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A. a“ .I‘ Am W. .r ly, “ ‘Will 3 old absurdity was thinking of), ' Sha’n’t I? ' all came out! And I’m sure I am very ._5_ CHAPTER XXXVII. I " I don‘t see how we can do much more to the altar without the grapes,” says Mar- gery, standing well back from the rails, With her charming head delicately poised to one side the better to comprehend the effect of her work. “ They should be here by time. I doub: that Branksmere’s gardener is a man of his word 1” “ It is most remiss of him,’ says Mr. Goldie severely. Mr. Goldie is the. curate ; a young man of faultless morals and irreprOachable clothes, with bolting blue eyes and nice plump checks, who has been following Miss Daryl about all the day (indeed, for the matter or that, all the year), and who seems to have small object in life except to stare mutely at her and hang upon her slightest word. “ They will be here soon, Meg. ) _â€"â€"â€"___.__ _ __ ,A , His HEIRESS; OR. LOVE IS ALWAYS-THE SAME. know what you are saying ? Are you going she. sen tentiously. “ Who is jealous? Do you think I should feel jealous of that unfortunate little long tailed person in there? Give me credit for better sense than that. No, I am only an~ , noyed that you shouldâ€"erâ€"that he should i â€"t‘natâ€"-erâ€"in factâ€"” . I‘ "' We should,” suggests Miss Daryl, de- murely, as he breaks down hopelessly. “ I’m a cross old cat, am I not?” she says, penitently, tucking her arm into his. “ Never mind I’m very fond of you, after all, in spite of your many enormities.” “ You are an angel,” retor ts he with all the sweet folly of a real lover. He takes her hands and lifts them. At this instant a piercing cry full of agony It? W“ l comes to them from the inner porch! Marg- my faultâ€"-the delay,” says Lady Branks- eryis face bunches, mere, who has come down to look around her perhaps, becau=e she certainlv hasn’t a, terrible whisper, “ What was that? What?" she cries, in And thenâ€"“ It was assured them m any way. She is looking May’s voice,” she says, and rushes past him pale, and not altogether her best ; one must to the spot, wheme the sound came. be happy to look that. “ Let us see to the completion of the chancel then,” say; Mr. Goldie in his most pompous tone. " I fear those we left in charge” (he says the “ we” with a'fond but ' unfortunately rather foolish look at Marg- i 3W), “ are not quite as steady as we could Wlsll them.” Miss Daryl, with an inward regret that, lshock. i pause, and then it is Lady Branksmcreâ€"the to tell me that I encouraged him ?â€"A jeal- ous man makes a miserable home,” quotes cold, the impassivoâ€"who first reaches her. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Upon he stone pavement the little form is lying motionless. The ladder from which she had fallen is still quivering from the There is a moment's breathless sne,c{m,.mlmll”ilke him as. miscellqu as a”? i She gathers the little still child gently to con“ “‘3 ‘ um’ louowa hlm mt’o 1’ Xe pref” 2 her breast, holding her to her with a press- ence of a most boisterous group who are' busy amongst fernsandcaulifiowers. Tommy , Paulyn on the to ' away to much abuse of the boys, interlard- ed with tender speeches directed at the bevy of pretty damsels beneath. “Look at Meg trying to wear out herI fingers with that thorny stuff,” says Peter, ‘ admiringly. “ Was there ever so plastic 8. being? Idolent to-day, full of pluck to- morrow. Her nails are one of her good points, she might consider them.” “ It seems to me,” puts in Mr. Goldie, mildly, with a i'eproacbful glance at the young men round them, amongst whom are Curzon Bellow and Mr. Paulyn, “ that Miss i Daryl might be spared such arduous work. ' Her zeal is so great that it outstrips her strength.” “ It strips her skin,” supplements the Hon. Tommy, who seldom minces matters. “ It will play old Harry with her hands, and they used to be tolerable.” . “ I think it is not well that you should in such a public â€"-in fact in such aâ€"erâ€" sacred place. discuss your cousin at all. It would be offensive to many, I am sure, to- be spoken of. Could sheâ€"that is, would sheâ€"I mean"â€"-flounderiug hopelesslyâ€" “ were she the object of my affections I shoul4.l-â€"” “ Oh ! Mr. Goldie, to call poor Margery an ‘ object !’ I wouldn’t have believed it of you. And we used to think you quite her friend i - Margery !” caliing lustily, “do you know . what Mr. Goldie says 0fâ€"~” - l “ No. no; no, I entreat l”exclaimed the poor curate, almost laying his hand on l Peter’s mouth, who is in ecstasies. “ I ! meantâ€"only to defend your sister fromâ€"” “ And who the deuce are you, sir, to set yourself up as Miss Daryl’s champion?” ex- c.aims Bellew, with a burst of wrath that has been gathering above the head of the luckless curate for over a month. “ \Vhen she needs a friend to plead her cause, she will know where to look for an older one than you l” After this, chaosâ€"and a. general rout. The bystanders very Wisely abscond, and even Margery herself very meanly slips round a. corner into the vestry-room, feeling assured that Cnrzou’s black looks and Mr. IGoldie’s red ones have something to do with ier. But in the vestry vengeance overtakes her. Mr. Goldie, either stung to action by Bellew’s conduct, or eager to “put it to the touch, to win or lose at all,” follows her there and lays himself, his goods and chat- tels, all (which is very little) at her feet. It takes only a few minutes, and then Margery emerges again into the under air outside, a little flushed, a little repentant perhaps for those half hours of innocent ~coquetry that had led the wretched man to his doomâ€"to find herself in the midst of a home-group composed of Peter, Dick, Angelica, and Mr. Bellew. The latter is standing gloomin apart; the others make towards her. Tell us how he got through it," says Dick, seizing her arm. Perhaps there may be a brotherly pinch inclosed in his grasp, be- cause he receives an instant answer. “‘Nell, he saidâ€"â€"Oli, Dick, don’tâ€"” L‘What a story !” exclaims Angelica, very naturally. - “What did he say ?” asks Angelica. “He said,” returns Miss Daryl desperate- ou ‘2 VVon’t you 1 Don’t you?’ said (not dreaming what the ‘Shall I? And then it At which Do I? What?’ sorry. because I never meant to encourage him.” “Not you, says Peter. “A scalp or less is nothing to you, bless you. and what did you say ?” “You needn’t jeer at me,” says Meg re- proachfully. “I may be bad, but, at all events, I 8111 not worse! And I know I never led him on as far as I did the others, becauseâ€"” She stops abruptly, her eyes having by chance lighted upon the wrathful visage of Bellow, who has been lounging ‘in the shade of the lecturn. ‘ “ I want to speak to you,” exclaims he, grasping her by the ribbons that ornament the side of her gown as she endeavors to slip past him. Of course the ribbons give way, and he finds himself the happy possessor of them, with a most indignant Margery de- manding an explanation of his conduct. “ I really do wish, Curzon, you would try to learn the meaning- of the word ‘ man- ne'rs,’ ” she says, angrily, looking at the ravisth ribbons. " I have always told you your temper will be your destruction. Now, see where it has led you.” Secretly she is delighted at the chance afforded her of put- ting him in the wrong. “ Iam sorry for your gown,” says Mr. Bcllew. who indeed does look rather shock- ” more Well, ed. “ Rm‘. speak to you I will. So all this- last nion'h. when you were pretending to be so quiet, you were. cajoiing that miserable Goldie into falling in love with you.” “ What do you mean, Cui'zunl Do you $9. ure, passionate, but very soft, and looks up - . . ‘at Curzonâ€"who, with Margery, is at her p 0f the ladder ‘5 gwmg ) side almost at onceâ€"with a glance full 0 ' the acutest anguish. The despair in her eyes, startles Mrs. Daryl, and even at this supreme moment sets her wondering. If this undemonstra- tive woman can thus love a little sister,how could she not loveâ€"- her own thought, a moan from the child go- ing to her very heart. She hardly finishes “I will take her home with me. Who will go fora doctor?” demands Lady Brauks- mere, staggering to her feet with Curzon’s aid, but never losing her hold of the injur- ed child. “ Peter has already gone. But we have told him to go direct home,” says Margery. “ Dear Muriel, the doctor will be there be- fore us, so you see it would be madness to take her to the Castle. Come with us, and hear what his opinion will be.” She breaks down a little. “ Oh, it must be a favorable one,” she sobs, miserably. ' . After