The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

wwâ€" â€"â€"â€"â€"'â€" M? THE VICAR’S .GOVERNESS. ’ \V’ith downcast eyes and he stands. thinking sadly how much, too old he is for new cares and fresh faces. Reginald had been all. the world to him: the new man is as nothing. Counting friendships as of- little worth unless years have gone to prove their depth and sincerity. he feels ’ no leaning toward the present possessor, j â€"knows him too short a time to like or dislike, to praise or blame. Now, as his eyes wander down the long table, to where he can see the! empty chair of him who rests With such unearthly tranquility in the 51-; lent chamber above, the thought of how i soon a comparative stranger will fill it * causes him a bitter pang. And. as he so muses, the door opens, and they all i come in.â€"-Sartoris first, with Clarissa»: pale, and quiet; the brothers-so like,§ yet so unlikeâ€"following. Old Simon; rousing himself, watches with jealous eye to see the place soE long occupied by Reginald usurped by! another. But he watches in vain. Sartoris. without so much as a glands in its direction, takes the chair at the lower end of the table; and the others, following his lead, seat themselves at the sides without comment of any kind; ; whereupon Gale draws a long breath: and vows fidelity to his new lord upon 1 the spot. I t It is a dismal meal, dull, and dlS-i piriting. The ghastly Egyptian mummy l seems present in full force, if not 1111 the letter at least in the spirit. Sar-‘ toris, having taken a glass of sherry, trifles with the meat upon his plate, but literally eats nothing. _ No one ap- pears possessed wnh a_ desire to speak, and indeed there is little to be said. When luncheon is nearly over, a small‘ dark object, hitherto unseen, creeps out : from some forgotten corner, and stretches itself forlornly;.it is poor Reginald's favorite dog, that ever smce hisdeath has lain crouching out of‘, sight, but now, driven by the pain‘of hunger, comes creeping forward, whinâ€" ing piteously. _ He goes up to the accustomed chair, but, finding it for the first time empty and deaf to his complainings, turns disconsolately away, and passes from seat to seat. without accepting food at any of their hands, until he comes to Clarissa. She, stooping, raises him to her knee (her lashes wet With tears). and feeds him tenderly with the dainty scraps upon her plate. ‘ . The whole scene, though. sun‘ple, isi suggestive of loss and loneliness. Stir- toris, leaving the table with some haste, goes to the window to hide his emotion. Dorian follows him. \Vhereupon Hor- ace, rising too, crosses to where Cla- rissa sits, and bending over her, says something in a low tone. The moments fly. A clock upon the manielpiece chimes half-past four. Some bird, in the exuberance of its mad joy, scurries wildly past the windows. Sartoris. with a stlgh, turns from the! light. and, seeing h iss Peyton and Horâ€" ace still deep in conversation, frowns slightly. _ “ I-lortice, will you tell Durkin I want to see him at once in the library," he says, very quietly. yet with some la- tent irritability. _ “ In one moment." replies Horace, un- moved, going back to the low-toned dialogue he has been carrying on With Clarissa. " I am afraid I must lay myself open to the charge of rudeness," says Sar- toris, still very quietly,- but with a pe- culiar smile. “ But it is important, and I must see Durkin at once. My dear Horace, oblige me in this matter." "Shalll not see Clarissa to her car- riii e first?" says Horace, raising 'hlS iilar eyes for one moment to his uncle's ace. “ Dorian will see to that." says the old man, slowly. but so decisively that Horace. bidding the girl a silent but warm farewell, with a bad grace de- paris. ' . “ How late it grows," says Miss Pey- ton, glancing at the clock; and, draw- ing from a side pocket her own watch, she examines it attentively. as though to assure herself the huge timepiece on the mantel-shelf has not told a de- liberate lie. " I must go home! Papa will wonder where I have been all this ong time. Good-by, Mr. Branscomhe," she is still, naturally. forgetful of the ow title).