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“’x I THE VICAHS GOVERN ESS. CHAPTER IV. ~ ' , all delights. All thoughts. all passions frame. ‘ “'hatcver stirs this mortal All are but ministers of Love. ‘ red flame.” And feed his sac _Cmerim‘ All round the drawing-room windows at Scrope a wide balony had been built up. over which' the creepers climb and trail. Stone steps lead to it from the scented garden beneath. and up these: runs Clarissa gayly, when Thursday; morning had dawned, and deepened. and given place to noon. ; Wiiin the drawing-room, before alow table, sits Miss Scrape, tatting indus- triously. Tatting is Miss Scrope’s forte. She never does anything else. Multitudinous antimacassars, of all shapes, patterns and dimensions, grow beneath her untiring touch with the most alarming rapidity. When finish- ed, nobody knows what. becomes of them, as they instantly disappear from view and are never heard of afterward. They are as good as a ghost in Pulling- ham. and obstinater refuse to be laid. It was charitably. if weakly. suggested, at one time. by a member of the st roug- er sex, that probably she sent them out in bales as coverings for the beâ€" nighted heathen; but when it was ex- plained to this misguided being that tatted antimacassars. as a rule, run to holes, and can be seen through, even he desisted from further attempts to solve the mystery. . Miss Peyton, throwing up one of the windowsashes, steps boldly into the drawing-room and confronts this em~ inent tatter. “Good-morning.” she says, sweetly. advancing with smiling lips. Miss Scrape, who had not heard her enter. turns slowly round: to say she started would be a gross calumny. Miss Scrope never starts. She merely raises her head with a sudden accession of dignity. -Her dignity, as a rule. is not fascinating, and might go by an- other name. " Good afternoon, Clarissa," she says austerely. "I am sorry you should have been forced to make an entrance like a burglar. Has the hall door been removed? 3 y " I think it is there still," Miss Pey- ton ventures, meekly. " But "â€"prettily -â€"“coming in through the window en- abled me to see you at least one_moâ€" ment sooner. Shall I close it again?” " I beg you will not distress yourself about it," says Miss Scrope, rismg to ring the bell. “ When Collins comes in he will see to it." It is a wild day. though warm and sweet, and the wind outSide is tearing madly over the lawn and shrubberies into the wood beyond. . “ But in the meantime you will per- haps catch cold, or rheumatism, or something." says Clarissa. hesitating.‘ "Rheumatism! pughl nonsense!" says Miss Scrope, Idisdainfully. "I simply don't believe in rheumatism. It is nothing but nerves. I don't have those ridiculous pains and aches people hug nowadays, and I don’t believe they have either; it employs their idle time trying to invent them.” " Is Jim in?" asks Clarissa, presentâ€" ly, having seated herself in a horribly comfortless but probably .artistic chair. “James is in," says Miss Scrope, se- verely. "Do you mean my brother? It is really almost impossible to under- stand young people of the present age." “ Don't you like the nameJim?" asks Clarissa. innocently. leaning slightly forward, and taking up the edge of Miss Scrope's last antimacassar to exâ€" amine it with tender interest. " I think it such a dear little name, and so happily wanting in formality. I have never called him anything else since I can remember, so it. comes most natural to me." "I think it a most unmaidenly way of addressing any gentleman whose riest christened him James." says Miss cropc, unflinchingly. "\Vhat would vou think of him were he to call you by some hideous pet; name. or. more pro crly speaking. nickname?" " shouldn't mind it in the least; indeed. I think I should rather like it," returns Clarissa, mildly. "I believe that to )e highly prob- able," retorts Miss Jemima. with con- siderable scorn. . _ . Clarissa laughsâ€"not. an irritating laugh. by any means. but a little soft, low, girlish laugh. very good to hear. " If you scold me any more I shall cry." she. says. lightly. " I always give way to tears when driven into a cor- ner. It saves time and trouble. Be- sides," returnin with some slight per- versity to the c iiirge, “ shall I tell you a secret? Your brother likes that lit- tlo name. He. does. indeed. He has told me so a thousand times in the days gone by. Very frivolous of him, isn’t it? Butâ€"ah! here he as the door opens and Sir James comes in. "You are a little late. are you not i” leaning back in her chair with a certain amount . of languid. but pleasing. grace, and holding out to him a slender, ungloved hand. on which Some rings sparkle bril- liantly. “ Have I kept you waiting 2 " asks he. 5 eagerly, foolishly glad because. of her: last words. that seem to im fly so much i and really mean so little. as she been 2 anxious for his coming? Have the; minutes appeared tedious because of his; absence? “1 hurried all I knew," he. says; " but stewards will be