all, it is l “ May had sustained a severe shock,” said little Doctor Bland; had i fractured her collar-bone and bruised onef arm very badly, but otherwise there was no l reason for supposing she would not be on her feet again in no time. Lady Branks- mere having listened to this comforting assurance, had suffered herself to be driven home‘with the declared intention of coming up again to-night to hear the very last ac- count, at eleven possiblyâ€"certainly not beforeâ€"as there was some prosy old coun- try folk to dinner. She bids them good-night and disappears from them into the darkness of the rhondo- I dendrons beyond. I It is an entire surprise to herself when half-way up the avenue, at the spot where one turns aside to gain the woodland path that will lead into the Branksmere domain, a dark figure emerges from a clump of l myrtles and stands before her. It is Captain Staines, A sense of caution, suggested by the maid’s presence compels him to meet her coldly, and as one might who was sur- prised at her presence here at such a late hour. . “ Rather late for you, Lady Branksmerc, . isn’t it ‘i‘ Hadn’t a suspicion I should meet anything human when I came up here for my usual stroll. have it all to ourseli cs. Even Muriel herself believes him. “ My little sister was not well,” she ex- plains, curtly. “ I came to bid her good- night, and hear the very latest news.” “How is she now ‘2” he asks in a low whisper. “ I would have gone up to the house to ask but you know I am not a fav- orite up there.” “ She is better,” she answered softly ; “ and as for griefâ€"there is always grief.” “ Not always. And even if there is, there is love the purifier, the sweetener of our lives, to step in and conquer it.” “ Is there,” her tone was listless. Already a doubt of the love of those she had left he- hind in the old home is torturing her. She feels cast off, abandoned. ' “ Does your heart hold a, doubt. of it? Oh ! Muriel, if I dared speakâ€"â€"â€"-” “ Well, you dare not,” interrupts she, coldly. Then abruptly, “ When do you leave this place ‘3” “I don’t know. to leave it.” “ But why~why ?” with feverish impa- tience. “I have told you long ago. leave you and your troubles.” I can not bring myself mands she, fiercely. “ Let them lie. There is but one service you can do me. shrink from it.” “Why should my absence serve you?” asks he, boldly. You bid me be silent ; but how can I refrain from speech when many of your sorrows are but too well known to me; your trialsâ€"” “ Of which you are chiefest,” cries she, with quick vehemence. ” Can you not guess what your staying means to me? Scorn, insult, contempt l” She presses her hands forcibly together. “ Go l” she mut. tors, in a low, compressed tone. “ When will you go?” “ \Vhen you will come with me l” The words are spoken ! Given to the air 1 Nothing can recall them 1 “Is there no friendship !" she asks at last, slowly, sorrowfuily. “ What is friendship?” returns Staines. “ It is so poor a thing that .no maa knows where it,begins or Where it ends. A touch of flattery may blow it into a flame ; a dis- pute about a five-pound note will kill it. I do not profess friendship foryou. I do not believe in it ; there is something stronger’, Muriel, trust in Yet you more enduring than that. me." They have reached the grassy hollow be- yond the wood that lets the house be seen. Beyond them lies a. bare slope of lawn, and then the terraces and the drawing-room windows. \Vithin the embrasure of one window two figures standing side by side can be distinctly seen. As a rule my Cigar and I ‘ \iastcns the completion of it. Mme. Von Thirsk, becomes apparent to _ Muiiel'at a glance. Going to the window, Branksmere gs.ch out into the gloomy beyond, that can hard- ly be called darkness. Against the .back- ground of giant firsâ€"in the very center of the lawnâ€"two figures stand out prominent. “You know I warned you,” whispers ma- dame in his car, creeping close to him and laying a hand upon his arm. addressing her, but never removing his gaze from the two forms advancing toward him across the dcwy lawn. _ For a moment madame regards him strangely. There is no rancor in her glance, there is nothing indeed but a sudden de- spair. Is this to be the end of it all? Has Staines, her own common sense, lied to her? Is