- "I hope." very sweetly, -'you will come to see us as soon as iver you can." ” Thank you, yes. I shall come very icon. says Sartiris; and then she bids 5 l i . l i l int good-by, and Dorian follows her mm the room into the great dark hall outside. " ilow chan ed he is!" she says. turning sudden y to him, and indicat~ ing by a little backward motion of her head toward the room she had just left. the person of whom she speaks. "llow alieredlâ€"Arthur. I mean. Not now, not by this grief; it isn't that: his nitiniier, to me especially. has been altogether different for a fortnight past. Ever since that last picnic at Anadule~you remember iiâ€"he has not been quite the same to me." " Let. lllt‘ see; that. I think. was the evening you and Horace drove home alone together. with that rather unâ€" certain brown mare. was it not i" says Dorian. with no apparent meaning in his tone. " My dear child, I dare say you are mistaken about Arthur. Your imagination is leading you asirny."_ “~.'o. it is not. I am the least im- aginaiive person alive." says Miss Pey- ton, with an emphatic shake of her pretty head. "I can’t bear that sort of people myself; they are always see-. ing something that isn't there. and are enemlly very tiresome all around. 'm rat her vexed about Arthur. do you know?" " Don't mind him." says Branscombe. easily. "lle'll come all right in time. He is a peculiar fellow in many ways. and when he sets his heart on any hobb . rides it to the death." " l as he. a hobby now?" “Yes. He has just formed. and is now trying to work out. a gigantic scheme. and cuts up a little rough every now and then because all the world won't see it in the light that he does." . " Poor man!" says Clcrnisi. synipa~ thetic'ally. "fio wonder he seems «range at times: it is so depressing - ing slowly. 'mighi. find 1pared to do anything for him. _______.._â€"_.â€"â€"-â€"-â€"-â€"â€"- baffled. Why don’t you help him. Dorian?" _ n "It would take two to help him. says Mr. Branscombe, looking faintly amused. " " Could I be of any use? â€"ea erly:2 “ I would do anything I could for im. " «So, would you?" .says Branscombe. his amusement grewing more percep- tible. "I'm sure that’s very good of you. I dare say. if Arthur could hear you say that. he would. go out of his mind with joy. ‘ Anything' is such a comprehensive word. hou're sure you won't go back on it?" . “ Quite sure,”â€"w1th_some surprise. " My dear Clarissa, is it posstble you have not yet seen through_ Arthur‘s latest and greatest design‘ _ " If you intend to tell me anything. do so; beating about the bush. always fatigues me to_death,".says_ Miss Pey- ton. in a tone of dignified rebuke. ' “ \Vhat does Arthur want '3 " "A little thing,â€"-a mere trifle. He 7 simply wants you to marry me." “ Really, Dorian," says Clarissa, color- but warmly, "I_ think you some other subject to jest on." . . ” I never made a joke in my life; I hope I never shall," returns Bratisâ€" coinbe, rcproachfully. "What have I done. that you should accuse me of such a crime? I have only spoken the plain, unvarnished truth. To see you my wife is the dream of .Arthur 3 life, his sole ambition. And just now, you know. you said you were quite pre- loo can't, with any sense of honor, back out of your given word.”_ “ I never heard anything so absurd, so fooiish, so rfioiisensicall” says Miss Pe ion, resent u ly. _ “‘yNonsonsicali My dear Clarissa! pray consider inyâ€"7â€"': I “ It. is more! it is right down stupid of him," says Clarissa, who plainly de- clines to consider any one's feelings. "You needn't pile up my agony any higher," interposes Branscombe, meek- ly. "To my everlasting regret I ac- knowledge myself utterly unworthy of you. But why tell me in such round terms? I assure you I feel excesSive- ly hurt and offended. Am I to under- stand. then, that you have refused me Q’ - I “ ou shall understand something worse, if you say another word,” says Clarissa, holding up before him a little clenched hand in a would-be threatenâ€" ing manner. And then they both laugh in a subdued fashion; and she moves on toward the open hallâ€"door, he following. . “ Well, I forgive you," he says, as she steps into her low phaeton, and he ar- ranges the rug carefully around her. “ Though you don’t deserve it. (\Vhat ridiculous hands to guide such refrac- tory ponies!) Sure you are quite com- fortable? \Vell, good-by; and look here,"â€"-teasing1y.â€"“I should think it over if I were you. You may not get so excellent a chance again ; and Arthur will never forgive you." ".Your uncle, though charming, and a very dear, is also a goose."