stewards." i "I have been quite happy with Miss' Scrope: you need not look so penitent." says Clarissa. “ And who am 1, that l I should compete with a steward? We have been having quite a ood time,’ and an exmllem argument. ome here, ' and tell your sister that you think Jim . the reuiest name in the world.” "lid anyone throw a doubt on the‘ subject? Lives there a soul so dead to euphony as not to recognize the inu- sic in those three letters l-‘Iim! Why. ' it is poetry itself." says Sir James. who is no' so absent that he cannot scent battle on the breeze. As he speaks he smiles: and when James Scrape smiles he is almost handsome. ” Some day you Will regret encourag- It used to stand in front of the house." I I _ attractions. ing that child in her folly." remarks Miss Scrape severely. At which the child makes a saucy little grimace un- seen. and rises to her feet. "What a solemn warning!” says Scrape, with a shrug. “ I hope," turnâ€" ing to Clarissa, " you have taken it to heart, and that it will keep you out of imaginary mischief. It ought, you know. It. would be a shabby thing to bring down public censure on the head of one who has so nobly espoused your cause." "My conduct from this day forth shall be above suspicion," says Clarwsa. "Good-by, Miss Scrap ," steeping. to press her fresh warm ips to the withâ€" cred cross old cheek beneath her._ "I am going to tread old ground Withâ€" James." She follows him across hall and cor- ridor. through two modern rooms. and pasta portiere, into another and larger all beyond. Here, standing before a heavy oaken door, he turns the handle of it. and, as it swings back slowly and sleepily. they pass into another room. so unexpectedly and so strangely different from any they have yet en- tered. as almost to make one start. It is a hu e old-fashioned apartment. stoneâ€"floore and oak-paneled. that once in olden days. must have been a reâ€" fectory. Chairs, carved in oak, and built like bishops’ thrones, line the walls. looking as though no man for many a hundred years has drawn them from their present position. - Masswe cabinets and cupboards, cunningly de- vised by crafty hands in by-gone days. look out from dusky corners, the hide- ous faces carved upon them wreathed in their eternal ghastly smiles. From .narrow, painted windows great gleams of sunset from the gay world Without pour in, only to look sadly out of place in the solemn gloomy room. But one small door divides it from the halls out- side; yet centuries seem to roll between it and them. In one corner a door lies half open, 'lnd behind it a narrow flight of stairs runs upward to a turret chamber above. -a tiny stairway. heavily balustraded and uncarpeted. that creates in one a mad desire to ascend and learn the se- crets that may lie at its top” Miss Peyton. scarce noticing the monkish refectory, runs to the stairs and mounts them eagerly, Sir James following her in a more leisurely fash- lOIl. _ “Now-for my own room," she says, with some degree of quickness in her tone. She reaches the turret chamber as she speaks. and looks around her. It is quite a circle, and apparentlycf the same date as the one they have just quitted. Even the furniture, though of lighter make and size, is of a similar age and pattern. Ugly little chairs and unpleasantly solid tables are dotted here and there, a perfect wealth of Old-\V'orld work cut into them. Everything is carved, and to an un- sympathetic observer it might occur that the carver must have been a per- son subject to fiendish visions and un- holy nightmares. But no doubt the beauty of his designs lies in their ugli- ness, and his heads are a. marvel of art, and his winged creatures priceless! The high chimney-piece is en rapport with all the rest, and scowls. unceasâ€" ineg; and the very windowsâ€"long and deepâ€"have little faces carved on either side of them, of the most diabolical. Miss Peyton is plainly entranced with the whole scene, and for a full minute says nothing. "I feel as though I were a child again," she says presently, as though half regretful. “ .verything comes back to me with such a strange yet tender vividness. This, I remember, was my favorite table, this my favorite chair. And that little winged mon- ster over there, he used to whisper in my ears more thrilling tales than either Grimm or Andersen. Have you never moved anything in all these years?" “ Never. It is your own room by adoption, and no one shall meddle with it. \Vhen I went abroad I looked it, and carried the key of it with me wherever I went; I hardly know why myself." He glanced at her curiously, but her face is averted, and she is plain- ly thinking less of him than of the many odd trifles scattered around. "then I returned, dust reigned, and spiders; but it has been made spick and span to-day for its mistress. Does it. still please you? or will you care to alter anything?" “ No, nothing. I shall pay a compli- pliment to my childish taste by letting everything stay just as it is. I must have been rather a nice