this woman, this soulless creature who is incapable of appreciating him, the prossesor of his heart? Until this instant she had disbelieved it, but nowâ€"with that expres- sion in his eyes? She had dreamed strapge dreams of a divorceâ€"a separationâ€"a time when she, whose whole. soul is in his keep- ing, might have stolen into his heart. But sw1ft as a flash all hope has died within her. The wages for which she had so toil- ed will now be hers. And yet, great Heaven ! how she has loved this man ; how she has admired the stanchness, the no- bility of him; the strength that has enabled him to risk his chance of happiness, all for the sake of saving the honor of another l A sense of age, of weakness, oppresses her as she steals slowly from the room. Branksmere has not noticed her depart- ure; he is still gazing from the window. CHAPTER XXKlX, Muriel, as she approached the Castle with Staines, had noticed the abrupt go- ing of madame from the window. A cur- ious smile, full of bitterness rises to her li s. p“A precaution,” she mutters to herself, “taken too late.” “Shall I‘bome With you any farther?” “Why not?” she answers coldly, a touch of reckless defiance in her voice. “As you will,” says Staines, with a rather overdone assumption of alacrity. They have gained the balcony steps by this time, Bridgman has gone round the house to enter by another way, and Muriel mounts the steps with a certain buoyancy in her step, a sort of lievilry of carelessness that surprises even herself, and that her companion is far from sharing. But it is not she Branksmere receives after all. His eye, black with passion, has gone past her, to where in the semi- darkness the shrinking form of Staines may be seen. _ “We have had enough of this, I think,” says Branksmere, in a dull ter- rible one, ' striding forward. Muriel would have stopped him, but he put her aside as if she were an infant, and reaching Staines, seizes him by the throat. and lift- ing him in his powerful grasp, drops him right over the balcony. The thud .of his body can be distinctly heard as it gains the ground. It is all the work of an instant. It seems to kill the venom in Branksinere and to do him ,good. Whether his enemy is lying writhing in pain with a broken back, or has escaped unhurt, is of equal value to him apparently, as his face is almost calm when he closes the window and turns to confront his wife. If he had expected an outburst of sympathy for the sufferer on her part, he is mistaken. “I fear you have hurt him,” she says coldly. “I hope so,” deliberately. “I met him by accident as I left the Tow- ers, and he very naturally accompanied me here.” “I should fling you after him if I for a. moment doubted the truth of that state. ment.” Lady Branksmere, with a superb gesture, full of scorn, sweeps from the room. She flings wide her casement, as though atliirst for air, and as the dawn comes slow- ly up, and the first cold breath of morn salutes her brow, her final resolve is form- ed. CHAP NE E XL. Muriel's fatal resolution once formed, she \Vhen next Staines met her, she actually laid plain the way for him. She acquiesced in all his plans: but so coldly, that he was both puzzled and piqued by her manner. To him, departure from this part of the world is imperative ; steeped to his very eyes in debt, both here and in town, noth- ing is left him but an immediate and' secret disappearance from the land of his duns. To live abroad on that thousand in year so considerater bestowed upon Lady Brauks- more by her husband, is the little game that for some time has presented itself to him as being worthy of notice. The _thought of leaving England with Lady I can not Branksmerefivho is the most desirable wom- an in the world in his eyes), and this sum, “ What are my troubles to you ?” de- seems gold in his eyes, and her yielding, however coldly accorded, a success. It is a. week later, and a cold, dull even- ing when Lady Branksmere, with a travel- ing-cloak thrown across Cher arm, turns the handle of her husband’s private room and enters it, to find him seated at a table at the other end. ' “ It is a mistake to waste words in ex- planation,” she says. “Hear me 'once for all. I leave this house to-niizht, forever.” “Ah l” says Branksmere. And with whom ?" he asks, looking directly