that he seemed only too glad of' the encouragement.” “ I must be a modern Venus,” says Miss Daryl, “to inspire all the different men you mention at odd times with a due apprecia- tion of my charms. To-duy it was Mr. Herrickâ€"yesterday Lord I’rimroseâ€"-â€"to- night Mr. H alkett. It would cause them some slight embarrassment, I should say, were they to be openly accused of their crime.” “ It is not onlyâ€"” begins he, but she interrupts him mischievously. “ Not only those I have named ‘3 True ! there is still Mr. Goldie who has also come under your ban. Even that estimable man cannot escape your censure.” “To sneer at me, Margery, is not to con- vince me. I have loved you too long to be callous on this point. . If an end to my dreaming has come, I would know it. “It is my belief that at last you have decided on throwing me over to marry some other man.” . “ Which of them ‘3” demands she. “ Mr. Halk'ett, who is head over ears in love with Mrs. Amyot, or Lord Primrose, who has neither eyes nor ears for anyone save Lady Anne '3" “There are others,” says he, “There is Herrick andâ€"" She has changed color perceptibly. “Yes, Herrick." he reiterates in a de- spairing tone. [name how you change color.” that I cried she, indignantly. See when I mention his ' so long as you give me no cause to speak.” “ I am not going to tell you anything, , “ Am I a Mary i l Baxter, who, ‘refused a man before he axed 1 her’? Am I '3" “Did you refuse him ‘2” I , “ How could I," evasively, “if he didn’t give me the opportunity?” , “ You give me your word he‘ did not propose to you '3” _ . “ Even if he didâ€"if they all did, what is not my father, or my .brother, or my guardian, that you should take me to task iâ€"and certainly you shall never be my lins- baud !” This terrible speech seems to take all heart out of Bellew. He stands, as though stricken into stone, except for the rapid gnawing of his mustache. \Vill she speak again ‘3 If she moves away, what is he. to do â€"â€"-to follow, to implore, or to reSJgn al hope, finally? “ If,” she declares to herself, “ he should stand there, mooning, unti l the day breaks I shall not be the first to speak l” ~ She has taken up her fan and detached i it from the ribbon that holds it. It startles her, when she finds it roughly taken from ~ her careless fingers and flung to a consider- lable distance. “ Have you nothing to say to me ‘3” asks he, passionately. ’ “Nothing returns,” she, calmly. . l “ I suppose I can change colorif I choose. that to you ‘3” she demands. -“ You arc _ still warm within him, he disdains all answer to this warning, only ‘ saluting her with an almost defiant and certainly ironi. cal .how. . ‘ “ As you will," returns she, “ but at least remember you are warned l” , He laughs insolently. Something in his manner strikes cold to “"ilhclmina. It seems to her at this moment that the other woman is nothing to’ her. But Margery, size will suffer. The memory of the pretty white face that had passed her a few min- utes ago returns to Mrs. Daryl with a viv- idness that is actual pain. She becomes conscious that Staines is still gazing at her with that mocking smile upon his lips. She falls back once more in to‘ the shadow of the window. ‘ Staines, moving up to Lady Branksmere’s side addresses her eagerly. “ At least do me the justice to under- stand I did not mean to offend you,” he says. ‘ “ What is offense?” muses she. “ No one, it seems to me, has power to hurt me, save myself. Yes, I exonerate you from all blame.” “ Ali, to be sure of your forgiveness,” he murmurs eageily. “ Be sure then,” she says, very gently. “ Give me a proof,” entreats he. “ To- morrow. the others are all gomg to the tennis affair at Lady Blount’s. . Are you, too, going !” “ No l” with a surprised glance ; I have decided against it long ago. Tennis bores me. But what has that to do withâ€"” “ To assure me of your pardon,” inter- rupts he, quickly. “ Say you will permit me, too, to set aside the invitation for .. Do you know you have told me that , to-morroW, and to accompany you instead ,all things are at end between us ‘3” “ Well,” cries she, pettishly, “it is_all your own fault. I won’t have people jig-l ging about after me, and pretending to look the deepest concern when there is no ‘ ! :ause for it. There is nothing on