~says Miss Peyton, somewhat irreverently. " Marry you, indeed! \Vhy. I should quite as soon dream of marrying my brother 1 " "\Vell, as I can't be your husband, it would be rather nice to be your brother," says Mr. Branscombe, cheer- fully. ” Your words give me hope that you regard me in that light. I shall always think of you for the fu- ture as my sister, andso I am sure " â€"i_vith an eloquent and rather mis- chieyous pauseâ€"“will Horace!" Miss . Peyton blushes again,â€"much more. vivully this time,-â€"â€"and, gathering up the reins hastily, says "good-by" for the second time. without turning her_ flushed face to his. and drives rapidly up the avenue. Brunsconibe stands on the steps watching her until she is quite lost to Sight. behind the rhododendrons. and than strokes his mustache thoughtfully. “ That has quite arranged itself. I should fancy,” he says, slowly. " \Vell, I. hope he will be very good to her, dear little thing!" __._â€"‘ CHAPTER II. “ Her form was fresher than the morn- rose then the due wets its leaves." â€"-Thomson. Pullingham-on-the-Moors is a small, uni idy. picturesque village, situated on the _Side of a hill. It boasts a railway station, a police-barracks. a solitary h0- tel,. and two or three well-sized shops. It is old-fashioned, stationary, and, as a rule, hopelessly harmless. though now and then dissentions, based prin- cipally upon religious grounds. will arise. -These can scarcely be avoided. as one half of the ‘parish trips lightly after Mr. Redmond. the vicar (who has a. subdued passion for wax candles, and a craving. for floral decorations), and looks .Wlih scorn upon the other half, es, With solemn step and slow. it de- scends the high hill that leads. each Sabbath. to the ‘Methody' Chapel be- neath. It never grows older, this village, and never younger; is seldom cast down or elated, surprised or demonstrative about. anything. In a quaint, sleepy fashion. it has its dissipations, and acâ€" knowledges its festive seasons.â€"such as Christmas-tide, when all the shops burst into a general bloom of colored cards, and February. when valentines adorn every one. It has also its fair days. when at. cattle and lean sugar- sticks seem to be everywhere. A marriage is reckoned an event,and causes some gossip: a birth does not,â€" possnily bectuse of the fact that it is a weekly _occurrence. Indeed. the babies in Pullingham are a "joy forever." lhey have their season all the year round. and never by any chance "'go out ;" though I have heard people fool- ishly liken them to flowers. grow and thrive and blossom all over the place. which no doubt is greatly to the credit of the inhabitants. Occaâ€" sionally. too. some one is good enough to cause a little pleasurable excitement by dying. but very seldom. as the place is fatally healthy, and people live here until they: become a social nuisance and almost wish themselves dead. There us. I believe. some legend belonging to the country. about an old woman who had to be shot. so aggressively old did she became; but this is obscure. About two miles from the town onerosz to Sarioris, the residence of Dorian liranscombe, which runs in a line with the lands of Scrape Royal, tho. property of Sir James Scrape. Sir James is a tall. rat her old-young They i ,_ __ .... ._ ., ._._............ pressive fees. kindly eyes, and a some: what lanky figure. He has a. heart. oi gold. a fine estate. andâ€"a- step-sister. Miss Jemima Scrope is not as nice as she might be. She has a face as hard as her manners, and, though confide-I“ ably over forty. is neither at nor fair. She has a perfect talent for making: herself obnoxious to all unhappy enough to come within her reach, a temper like “ Kate the Curst," and a nose like the Duke of-W'ellington. Somewhere to the _ high and pompouS‘zis itself. castle, where three months out 9 twelve the Duke and Duchess of Spenda leton. and some of their family. put- in a dreary time. They give two balls. one fancy bazaar. a private concert. and three gardenpartiesâ€"neiiher.more nor lessâ€"every year. Nobody likes them very much, for just the same‘rt‘ason. The castle is beautifully Situated, and is correct in every detail. There are Queen Anne rooms. and Gothic apart- ments, and. Elizabethan anterooms. and staircases of the most vague. There are secret passages, and panels, and sliding doors, and trap doors, and, in fact, every sort of door you could men- tion, and all other abominations. Art- ists revel in it. and grow frenZied \Vllll joy over its impossibilit_ies, and almost every year some room is painted from it and sent to the Academy. .But out.