at her. His tone is calm. “ Captain Staines,” returns she, as calm- ly. Branksmere’s face remains impassive. “May I ask the reason of this sudden determination ‘2” he asks, presently. “ I think ”-â€"coldlyâ€"â€"“ you hardly need. I have no time to waste.” “ In such- mad haste to be gone? Even so, I must press you for an answer, if only that I may be able to give it to my ques- tioners hereafter.” “ Say I am unreasonableâ€"fanciful it you ll willâ€"anything,” slowly, “but the truth ! That is too shameful ! Sayâ€"I don’t care what you say,” she ends abruptly. “ I can readily believe it. A woman bent on taking such a step as yours would naturally be indifferent to public opinion. And rib this is to be the end of it?” “ I hope so. corned.” “ Your chief desire is to escape from me ?” ‘fi Andâ€"her 1” So far as you and I are con- That one is Lord Branksmere, the other} Something in his face iinnervcs her and . I ’ renders her tone treniulous. He shakes have given him my promise. ’ _ her off as though she were a viper._ “ Once you made me a promise 1” He “Leave me l”-- he says between his teeth, pauses here, but her tired face showmg no \to him than â€" “Pshaw ! let us keep to sense. Your old affection for this man has induced you to leave me? I would at least hear you say so. You leave me to join your lover. Is that so?” . A slow smile curls her lip. “ If it Will make you any the happier, leave it so.” “ Did it never suggest itself to you that you might have separated yourself from me in amorc decent fashion? You might have gone alone.” ‘ - “It is too late now for suggestions. I sign of relenting, he refuses to continue his subject. “ Did it never strike you that I might prevent this mad act of yours?” “ To seek to detain me is the last thing that would enter into your head.” You speak truly “ The there.” “ At last you acknowledge something. Why not acknowledge all?’ asks shc, lift- ing to his a face that is passion pale. “ Your [undress-c for madameâ€"all.” “ I almost wish I could. Then, at least, there might be a chance of gaining absolu- t-ion; but as it stands, you see,” coldly, “ there is nothing to confess." “ You lie to the last,” she says. “ And yet even to gain your wife, you refuse to. let her go.” . “That would not have gained me my wife. And yetâ€"” He looks at her strange- ly with a face grown suddenly white. “ if I were now to prove false to my friendship and gratitude to my grandmother’s faithful friem .” “ The time is over for explanations,” exclaims she, hastily, waving aside his words by a gesture of the hand. . Silence falls between them after this, a lengthened silence broken at last by him. “ W hen do you go ?" asks he, abruptly. “ Now.” “ Staines is in waiting?” “ Yes.” “ You have probably made others aware ofthis move?” As Branksmere asks this question he regards her keenly. . ' “ No. You alone know of it.” “ It was extremely kind of you to give me such timely warning. It takes away a. good deal of the awkwardness‘of a vulgar I am sincerely obliged to you,” “And, now, one other word be- you will be very last. discovery. he says. fore we part. Do you think happy with thisâ€" Staines ’2” “ I don’t know. Is there such a thing as happiness?” asks she in turn, lifting to his her great, somber, mournful cycs. “ At least he loves me. I shall have loveâ€"the one thing hitherto denied me.” “ You are aware, perhaps, that Staines is penniless '2” , “I haven’t heard it,” listlessly. “But even 'if it is true it will not distress me. I would welcome povertyâ€"anythingâ€"to es- cape the life I am now leading.” “ You propose leading another where money will be no object, or at least where very little will suffice? May I ask if you intend living withâ€"your friendâ€"on your jointure ‘2” “Certainly not," flushing hotly. “ That I formally resign, now, at once and forever. “ Doesâ€"your friendâ€"know that you are determined to accept nothing at my hands for the future '3” H No. ” . “ You have not mentioned the subject to him ‘2” “ No. There was no necessity.” “ Ali l” says Branksmere, “I think,how- ever, I would have mentioned it hadI been you i” “ That doesn’t concern me; I have no further interest in it.” “ And~heâ€"yourâ€"friendâ€"really knows nothing of this ‘2” " Why should he '2” haughtily. “ Ah lthat is just it. Why, indeed? No