earth so itiresome as being asked every moment lwhethcr one has a headache, or if one’s Ineuralgia is worse, or if some iced water wouldn’t do one good 1” “And all this,” remarks Mr. Bellow “ has arisen out of my simple declaration thatI thought she was looking a. little pale I ‘ I have been a cross goose, certainly," she confesses with heroic candor; “but never mind. We are friends again now aren’t we ‘3” “ We are not,” he returns. “ Oh! that as you will, of course,” : stifily ; “ but I thoughtâ€"” “ I am your lover,” declares he. “ Noth- I ing you could do or say would alter that: in your afternoon walk. That you might in time learn to look askance at me ;and all such fears mean death 1 But if the coming hours hold out to me some hope, I shall surmount my fears. Believe me, I shall not sin again l” ' u “ To-night was a misfake, certainly,” she says, “ but as I have already told you, I absolve you from all blame. ,Yes ; to-mor- row, if you wish, you can walk with me.” Turning her face from him, she looks listlessly around her, and as her eyes travel from wall to wall she becomes at last aware that Branksmere is watching her from a distant door-way with a burning, immovable gaze. _ She starts visibly, and is conscious 0! growing nervous and unsettled beneath it. He. had been aware that the flowers his wife held were not those sent to her by him, but he had been far from imagining whose gifts they were until enlightened in a charm- ;fact. You can throw in the friend and “38157 “dry and casual manner by Mme'yon '; welcome. But your lover I am, before and f above all else. And so I shall remain jwhether you wed me, or some other man, ' or if you never marry at all.” “ Do you kno .v I think it will be that,” ‘ says she. “ I am sure I shall never marry i â€"never “Shall we walk on a. little further?” 9 asks Bellew. } “ I really think, Cnrzon,” says Margery : i gayly, who has quite recovered herself : “ that there is one small thing for which )an apology is due from you to me. What i was that little insinuation of yours about ~ flirting, ch ‘3” You didn’t mean itâ€"h’m?” “Flirting l” he repeats. “I’m sure I shouldn‘t say or mean anything, intention- ally, that would hurt you.” “That’s all very well,” replies she per- . sistently. - “ But the thing is, did you mean that? I’m not a flirt, Curzon, am I? And you don’t think so, do you ‘3” “ Of course not,” he says hastily, “ I .must haveâ€"have been a fool when I said, that.” “ Only then ‘3” mischievonsly. “ Then, and now, and always when I am I l with you,” returns he. vehemently. “ I thank you. for giving me your choicest hours!” says she. “After all, how could I expect you to give me of your best, I, who am so bent on being an old maid ‘3” l “ You, who are so bent on bicaking my v heart !” replies he, gloomily. Miss Daryl laughsâ€"a soft, tuneful laugh that rings through the cool night air. As she looks straight before her, the laughter dies upon her lips. Thereâ€"there in the moonlightâ€"only a few yards from her, stands Muriel, her face pale, ashen, all . the marks of beautiful face, and there, too, standsâ€" Staines. A ‘n CHAPTER Margery steps back again behind the kindly slielter‘of the evergreens, and Cur- zou, follows her rapidly, in her hasty walk back to the house. _ Not a word or‘sigh escapes her, yet he, loving her, knows the agony her heart is enduring, and understands but too well the degradation and horror that are possessing her. * “Don’t take it so hardly, darling,” he says, very tenderly. There is a pause full of doubt, and then Margery turns to him and lays her head upon his breast, and ' bursts into a passion of silent tears. “ Oh, Curzon !” exclaims she, in a bitter tone. . “ There is a great deal of unhappiness in the world, Margery ; but you must not take things to heart as though there were no hope, no remedy. How can we tell what Muriel was enduring just now?