- side lies its chief beauty, for there are the swelling woods, and the glimpse of the far-off ocean as it gleains, now green, now steel-blue. beneath the rays of the setting sun. And beyond it is Gowran, where Clarissa lives With her father, George Peyton. . Clarissa is all that is charming. She is tall, slight, svelte: indeed, earth has not. anything to show more fair. She is tender, too, and true, and very earn- est.â€"â€"perhaps a degree too earnest, too intense, for every day life. Her eyes. " twin star of beauty," are deep and gray; her hair is dark; her mouth. though somewhat large. is perfect; and her smile is indescribable, so sweet it isâ€"so soft and lingering. _ Her mother died when sheaves nine years old, and from that time until she was twelve she spent most of her life with the Branscombe boysâ€"rid- ing, fishing, sometimes even shooting. with them. The effect of such trainâ€" ing began to make itself felt. She was fast degenerating into a tom-boy of the first water (indeed, one of the purest gems of its kind), when James Scrope, who was even then a SBI‘lOllS. young man, came to the rescue, and induced her father to send her from Gowran to a school at Brussels. . “ Virtue is its own reward." they tell us: let us hope Scrope felt re- warded! \Vhether he did or not, I know he felt considerably frightened when Clarissa. (having discovered who had been the instigator of this “ plot " to drive her from her beloved Gowran) came down to Scrope Hall, and, dash- ing into his presence like a small whirl- wind, abused for his well-meant interâ€" 'ference in good round terms, and, hav- ing refused even to say good-by to him, had slammed the door in his face, and, starting from home next morning, had seen no more of him for six long years. At seventeen, her aunt, Hon. Mrs. Greville, had brought her back from Brussels to her own house in town, where she kept her for twelve months, and where she once more. renewed acquaintance with her old friends Do- rian and Horace Branscombe. Mrs. Greville took her to all the most deâ€" sirable balls of her season, to concerts an! " small and earlies,” to high-art entertainments of the most " too,too," and, having given her free scope 'to and, having given her free scope to break the hearts of half the men in the town, had sent her at last to her father, hopelessly in love with a. de- trimental. The detriment-a1 was Horace Brons- combe. Mrs. Greville was intensely annoyed and disgusted. After all her care, all her trouble, to have this hap- pen! She had married her own girls with the greatest eclat, had not made one false move with regard to any of them, and now to see Clarissa (who with her beauty and “fortune, might have married any one) throw herself away upon a. penniless barrister seemed to her to savor of positive crime. Horacs, certainly. so far, had not pro- ro el in f rm, 1 u: M s. Grey 11:: was not. to he hoodwinked. He meant it. , He was not always at her niece's side for nothingsand, Sooner or later. Clarissa, with all her money, would go over to him. When she thought of this shocking waste of money, she gro-ined aloud; and then she washed her hands of the whole affair; and sent Clarissa back to Gowran, where her father re- ceived her with open arms, and made much of her. left. on a hill as stands the CHAPTER III. “0 Helen, fair beyond compare! I‘ll make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die!" Across the lawn the shadows move slowly, and with a vague grace that adds to their charm. The birds are drowsy from the heat, and sitting 'half hidden in the green branches, chant their songs in somewhat lazy fashion. All nature succumbed to the fierce power of Phoebus Apollo. “The morn is merry June, I trow; The rose is budding fain." Each flower in the sunlit garden is holding up- its head, and breathing fragrant sighs as the hours slip by, unlieeded. yet full of a vague delight. Miss Peyton, in her white gown, and with some soft rich roses lying on her lap. is leaning back on a low chair in the deep embrasure of the window, making a poor attempt at working. Her father, with a pencil in his hand, and some huge volumes spread out be- fore him. is making a few desullory notes. Into the libraryâ€"the cozicst. if not the handsomest, room at Gow- ran-ihe hot sun is rushing. dancing ligh' ly over staiueites and pictures, and lingering with parzlonable delay upon Clarissa's bowed head. “ “'ho is this coming up the avenue ?" she says. presently, in slow, sleepy .tones, that suit-the day. " It isâ€"no. I it isn'tâ€"and yet it isâ€"it- must beJames ! Scrope l " ‘ "I dare say. He was to have re- turned yesterday. He would come here i as soon as possible, of course." Rising. 