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, are not everything.'.', THE" __,_â€"_.â€"â€". _..‘... _.._...... _.. _. _,, VICAR’S" GUV‘ERN ESS. " It is warmâ€"very." she says. calm-; ly.. but indifferently. . "'0 I call itâ€"werry 'ot." returns be, making his quotation as genially as though she understood it. and,‘ plucking a. little rose-bud from a tree near him. proceeds to adorn his coat with it. " It seems a long time since I have seen you." he goes on. presently; and ashe speaks. his eyes seek hers. Same thing in her face touches some chord in his careless kindly nature. “ How pale you are! " he says abrupt- ly. ” Am If The heat. no doubt,"-with a faint smile. " But thin,_too, are you not? And --andâ€"" he pauses. “ Anything wrong with you, Ruth?" “Wrong? No! How should there be?" retorted she. in a curious tone, in which fear and annoyance fight for mastery. Then the storm dies away. and the startled look fades from her pretty face. " Why should you think me unhappy because I am a little pale?" she asks sullcnly. Branscombe looks surprised. “ You altOgether mistake me," he says. gently. "I never associated you in my mind with unhappiness. I mere- ly meant. had you a headache. or any of those small ills that female flesh is heir to? I beg your pardon, I‘m sure. if I have offended you." He has jumped off the wall. and is now standing before her. with only the little gate between them. Her face is still colorless, and she is gazing up at him with parted lips. as though she would fain say something difficult to form into satisfactory Speech. At this moment. Lord Sartoris, coming sudden- ly round the angle of the road. sees them. Ruth lowers her eyes and some slight transient color creeps into her cheeks. Sartoris. comes quickly up to them, makes some conventional speech to her. and then turns to his nephew. " W here are you going?" he asks coldly. "I was going to I-Iythe." returned the young man. easlly. " Just as well I didn't. eh ’2 Should have found you out.” “ Found me out,â€"â€"yes," repeats his uncle. looking at. him strangely. How longâ€"how long it takes to find out some people, on whom our very hearts are set. "I am going to the village." “Then so am 1." says Branscombe. “ Though I should think it would run the original ‘dcserted' one close on such a day as this. Good-by, Ruth." . He holds out his hand; and the girl, Silently returning his warm pressure, makes a faint courtesy to Lord Sar- toris. There is no servility. but some nervousness. in the slight salutation. “How is your father. Ruth?" asks he. detaining her by a quick movement of the hand. _ “Quite well. thank you, my lord." Some tiiuiditv is discernible in her tone. caused by the unmistakable re- proof and sternness in his. “ I am glad to hear it. There is no worthier man in all the parish than John 'Annersley. I hope nothing will ever occur to grieve or sadden that good old man." " I hope not. my lord." returns she, steadily, although his voice has mean- ing in it. In another moment she was gone. “ How does your farming go on. Do- rian i" asks Lord Sartoris. presently. rousing himself from a puzzling re- Verie. “Quite in the model line." says Do- rian. cheerfully. "That Sawyer is an' invaluable fellow. Does all the work. ou know,â€"which is most satisfactory. ooks after the men, pays their wages, and takes all trouble off my shoulders. Never could understand what a perfect treasure is till I got him. Every one says I am most fortunate in my choice of a steward." "I dare say. It is amazing the amount of information people possess about other people's servants. But you look after things yourself, of course? However faithful and trust- worthy one's hirelings may be, one's own eyes should also be in the matter." "Oh. of course," amuiesces Dorian, cheerfully. "Nothing li e perSonal su- pervision. and so on. Every now and then. you know, I do look over the acâ€" counts, and ask a few questions. and show myself very learned in drainage. and so forth. But I don't see that I gain much by it. Horrid stii)id work, (coltâ€"With a yawn. "Lucki y. Saw- yer is one of the most knowing fellows iii the world. or I suppose I should go to smash. He is up to everything. and talks like a book. Quite-a pleaâ€" sure. 1 give you my word.-â€"-alinost a privilegeâ€"to hear him converse on short-horns and some eccentric root they call mangels." “ It is possible to be knowing." says, his uncle. depreciatingly. “ Eh f oh. no: sawyer is not that sort of person. He is quite straight all through. And he never worries me, more than he can help. He looks after everything. and whatever he touches §mctaphorically speakin turns to gold. 