_ One can not altogether stifle one’s heartbeats, and if she was bidding an eternal farewell to the first love of her life, we should feel nothing but pity for her.” - ' “Oh, that I could dare believe you i” murmurs Margery, sobbingly. “ But my heart misgives me.” Muriel had caught sight of her sister on her honieward way, and had told herself she never could be devoutly grateful enough that the girl had not chanced to see her iii. the fountain as she stood there transiii'ced with horror of herself, with the first terrible touch of dispair upon her face. That Mar- gery had seen, and judged blindly but cor- rectly of the miserable truth, did not even reveal itself to her. But even now as she steps again into the brilliant glare of the lamps she looks round nervously for the slender, lithesome figure of the girl, and knows a sense of relief when her eyes fail to meet it. . Wilhelmina she greets with a friendly smile, and, hardly pausing to notice her ex- pression moves on to where the lace drap- eries of the windows form a frame for her ; Staines coming to a. standstill behind her, looks round him, and in turn meets Mrs. Daryl’s rather impressive gaze. “ Take care!” she whispers. “ you re- , member our compact. I will be silent only Elevated by the sense of triumph that is passionate despair upon her . Tliirsk somewhat later on. A very tumult of mixed passions is sway- ing him. That she shall give him an ex- planation he is determined. But not now. He has written to her, and considering to- night’s work she will hardly dare deny him the interview he has demanded on the morrow. In a few short hours he will be face to face with her, and will get an an- swer to the questions that are clamoring for utterance. (TO BE coxrmuun.) BITS or SCIENCE. One of Mr. Edison’s latest discoveries is a method of reproducing phonograms. ' Very handsome dresses and window cur- tains as well are now made of glass in Aus- tria. Phonograph cylinders are now made of a size suitable for mailii g. They have 3. ca- pacity of 200 words. The Simplon tunnel from Brieg in Swit- zerland to Isela in Italy, will be twelve and one-half miles long. The first nickel-steel crank ever cast in this country was turned out recently at the Bethlehem iron works. In Germany lightning'rods are being tip- ped with gas carbon. Points of this material, unlike those of metal. are infusible and are not corroded by the air. A new cigarette machine has been invent- ed by a man in “’inston, N. C., that it is said, will feed, roll, paste and make 10,000 perfect cigarettes in ten hours. Edison is working on a magnetic ore separator. The only obstacle in the way of its success at present is the necessity of crushing the ore to a very fine powder before the separating process. A sensitive paint has been invented which should prove useful for detecting hot bear- ings in machinery. It is always bright yel- low when cold, but gradually changes color on being heated, and at 220 degrees becomes bright red. A Rhode Island scullcr rejoices in pos- sessing an aluminum shell, made whollv of that metal, that weighs only twenty-three pounds, all rigged. It measures thirty-one feet eight inches over all, but is less than a foot wide. A new glass which is nearly impervious to the calorific rays is made in Germany from 70 parts of sand, 25 of china clay and. 34 of soda. A plate a third of an inch thick allowed only 11 or 12 per cent of the heat from a gas burner to pass. The fiber of banana stalks is proposed as asubstitute forjuto in the manufacture of wrapping paper. The commercial possibili- ties of such an industry are being seriously considered in Nicaragua in View of the par- tial failureof the East Indian jute crop. The method adopted by an electric light- ing company of London in laying their connections consists of copper strips con- ducted along their entire system in culverts underground. A terrier has been trained to do this work and carries the electric wires through the culverts with the skill of an experienced workman. Simpkins Safe “ Ef that young squirt of a. Simpkins comes here again,” angrily exclaimed Pap Muggins, " by jocks I’ll read the not act to him i” ' V “ No you wbn’t dad,” replied his buxom, red-checked daughter, taking another look at herself in the glass. “ You won’t do any- thing of the kind.” “ Why won’t I ‘2” stormed the old man, bringing his fist down on the table. “ Because, dad,” said the maiden, giving her frizzes another dexterous jab with her taper fingers,‘ “ you can’t read, you know.” The most precious collection of German wines in the .world is that stored away in the cellars of the Grand Duke of Luxem- berg. Some Of the vintages date back to 1706. I 1 a ‘i i e s is