child, Jim. don't you think? if one passes over the torn frocks and the shrewish tongue.” “I don't think I ever saw a tear in your frocks," says Sir James, simply. " and if your tongue was shrewish I never found it out." Miss Peyton gives way to mirth. She sits down on a wretchedly uncom- fortable, if delightfully mediaeval chair. and laughs a good deal. “ Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see ourselves as others see us!" she quotes. gayly. " Those lines. meant by poor Burns as a censure on frail humanity. rather fall short at this mo- ment. \Vere l to see myself as you see me. Jim. I should be a dreadfully conceited person, and utterly unbear- able. \Vhat a good friend you make!” " A bad one, you mean. A real friend, according to my lights, is a fellow who says unpleasant things all round and expects you to respect his candor. By and by, when i tell you a few home truths, perhaps you will not like me as you do now." "Yes,I shall always like you." says Clarissa. " Long ago, when you used to scold me. I never bore malice. I suppose you are one of those rare peo- ple who can say the ungracious thing in such a manner that it doesn't grate. But then you are old, you know. Jim, very «MLâ€"though, in appearance. won- derfully young for your years. I do hope papa, at your age. will look as fresh." She has risen. and has slipped_ her hand through his arm, and is smiling up at him gayly and with a sweetness irresistible. Sir James looks as pleased as though he had received a floridcom- piiment. “What a baby you are!" he says. aftcra pause. looking down at her gid- miringly. Judging by his tone, babies. in his eyes, must possess very superior ” There are a _many babies in the world. don't you think?" he goes on, presently. " You are one. and Geoffrey Branscivinbe. is another. I don't suppose he will ever quite grow up.‘ " And Horace," said Clarissa, idly. " is be another 3 " But Sir James. though unconsciously. resents the question. _“0h, no!" he‘say's hastily. does not come within the category at 811- WM." with a faint smile.."he is even older than I am! There is no tender. babyâ€"nonsense about him." ” No. he is so cleverâ€"so far above us all. where intellect is concerned." 8118 says. absently. A slight smile plays about her lips, and a light, that was not there a moment since, comes to life within her eyes. With an effort .she arouses herSI-lf from what were plainly happy day-dreams. and comes .back to the present, which, just now, is happy too. “I think nature meant me_to be a nun." she says, smiling. “ This place subdues and touches me so. The som- ber lights and shadows are so impressâ€" ive! If it were indeed mine (in realâ€" ity). I should live a great . time in it. Here I should write my pleasantest letters, and read my chom- est books. take my afternoon tea. and make welcome my dearest‘friends.â€"you among them. In fact, if it were prac- ticable," nodding her pretty head em- phatically. "I should steal this room. There is hardly anything I would not do to make it my own." _ Scrope regards her earnestly, With a certain amount of calm mquiryz Is she a coquette, or merely unthinkin f If indeed, the face be the index 0 the mind. one must account her free of. all unworthy thought or frivolous deSign. Hers is " A countenance in which do meet " Sweet records, promises as sweet. Her eyes are still smiling u at him; her whole expression is full 0 a gentle friendliness; and in his heart.. at this moment. arises a sensation that is not ho e. or gladness, or despair, but yet is a aint wild mingling of all three. _ As for Clarissa, she stands a little apart, unconscious of all that is passmg in his heart, and gazes lovmgly upon the objects that surround her, as one will gaze now and then on things that have been fondly remembered_through the haze of many years. She is happy. wrapped in memories of a past all sun- shine andyno shade, and ignorant of the meaning he would gladly attach to her last words. . " While I stay here I slopâ€"that is I covet," she says, at length. surprised by his silence. " and it grows late. Come. walk with me a little way through the park: I have not yet seen the old ath we used to call the 'short cut' to ow- ran, long ago." So, down the dark stairs he follows her, across the stone flooring, and into the hall outside, that seems so brilliant b contrast, and so like another world, all is so changed. so different. Behind. lie silence, unbroken, perfect, a sad and dreamy light, Old-\Vorld grandeur; here, all is restless life, full of uncertain sounds, and distant footsteps, and vowes faint but positive. ‘ - " Is it not like a. dream i" says Clar- issa, stopping to point backward to the turret they have just quitted. “The past is always full of dreams," replies he, thoughtfully. CHAPTER V “ A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a. star, when only one Is shining in the sky.” . \Vordsworth. The baby morn has flung aside its robes, and grown to perfect strength. The day is well advanced. Already it is