doubt love, the all-mighty,will be more Did I understand you to say you leave this house to-night '2” “ Yes.” “ Will you permit me to order one of the carriages for you ; or has your friend arranged for all ‘2” “ You are pleased to be insolent, sir. but u “ The night is cold : let me at least”â€" pouring out a glass of wineâ€"“ induce you to take this before encountering the chilly air.” “ Thank you ; no. I shall never again, I hope, touch anything in this house.” “ You will permit me to see you as far as the wicket gate.” “ But no further,” hastily. “ If you forbid it, certainly not. I pre- sume you are taking the first step alone ?” “ Why, no. As it happens you are lead- ing me in it.” A short untuneful laugh part-s her lips. “ Captain Staines is not to meet you here ‘2” Her step grows more hurried. Arrived at the wicket gate, she stops abruptly. “Here we part,” she says aloud. And even as the words pass her lips she becomes aware of a dark figure standing in the shadow at the other side of the gate. A smothered ejaculation falls from Branks- mere. Striding forward he lays his hand upon the arm of Staines. CHAPTER XLI. Staines had evidently mistaken the place of appointment, or else had come this much further in his anxiety to meet Lady Branks- mere. “Ha, sir ! pected pleasure!” says Branksmere, in a high, clear voice, and with a laugh that makes the other’s blood run a little colder in his veins. There is a dead “ Your usual urbanity seems to have ’ deserted you. He retreats still further into ‘Well met i This is an unex- pause. the shade of the laurels as Branksmere de- liberately approaches himâ€"as with a pur- poseâ€"and with an expression in his eye of suppressed but deadly fury. Perhaps the scene would now have had a. speedy end had not an interruption occurred at this moment that attracts the attention of all three. Along the path that leads to the wicket ate the sound of running footsteps may be distinctly heard,and presently a small round- ed figure comes into sight,and in another in- stant Mrs. Billy’s amongst them. The sur- prise sheevinces at their presence here at this hour is open and immense. Then her glance grows keen, and it takes her buta little time to fully grasp ,the situation, or at least the headings of it. " “I have'accomplished my task half-way. ” she says, lightly, I wanted to see you, “Are you really gomg smiling at Muriel. you come with Margery and me? ‘z‘h ‘ was so pleasant I persuaded Peter to walk out with me. He has gone round to the yard to see the men about some dog, but 1 came straight on this way. Slowly she had been reading each face, one after the other. She turns her atten- tion from Branksmere to Staines, who has grown livid, and going deliberately up to him lays her hand upon his arm. “You here, too,” she cries, in- her gay, pretty voice ; But doesn’t the whole scene remind you of the 'old days, when in the gardens at Wiesbaden we used towander beneath the lindens, you and I? How you swore to me fidelity, eh? To me !. “ Ah ! and those other days,” begins she, again, lightly, but now with a thrill run- ning through her voiceâ€"a thrill of angry scorn. “ You rememberâ€"” ’- “ Nothing,” interrupts he hoarsely. breaking away from her at last. Lady Branksmere has roused from her lethargy, and has drawn a step nearer, her large gray eyes dilated, her breath coming from her heavily. “ Nothing 1” repeats Mrs. Billy, in a. tone even more distinct. “ Let me recall to your mind that never-to-be-forgotten night at- Carlsbad when first we met ! That- s'unny morn amongst the flowers at Schlan- genbad. What! has all slipped from your treacherous memory?” f ptaines makes an effort to speak, but ai s. ' “ At least you will remember the last night on which we met? What? Not even that? It was on that very night that the unpleasant little affair occurred at the Comte de Grailes' room. Perhaps” (airily) “ you can remember that ‘2” “ This is the man, then?” asks Brauks- mere. “ Why, yes. Seeing him, how can you doubt it ? Mark the noble bearing of him," smiles Mrs. Billy, pointing to Stai nes, who is cowering before her. (To BE CONTINUED.) LI_KE A ssAtLow sauces. The Bed of the Atlantlc Grows Lower Regularly Toward the Center. Proceeding westward from the Irish coast the ocean bed deepens very