5 he joins her at the window, and watches the coming visitor as he walks his horse leisurely down the drive. 5 " Whit a dear little modest speech l " says Miss Peyton. maliciously. "Now, if I had been the author of it, I know some one who would have called me vain! But I will generously let that glass. How brown Jim has grown! as he not?" “'Hss he? I can scarcely see so far. W hat clear eyes you must have, child. and what a faithful memory to recol- man of thirty-two. with a calm. cic‘ f the. fl . loot him without hesitation. after all :hcse yearsl" . . _ “I never forget." said Clanssshsun- ply, which is quite the truth. And he has altered hardly anythulg- He was always so old, you know, he' really couldn’t grow much older. “but 18 his age now, papal Ninety?" "Something over ‘ thirty. I fancy." savs .i a. uncertain y. “01?, pnonsense!" says Miss Peyton. "Surely you romance, or else you are an invaluable friend. \thn I grow brown and withered I hope you will prove equally good to me. I_ shall _cx- pect- you to say all sorts of llllpt3$llllle things, and not blush when saying them. Ah lâ€"hcre is Sir James." as the. door opens. and St‘l‘t)peâ€"ll0&lllh)' and bronzed from foreign travelâ€"onion staid and calm as ever. _ \thn he had shaken hands With. and been warmly welcomed by Mr. Pcyton. he turns with some diffidence toward the girl in the clinging white gown, who is smiling at him from the Win-- dow, with warm red lips, half parted. and some faint. amusement in her friendly eyes. "Why. you have forgotten me," she says, presently, in a low tone of wouldâ€" be reproach. " \Vhile Iâ€"â€"-1 knew you at once." " 1 have not forgotten," says .Srorpe. taking her hand and holding it, as though unconsciously. “l was only surprised, puzzled. You are so ching- ed. All seems so different. A little child when last I saw you, and now a lady grown." " Oh. yes, I am quite grown up." says Miss Peyton, dcmurcly.- "I can't do any more of that. sort of thing. to oblige anybodyâ€"even Illtlll‘lll papaâ€" who adores a Juno, and thinks all wo- men should be divinely tallâ€"has often asked me to try. But," malicxously. “ are you not going to ask me how 1 have progressed (isn'tL llliliv'blle right word ?) with my studies? \ou ought, you know, as it was you who sent me to school." "I?" says Sir James, rather taken aback at. this unexpected onslauglit._ “YcS, you," repeats she, with a lit- lle nod. " Pzipzi' would never have had the cruelty even to think of such a thing. I am glad you have still suf- ficient grace left to blush for your eVil conduct. Do you remember,” With a gay laugh, " what a terrible scolding I gave you before leaving home?" . "I shall remember it to my dying day," says Sir James. “I was never so thoroughly frightened before or since. Then and there I registered a vow never again to interfere with any one's daughter.” "I hope you will keep that vow,” stys Miss Peyton, with innocent malice, and a smile only half suppressed. that torments him in memory for many a day. And then George Peyton asks some questions, and presently Sir James is telling him certain facts about the Holy Land, and Asia generally. that rather upset his preconceived ~ideas. ” Yet I still believe it must be the most interesting spot on earth," he says. still clinging to old thoughts and settled convictions. " Well, it’s novel, you know..and the fashion, and that," says Sir James, ra- ther vaguely. ” In fact, you. are no- where nowadays if you haven't done the East; but it’s fatiguing, there isn't a doubt. The people aren’t as nice as they might be, and honesty is not con- sidered the best policy out there. and dirt is the prevailing color, and there's a horrid lot of S'lnd." “ \Vhat a dismal ending!" Clarissa, in a. tone suggestive of dis- appointment. “But how lovely it looks in picturcslâ€"l don’t mean the sand, exactly, but the East." “ Most things do. There