making rapid strides toward rest and evening; yet still no cooling breeze has come to refresh the heart of man. Below, in the quiet fields, the cattle are standing, knee-deep in water. he- neath the spreading branches of the kindly alder. They have no energy .to eat, but munch, sleepily.. the_ all-satis- fying end, and, with gentle if expres- Sionless eyes. look out afar for evening and the milkmaid. . "'Tis raging noon; and, vertical. the sun Da: ts on the head direct his forceful rays. O’er heaven and earth. far as the rang- ing eye . Can sweep, a. dazzling deluge reigns; . and all. From pole to pole, is undistinguished blaze. Distressful Nature pants! The vefy streams look languid from a‘ar. 0r, through th' unsheltered glade. im- patient, seem To hurl into the covert of the grove." A tender stillness reigns over every- thing. The very birds are mute. Even the busy mill-wheel has ceased to move. Bright flashes of light, that come and go ereone can catch them, dart across the gray walls of the old mill,â€"â€"that holds its gaunt and stately head erect. as though defying age,â€"and,slanting to the right, fall on the cottage. quaint and ivy-clad, that seems to nestle at its feet. The roses that climb its walls are drooping; the casements all stand wide. No faintest breath of air comes to flutter Ruth's white gown. as she leans against the rustic gate. All miller's daughters should be pretty. It is a duty imposed upon them by tradition. Romance, of the most floral description, at once attaches itself to a miller's daughter. I am not at all sure it does not even cast a halo round the miller himself. Ruth An- nersley at least acknowledges this fact. and does her duty nobly; she gives the lie to no old legends or treasured nurs- ery superstitions; she is as pretty as heart can desire.â€" " Fresh as the month. and as the morn- ing fair." She is small. piquante, timid. with large almond-shaped eyes and light- brown hair. a rounded, supple figure, and bands delicately white. Perhaps there is a lack of force in her face, an indefinable want. that hardly detracts from her beauty. yet sets one wondering, vaguely. where it lies, and what it can be. The mouth, mo- bile and slightly parted, betrays it most. Her lashes. cavering her brown eyes, are very long. and lie 3. good deal on her cheeks. Her manner, without a sus- picion of gaucherie, is nervous, almost appealing; and her smile. because so rare. is very charming. and apt to linâ€" ger in the memory. She is an _only child. and all through her (young life has been patted and car- csse rather more than is good for any one. Her father had married. some- what late in life. a woman in every way his so rior. and. she dying two years after or marriage. he had fallen back for consolation upon the little one left to his sole care. To him. she was a pride. a delight. a creature precious beâ€" yond words. on whom the sun must shine gently and the rain fall not at all. Achy child from the first. R'uth had declined acquaintance with the villagers, u part of my who would. one and all. have been glad to succor the motherless irl. Perhaps the little drop of gentle ood inherit- ed from her mother had thriven in her veins.‘and thus rendered her distant and somewhat repellent in her manner to those in her own rank of life. She had been sent early to a private school. had been carefully educated far above her position, and had come home again to her father, with all the pretty airs and unconscious softness of manner that,_as a rule. belong to good birth. She is warm-hearted. passionate. im- pulsive. and singularly reservedâ€"so much so that few guess at the terrible power to love, or hate, or suffer. in sil- ence_ that lies within her. She is a special favorite with Miss Peyton and the Vicarage people(.\Ir. and Mrs. Redâ€" mond and their five children), with ~those at Hythe, and, indeed, with most of the county people. Miss Scrope excepted. who gives it freely as her opinion that she will come to no good "with her books and her high society and general fiddleâ€"faddling.“ Nobody knows what this last means, and every- one is afraid to ask. Just now, with her pretty head bare. and. her hand shading her eyes. she is gazmg down the dusty road. Her whole attitude denotes expectancy. Every feature (she is off her guard) ex- presses intense aud hopeful longingâ€" " Fiery Titan, who -â€"-â€"with his peccant heat Has dried up the lusty liquor new Upon the herbs in the greens mead," has plainly fallen in love with her to- day. as he has clothed her in all his glory. and seems reluctant to pass her on his homeward journey. The heat has made her pale and lanâ€" guid; but just at this moment a faint delicate color springs into her face; and as the figure of a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, turns the corner of the road. she raises her hand‘ to her cheek with a swift involuntary gesture. A moment later. as the figure comes closer, so near that the face is discernâ€" ible, she pales again. and grows white