gradually; in fact, for the first 230 miles the gradient is but six feet to the mile. In the next twenty miles, however, the fall is over 6,000 feet, and so precipitous is the sudden descent that in many places depths of 1,200 to 1,600 fathoms are encountered in very close prox- imity to the IOU-fathom line. With the depth of 1,800.to 2,000 fatlioms the sea bed in this part of the Atlantic becomes a slightly undulating plain, whose gradients are so light that they show but little alter- ation of depth for 1,200 miles. The extra- ordinary flatness of these submarine prairies renders. the familiar simile of the basin rather'inappropriate. The hollow of the Atlantic is not strictly a basin whose depth increases regularly toward the center '; it is described by the Nau- tical [Magazine as rather a saucer or '_ dish-like one, so even is the countour of its bed. The greatest depth in the At- lantic has been found some 103 miles to the northward of the island of St. Thom- as, where soundings of 3,875 fat-homs were obtained. The seas round Great Britain can hardly be regarded as forming part of the.platform banks of the European con- tinent which the ocean has overflowed. An elevation of the sea bed 100 fathoms would suffice to lay bare the greatest part of the North sea, and join England to Denmark, Holland, Belgium and France. A deep- channel of water would run down the west coast of Norway and with this the maâ€" jority of the fiords would be connected. A great part of the Bay of Biscay would (lis- appear; but Spain and Portugal are but little removed from the Atlantic depression. The lOO-fathom line approaches very near the west coast and soundings of 1,000- fathoms can he made within twenty miles of Cape St. Vincent and much greater depths have been sounded at distances but. little greater than this from the western shores of the Iberian peninsula. MAILED TWELVE YEARS AGO. A Postal Card Which Reaches its Foreign- Dcsrlmuion After a Long Belay. A postal card which has been to Europe and come back has just been turned in at the post office department in Washington, to give the oflicials there a chance of disâ€" covering who is responSible for its long do- lay in transmission. It was mailed in. Washington late in December, 1881, ad- dressed to a bookseller in London, direct- ing him to send to the writer a large num- ber of books which were even then suffi- ciently rare not to be readily accessible in this country. The card reached its destin- ation late in May, 1892. The bookseller, apparently Without noticing the disparity between the date written on the card and the date of receipt, filled the order, after taking time to hunt up the books, which in the course of the ten years’ interval, had grown still rarer. The surprise of the author of the card may be imagined when, so long after having concluded that the dealer could not fill his order, he suddenly had this large supply of literature dumped upon him from the postoflice. When he charged the dealer with neglect, the date on the card appears to have been ex- amined for the first time ; but it was plead- ed that a dealer would be justified in filling such an order in spite of the antiquity of the written date, because he would have aright to assume that his customer had himself been careless about dating the card, aslip of the pen making 1801 read 1881. The New York Evening post thinks that the card must have got into the old post- office in Washington, been postmarked and then lost, slipping possibly into one of the ' many cracks and crannies of that office. \Vhen the office was moved from its old and shabby quarters into the building it now occupies some one doubtless came across the card, and, pot noticing its date, drop- ped it intova mail bag bound for London. The responsibility for the accident is ob- viously past fixing, and the bookseller in London and his customer in America will have to settle their dispute without the as- sistance of the postoffice department. Her Floral Name- Sheâ€"“ You know, Reggie, that girls are being called by the names of flowers now, and my sister suggested that I should be called Thistle." , I Reggieâ€"“ Oh, yes, I see; because you are so sharp?" Sheâ€"“ Oh, no ; she said it me because a to Lady Blount’s to-morrow? If so, will donkey loved me.” ,