is an old grandaunt of mine, hung in the gallery at Scropcâ€"-â€"-” " How shocking!" interrupted Miss I’eyton, with an affected start. “ And in. the house, too! [low unpleasant! Etdlzshc do it herself, or who hanged er ’I “ Her picture, you know." says Scrope, with a laugh. “ To hear that she had made away with herself would be too good to be true. She looks absolutely lovely in this picture I speak of, al- most too fine for this work-a-day world; yet my father always told me she. was ugly as a nightmare. Never believe in paint." “Talking of Scrope," says Clarissa, “ do you know, though I have been home now for some months, I have never been through it since I was a child? I have rather a passion for re- yisuing old haunts, and I want to see it again. That round room in the tower used to be my special joy. \Vill you ?show it to me ?â€"â€"â€"some day ?-â€"any 337 " “\Vhat day will you come?" asks Scrope, thinking it unnecessary to exâ€" press the giadncss it will be to him to point out the beauties of his home to this now-old friend,-â€"this friend so full of fresh and perfect beauty, yet so_ replete with all the old graces and it'llclllel‘les of the child he so fondly over. “I am just the least little bit in the world afraid of Miss Scrope," says Clarissa, With an irrepressible smile. " So I shall prefer to come some time when you are in. On Thursday, if that will suit you. . Or Friday; or, if not than. why, Saturday." _" Make it Thursday. That day comes first." said Scrope. “ Now, that is a very pretty speech," dtclares Miss Peyton. vast encourage- ment in her tone. "Eastern air, in spite of its drawb'icks, has developed your intellect, Jim. Hasn't it?" The old_ familiar appellation, and the saucy smile that has always in it. some- thing of tenderness. smites some half- for often chord of Scrope's heart. He ma ’es no reply, but gazes with an earnestness that. almost amounts to scrutiny at Clarissa. as she stands in the open window leaning against a background of ivy, through which pale rosebiids are struggling into view. \liihin her slender fingers the knit- tingâ€"nqedles slowly. gliniing and glist- ening in the sun’s hot rays, until they seem to emit. tiny flashes as they cross and rccross each other. Her eyes are downcast, the smile still lingers on her lips, her whole altitude, and her pretty graceful figure. clad in its white gown, is “ Like a picture rich and rare." " On Thursday, then, I shall see you," he says, not because he has tired of looking at her, but because she has raised her eyes and is evidently won- dering at his silence. "Good-by.” “Good-by," says Clarissa, genially. Then she lays down the neglected knit- ling (that. indeed. is more ii pretense than a reality), and comes out lnln the middle of the room. " l-‘or the 811-!“ of old daysl shall we you is) the hall down" she Siys. briirlitly. "No, p:‘;pa, no not ring: Imysz-lf shall do the honors to Jim." (To be Continued.) says - A PROMPT MAN. ‘ flow Immediate Obedience made the Gov. ernnr llll I-rlend. The prompt man is always-ready. The call may be sudden. but he is at hand and answers with vigor. He acts with- out delay, by virtue of an energetic will. whcise rule is: if it were done when ‘tis done. then 'twero well :t were done quickly. Major Skinner tells in his autobio- graphy, " Fifty Years in Ceylon." how. his prompt obedience to an order sud- ,denly communicated made the governor of the island his friend. He was then Lieutenant Skinner. twenty-one years of age. a member of the governor's staff and of his military family. .One day between noon and one o'clock the gov- ernor, Sir Edward Barns, seeing Skin- ner in the billiardâ€"room, said: “What are you doing here, young- ster? I thought. you would have been at Negombo by this time." “ What to do there, sir i" " .