as an early snow-drop. , _ “Good-morning Ruth," says Dorian Branscomhe, with a smile, apparently oblivious of the fact that morning has given place to noon many hours agone. ' Ruth returns his salutation gently. and lets her hand lie for an instant in is. " This is a summer’s day, with a ven- geance," says Dorian, genially, pro- ceeding to make himself comfortable on the top of the low wall near which she IS. standing. He is plainly making up his _mind to a long and exhaustive con- versation. “ Talk of India !” he says. disparagingly; " this beats it to fits 1" Ruth acquiesces amiably. (To be Continued.) .N ...._â€"-:-v-_.. ._-.... A FIGHT IN MID-AIR. Two Workman Come to Blows Wlillc Standing on an Iron Beam Ten Stories Inch. A fight in mid-air, the giving and taking of blows by two men standing on a small beam in the tenth storey of a big building. was witnessed at the big Ellicott square building on Main street, Buffalo, the other afternoon. Edward Jacobs and Frank J. Con- nors, ironworkers employed on the build- ing, had been quarrelling for several days over the ownership of some tools. The argument was resumed at the noon hour and was getting warm when the whistle blew and the men ascended to their work again. They had been work- ing about fifteen minutes when Connors, who was standing near the shafting. saw Jacobs coming toward him. walk- ing on one of the iron scantlings. When he was within a few feet of him Con- nors recognized in Jacobs's hands the tools over which they had been disput- ing. He yelled: "You've got them tools now, you whelp I" “ You lie," said Jacobs. Connors stepped out on the beam and the men began striking at each-other. The beam was ten inches wide, and be- low them was the network of beams. ten stories of them. A fall promised death. The other workmen cried to them to desist. but dared not interfere. Jacobs struck Connors in the breast. and Connors replied with a staggering blow. Jacobs aimed another blow, but Connors dodged back. and the impetus of his own blow carried Jacobs beyond his balance and he fell with a cry of terror head first inside the building. His leg struck a beam at the eighth floor, and this changed the direction of the fall, throwing him toward the shaft- ing. Past the eighth floor he went like a shot, turning over and over. Be- tween the seventh and eighth floors the elevator rope has a loop. In some way or other Jacobs grabbed it. \Vith a last effort he threw his leg into the loophole and hung. He was taken down, faint and sick from the fall, and removed to the hospital, where it was found that he had suffered a bad contusion on the leg and a bad cut on the hand. -â€"-â€"â€"~â€". FASHION'S ARMY 0F WORKERS. Paris "as 65,000 Dressmakers. and In France There Are Over 700,000 Persons Making Articles of Women's Dress. Paris is the city where the dressmak- ing trade flourishes as it does in no of b- er city in the world. In 1850 the num- ber of oouturieres. as given in the An- nuaire du Commerce, the commercial directory of those days. was only 158. There were besides 67 shops for the sale of ready-made feminine apparel. but there were none, as there are to-day, which sold lingerie or certain articles exclusively. 1n the "Bottin," as the Paris directory is familiarly known, of 1895. there are 1,636 couturieres and 290 commercial houses for the sale of ready- made garments. besides many establish- ments which manufacture and sell " jupons de dessous", or under-petticoats alone. The number of working dressâ€" makers in Paris is estimated as 65,000. In all France. according to M. Georges Michel, the industry of manufacturing the various articles of Women's dress is in the hands of 81,406 male and 113,648 female owners of shops or factories. These furnish employment to 700,801 persons of whom over half a million are women. In addition to these there are 925.855 persons who make their living rom industries which are tributary to that of the manufacture of feminine zip-. lante- parel. The total value of the product I l ’ SHOOTING FROM AN ELEPHANT. . Slr Edward Broaden Says It Is an Ari-ant Coward. Sir Edward Braddon. who shot many tigers during twelve years of hunting in India. does not. like the elephant as a Sportsman's riding animal. He calls the huge beast a " needle-witted" ani- mal. “intelligent in a diabolical way at. times. but rarely up to the mark when its intelligence would be useful." It is. he insists, a revengeful. treach- erous beast. and. with few exceptions. an errant coward. A line of forty ele- phants. engaged in beating a jungle. will turn and fly before a tiger that has been seen by barely half a dozen of the fugitives. In his ” Thirty Years of Shikar " Sir Edward tells of an eleâ€" phant which bolted at a gunshot. Sir Edward went. out on a padded ele- phant to hunt jungle-fowl. accompanied by a native shikari (hunter) and a pet dog. The mahout (elephaiii-driver). on being asked if the elephant would stand fire should a gun he fired from its back. intimated that the hunter's