'm'sure anyt warlike; use pheasants " Yes. 3768. .1 “dares”. Butpheasants “ Well. no; them are 9‘ few other. things." says Dorian._amicably.â€"â€""notâ€"‘ ably. grouse. >\Vhy this undyin hatred to Sawyer. my dear Arthur? nwhata has he been found wanting!" . I “l .lhlnk- him a low. underhand sneaking fellow." says Sartoris. unhesi~ tatingly. “ I should not kee him in ' mv employ half an hour. ovever." releniingly. and somewhat sadly, "one cannot always jugs by a pcarancesz" They have mach the. vx lags by this time. and are walking leisurely through it. Almost as they reach the hotel they meet Mr. Redmond. the rector. lookiu' as hearty and kindly as usual. Lord Mrtoris. who had come down on purpose to meet him. having asked his question and received his answer, turns again and walks slowly homeward. Do- rian still beside him. . .. . yin the loo As they again catch sight of. the old mill. Sartoris says. quietly. With a laudable attempt at unconcern that would not have deceived the veriest- in- fant, but is quite successful With Do- rian. whose thoughts are far away.â€" " What a nice girl that little Ruth has grown! " .“Awfully pretty girl." returns Do- rian. carelessly. " Yes."â€"gravely.â€"" very pretty: and I thinkâ€"I hopeâ€"upright, as she is beau- tiful. Poor child. hers seems to be a very desolate lot. Far too well edu- cated to associate with those of her own class, she is still cut off by the laws of caste from mixing with those above her. She has no friends, no mother. no sister, to love and sympa- thize with her." “ My dear Arthur, how you do agon- ize yourself!“ says Dorian. "She has her father. and about as comfortable a time altogether as I know of." “ She reminds me of some lowly way- side flower." goes on the old man. mus- ingly, heedless of the brilliant inter- lude, " raising its little head sadly among gay garden plants that care not for her, whilst beyond the hedge that bounds her garden she can watch her own species grow and flourish in wild luxuriance. Her life can scarcely be called happy. There must always be a want, a craving for what can never be obtained. Surely the one that could bring sorrow to that pure heart, or tears to those gentle eyes, should heâ€"" “ Asphyxiated," put in Dorian, idly. He yawns languidly and pulls the head off a. tall dandelion. that adorns the wayside, in a somewhat desultory fash- ion. The color in the older man's cheeks grows a shade deeper, and 'a geture, as full of impatience as of dis- pleasure, escapes him. " There are some subjects,” he says, with calm severity, " that it would. be welll to place beyond the reach of ridi- on e.” .- “ Am I one of them?" says Dorian. lightly. Then. glancin at his uncle's puickly. " I beg your pardon, I'm sure. have been saying something unlucky. as usual. Of course I agree with you on all points. Arthur, and think the man who could wilfully bring a. blush to Ruth Annersley’s cheek neither more nor less than a. blackguard pui‘ et sim- le. By the by. that last little home- y phrase comes in badly there. doesn't it? Rather out of keeping with the vituperative noun. eh! " "Rather," returns Sartoris, shortly. He drops his nephew's arm, and walks on in silence. As a rule, Dorian’s careâ€" less humor suits him: it amuses and adds a. piquancy to a life that with- out it (now that Dorian’s society has become indispensable to him) would prove " flat, stale, and unprofitable." But to-day, he hardly knows why,â€"or. perhaps, hardly dares to know why.â€" his nephew's easy light-heartedness jars upon him, vexing him sorely. As they turn the corner of the road and go down the bill, they meet Horâ€" ace, coming toward them at a rapid pace. As he sees them, he slackens his speed and approaches more slowly. _“Just as. well I met you," he says. Wltil an airy laugh. “as my ably he ‘1'ules the roost.’ work is trying on the lungs." " Where have you been ’t" asks Dorâ€" else ian, just because he‘, has nothing to say. and it is such a bore to think. " At Gowran." " Ah! I'm going there now. You saw Clarrisa, then '5” says Sartoris, quickly " When do you return to town. Hor- ace ‘2" " 'l‘o-morrow I. think,â€"I Horace; and, with a little nod on both sides. they part. But when the bend in the road again hides him from view it would occur, to a casual on-looker that Horace Branscombe’s "thoughts must once more have taken his physical'pow- ers into captivity, as his pace quickeus, until it grows even swifter than it was before. ,1 Sartoris goes leisurely down the hill, with Dorian beside him. whistling “Nancy Lee." in a manner highly satis- factory to himself, to himself, no doubt. but‘slightly out of tune. \Vhen Sai‘tor- is can bear this musical treat no longer, he breaks hurriedly into speech. of a description that requires an answer. "What a pretty girl Clarissa Peyton is! Don't you think so?" When Dorian has brought Miss Lee to a triumphant finish, withaflourish that would have raised murderous longâ€" ings in the breast of Stephen Adams, he says. without undue enthusiasm:â€" “Yes, she is about the bestâ€"looking woman I know." " And as unaffectei rs she is beautiful. That is her principal charm. So thorâ€" oughly bred. too. in every thought and action. I never met so lovable a crea- ture!" “ What a pity she can't hear you !” says Branscombe. "Though perhaps it is as well she can't. Adulation has a bad effect on some people." ” She is too earnest, too thorough. to be upset by flattery. I sometimes wonder if there are any like her in the world." “ Very few, I think,” genial! '. Another pause somewbatlonger than the last. and then Sartoris says. with some hesitation. "Do you never think of marrying. Dorian t" "Often." says Brauscombe. with an amused smile. “'Yet how seldom you touch on the matter! \Vhy, when I was your age. I had seen at least twenty women should have married, had they shown an answering regard for me." ~‘ “.What a blessing they didn't !"says Branscombe. "Fancy. twenty of them! You'd have found it awkward run. wouldn‘t you? And I don't thin they'd have liked it, you knew. in this illiberal country. So glad.you thought better of it." "I wish I could once see you as hon- estly"-â€"with a slight. almost uncon- says Dorian, face. he checks himsel , and goes on' thoughts were running away with me, and Phoe- bus Apollo is in the ascendant: verit- This uphill hope says ! severely. removing his glass from his right to‘his left'eyel'vas though‘fo‘ scan“ childw you’rse“" 1f. morg carefully his unclejs countenance. "them is something the matter wuh you this morning. isn’t there? -You're not well. you know. You have taken some- ;hlng very bidiy. and it has gone to your morals; they are all wrong.â€"very uh,- sound indeed. Have you carefully conâ€" sidered the nature of the advice you are giving mel’ \Vhy, if I were to let my heart beat ever time I meet all_the pretty women I know. I should be in a lunatic asylum in a month." "Seriously. though. I wish you would give the matter some thought." says Lord Sartoris. earnestly: “you are twenty-eight.-â€"-old enough to make a sensible choice.” Branscombe sighs. " And I see nothing to prevent your doing so. You want a wife to look after l’ou.â€"a woman you could respect aswell as love.â€"a thoughtful. beautiful wo- man. to make your home dearer _to you than all the amusements town life can afford. She would make you hapDY- and induce you to look more carefully to your own interestsâ€"andâ€" ' “ You mean you would like me. to marry Clarissa Peyton.” says Dorian. good-humoredly. “\Vell. it is acharmâ€" ing scheme, you know; but I don't think it will come off. In the first .place. Clarissa would not have me, and in the next. I don’t want to marry at all. A wife would bore me to death; couldn't fancy a greater nuisance. I like women very much, in fact, I may say, I am de- cidedly fond of a. good many of them. me (as you style it) and showing up my pet delinquencies .would drive me out of my mind. Don't look so disgusted! I feel I'm a. miserable sinner; but I really can't help it. _ thing radically wrong With me." 'fDo you mean to tell me "â€"With some natural indignationâ€".Wthat up to this you have never. during all 'your wanderings, both at home and _abroad, seen any woman you could Sincerely admire ?" ' "Numbers, my dear Arthur.â€"any amount.