\\'liat ! Have you not received your orders from tho quartormaster gen- eral?" ~ “No, sir; I have da),IDI " Go to him at once, and be quick in what you have to do." . it was near two o’clock before Skin- ner could find the officer. \Vhen he caught. him he was ordered to proceed [0‘ hegomboâ€"an old fort twenty-1 liree miles north of the Government House ~â€"Io make a plan of the barracks there. and to prepare an estimate of. the cost of repairing them so as to fit them for immediate occupation. The lieutenant was annoyed, for lie was . engaged to a dinner~party that evening, to which the Governor and Lady Barnes were going. But he mounted his gray Arab, who could do almost anything but fly, and as soon as he. got clear of the fort started at ii. gallop. At every sixth mile he drew bridle for two or three minutes. to give the Arab :1 chance to breathe. He reached Negombo at four o'clock, hav- ing ridden twenty-three miles in two hours. . [field-book in hand and with tape- line he made the measurements, jotted them down, drew plans of the barracks and wrote down the. facts necessary for the estimate. \Vitliin an hour he was in, the saddle on his return to Colombo, which he reached about. seven o‘clock. He then dressed and arrived at the din- iier-party nearly as soon as the goverâ€" l or. The moment Sir Edward saw him he Said. “Well, youngster, what are you domg here? I thought I told you this morning to go to the quarterinaster- general for orders." " So I did, sir.” And what did he tell you to do? .‘ He ordered me to go to Negomho, 811‘, to take plans of the barracks. to re- port the number of men they could ac- commodate and to submit an estimate for their repairs." ' '.‘ Then what do you mean by neglect- ing these orders? You ought to have gone off instantly.” ".l have not neglected them, sir; I have been to Negombo, and your excel- lency Will have all the information you require laid before you to-morrow morning." The governor showed his delight by the glow of satisfaction on his face. He repeated the exploit to the dinner- party, dwelling upon the 'prompt obedi- ence. From that (lay the lieuteniiiit's promotion advanced. and when difficult orquick work was to be executed, he was selected to do it. MONT BLANC'S OBSERVATORY. All the Delicate Astronomical Instruments llnve Been Curried up and the Work Will Now Begin. The highest permanent astronomical observatory in the worldâ€"on the sum- mit of Mont Blaneâ€"was at last com- pleted and fully equipped with instru- ments a few days ago. There has been a temporary station there for some years, but the instruments have been small and of little power compared with those now in place. The establishment of this observatory was a task which at the outset seemed not seen him to- impossible, and the obstacles which M. Janssen, who headed the quartet of French astronomers, had to overcome, was unparalleled. Mont Blanc is near- ly 16,000 feet high. and its ascent, even underlhe most favorable conditions, during the summer months, is difficult as well as dangerous. The transporta- tion of many heavy and delicate scien- tific instruments to the top of this loftiest mountain of the Alps was, therefore, a labor so great as to seem beyond the range of possibility, yet it .was accomplished without the loss of a single life. The telescope and the other instruments had to be taken to pieces before being carried up the precipitous mountain sides; even then some of the packages - weighed a hundred pounds, and most of them about fifty. Oneof the iiides who assisted in the work holds tile record of having made the ascent more than five hundred times since the beginning of his proâ€" fossuonal career. and it was he who found recently the bodies of the Aus- trian professor and his two guides who lost their lives not long ago. in place of being entirely iiiovea‘nlc about a pivot, like ordinary telescopes, the telescope on Mont llliicc is fixed and directed towards the polar star. A movable mirror placed near the lower opening enables the observer to study whatever star he wishes. its image being thrown upon the glass. This makes neccsmr ' a protective cupola of coin- pariitivc y small dimensions. 'l‘he_partioular advantage to astrono- mers in inning an observatory at such a high altitude as this one lies in the transparency and puriiy of the atmos- phere.' The study of the stars. however, will not be the sole task of the observo crs, for some of them will devote them- selves especially to meteorology. as on the summit of Mont lilanc, Says I’rof. Jansscn. they will be in the very origin of atmospheric phenomena. “*â€" Famlly Eyes ' l’ricndâ€" Why didn't. you ever marry? Maiden Ladyâ€" le:-:m.«.e, by the time my relations thought [was old enough to marry, the men thought I was too old. 7?. . «W..Whma. mm”... - wan...“â€" mar-trans...“ .â€", , ..._ ".«-r( “was WM"......_... _, . , ‘. a: Wmfln "WU-a...“ aw.W-, m..â€" mcâ€"mlu-I- poo-.9.“ ,.. _ . .. r i. m . . Ava--O¢I