posis tion on the pad would be firmer if he refrained from shooting. "Sou must. make him stand fire." said Sir Edward. “ \Vhatever you order, saliih," an- swered the Mahout: and on they went Quietly till Sir Edward fired at :1 jun- gle-fowl. The bird dropped and the elephant bolted. The inahout would have pulled up the beast had not the little dog yapped. Then the elephant went. off full tilt, straight through the jungle. Ahead wasaforest of branches. one of. which swept from the pad the shikari and the dog. Sir Edward held on. though the branches beat every part of his body. The shikai‘l followed to see what help he could render; the dog followed to yelp sympathy with its master. At each yelp the elephant quickcned its pace. Then the native caught- the dog and _dropped back out. of the elephant's hearing. After a long run, during which it smashed its way through enough timber to keep an army in fuel for a campaign, it suffered its mahout to pull it up. _Sir Edward walked back to his tent Withas many bruises as if he had been engaged in a prize-fight. From that day he thought it safer to shoot even tigers on foot than from the back of an elephant, whose humors and vagar- ies make it_ unwise to repose any con- fidenceuu its steadfastncss when fac- ing a tiger. ' Once the Maharajah of Bulrampoor lent Sir Edward an elephant for a day's sport._ The elephant suffered from chronic lameness of one of his hip-joints. and this brought trouble to the hunter. Mounted upon the beast he came upon fresh footprints of a tiger near the edge of a swamp, which was, for the most partna long pond of clear water, fring- ed with high grass. seeing the grass wave, the signal that a tiger was passing through it. Sir Ed- ward ordered the malnout to follow the beast into the last iatch, where the tiger would be forced to fight. or fly. It elected to fight, and charging straight for the ele hant, jumped on the animal’s head. ir Edward leaned over. the howdah, placed the muzzle of his smooth bore to the tiger's neck. and pulled the trigger. . Just then the elephant upset every- thing. In drawing back its game leg gave way, and over it went sidelong in} h a crash that spread the mahout. sliikari,.Sir Edward and all the para- phernalia broadcast upon the ground. The bullet aimed at the tiger’s neck went heavenward. This was fortunate. Had the tiger been wounlled, it would have been revengcful; but unwounded and_thrown from the elephant's head, it disappeared in the jungle. and was lost to that hunting party. RAIDED THE POST-OFFICE. An Incident In the c iii-cor of Lord Wolseley In India. To illustrate some of the disagreeable things which the soldiers suffered in the Soudan. Mr. Nourse tells the fol- lowing anecdote of the postal service, which also well shows how democratic was Lord Wolseley. the cmnmandant. Nourse went into the post-office at Korti to look for some letters. The post-master wasa native and not very much at handwriting, and said that there was nothing for him after a superficial glance atabig pile of papers and letters. Nourse asked to see the pile of letters, and while he was look- ing them over a man with nothing to designate his rank came into the office in company with another. He took in the situation at a glance and said: " Let's clean this thing out." \thre- upon they jumped over the counter and bund ed the postmaster out, neck and heels. Then they began the ex- amination of the office and found it congested with mail for the army. They searched every nook and cranny. and threw the letters for one regiment into one corner, those for another in- to another, with all the newspapers in the center of the floor. Then they went through each pile and separated it into companies. and before night every letter was in camp and dis- tributed and the next day the papers were out. Nourse at the time did not know who his com mnion in !he good deed was. He es mi him his name and his answer was: "They call me Charley." Some time afterwards Nourse was going to see the commandant, and snting near his tent saw his cnmpani'in ofdhe post-office. " Hello, Charley." he said, “I'm looking for the command- ant; where‘ll I find him ?" "\l'ell." said "Charley." "you won't have to look very far. I'm the wmmandant. Come inside and huvca bit to eat and drmk." It was Lord Wolseley, and a man worthy/if the title. ” --. Pencil Point Pierced Hls Heart. John Dripps. a nine-year-old boy re- siding in Mt. Washington, a suburb of Pittsburgh. Penn., was almost in- stantly killed the. other afternoon by falling on a slate pencil in his pocket. which pierced his heart. After school he started home on a run. He slipped and fell to the sidewalk. The driver of a laundry wagon went to his assis- Tlie boy was trying to pull the pencil from his holy. 'l‘he laundryman. of this labor from so many hands is (33- "(£03718 “18 “'0’ W113 MUN." hurt. carried timatcri as 1,103,630,000 francs, or 8233.- 720,000. him to a doctor's office. doctor could examine bun the boy déod. Before the ~‘ '2