â€"but not one I‘should care to marry. You see, that makes such a dif- ference. I remember once beforeâ€"last; seasonâ€"you spoke to me in this strain. and. simply to oblige you, I thought ‘I would make up my mind .to try matri- mony. So I went in heaVily. heart and soul, for Lady Fanny Hazlett. You have seen Lady. Fanny ’6" “Yes. a. good deal of her." ” Then you know how really pretty she is. \Vell, I spent three weeks at it; regular hard work the entire time. you know, no breathing-space allowed. as she never refuses an inVitation. thinks nothing of three balls in one night, and insisted on my dancing at- l tendance on her everywhere. I never suffered so much in my life; and when at last I gave in from sheer exhaustion, I found my clothes no longer fitted me. I was worn to a skeleton from loss of sleep. the heavy strain on my mental powers. and the meek endurance of her ladyship’s ill tempers." " Lady Fanny is one woman. Clarissa Peyton is quite another. How could you fail to be happy with Clarissa"? Her sweetness, her grace of mind and body, her beauty, would keep you cap- tive even against your Will.” Dorian pauses for a moment or two. and then says, very gently, as though Stirry to spoil the old man's cherished p an,â€" " It is altogether impossible. has no‘ heart to give me." _ _ Sartoris is silent. A vague suspicion of what. now appears a certainty has for some time oppressed and haunted him. At this moment he is sadly realizing the emptiness of all his dreaming. Present- ly. he says slowly,â€" "Are you quite sure of this 2" " As certain as I can be without ex- actly hearing it from her own lips." ” Is it Horace ?" Clarissa. " Yes; it is Horace," says Branscombe.i quietly. “" ! CHA‘PTER VI. " Tread softly; how the head,-â€" ! ' In reverent silence how, 2 No passing bell doth toll,, but to have one always looking after~ I expect there is some- I difficulty. “’hat "a hardi’hfld‘“ Grief and misery. and too‘ much ‘of Is there no friend to help and Aunt Elizabeth. have alreadv pmbit- comfort you t" itered and generated distrust in her “I have a friend." replies she,stead-€young bosom. She is tired. too. All 'ily. “You have often heard me menâ€",day she has toiled. has worked relig- tion her. You remember the name.'iously. and gone through wearyiug now.-Clarissa Peyton: She was my household labor. tryingto repay in some best friend at school. and I know she faint wise the reluctant hospitality ex- will do what. she can for me. She will tended to her. At this moment 8.381136 be able to find me some nice children. of utter desolation overpowers her. and andâ€"â€"" éwith a brain on fire. and a heart half- "Fricndship."â€"inierrupts he. bitterly. i broken. she pushes from her the partly- ‘-“it is a breath, a name. It will failfwritten letter. and. hurting her face in you when you most need it." :her arms, breaks into low. but heavy “Clarissa will not fail me.” replieslwee ing. . she. slowly. though with a feeling of! " apa! papa!" she sous. miserably. ,dcadly sickness at her heart. “Audit is the common refrain of all her ‘besides. you must not think of me as a . sorrowful dirgcs.â€"â€"ihe sadder that no res lgovcrness always. papa. I shall, per- spouse ever comes to the lonely cry. haps. marry somebody, some day." Of our dead. if we would believe them The dying man’s eyes grow a shade happy up must. also believe that they brighter; it is a mere flicker. but. it have forgotten us; else how (when we lasts for a moment. long enough to con- think on our bleeding hearts) could Vince her she has indeed *iven some they keep their bliss amputee” 1poor hope to cheer his last ours. Alournfully as Mariana in her mooted “Yes; to marry somebody." he reâ€" grunge. the poor child laments. while peats. wistfully. “that will be best,-â€" sobs shake her slender frame. And the to get some good man, some kindly. lov- day dies, and the sun goes down. one ing hrart to protect you and make a sa’e ‘ happily some noise in the houseâ€"a step. lshelter for you. There is comfort inla voice-arouses her. and. starting as the thought. But I hope it will besoon; ‘ though from some ugly dream, she takes my darling, before your spirit is broken up her pen again. and writes eagerly. and your youth dulled." and without premediiution. to the one "I sémll marry as soon as ever I can," friend in whom she still puts faith. says COI‘gle. making a last terrible .' Effort to appear hopeful and resigned. (To be commued‘) I shall meet someone very soon. no doubi:.â€"-very soon: so do not fret about Ime any more. Why should I not. in- . deed I" I am . very retty, am I not, Papa? In spite of t e lightness of her words, a heavy choking sob escapes her as she finishes her little set speech. She buries herface in the bedâ€"clothes, to Sun“ her “5111!; grief. but her father is almost too far gone to notice it. hesâ€"so like your mother," he mutâ€" ters. somewhat thickly. clutching aim- 16.5513' at th “Poor Alice lâ€"poor girl! It was that day on the beach. when the waves were dancing. and the sunâ€"â€"or.was lbs’-â€"â€"Dl(i the old man ever forgiveâ€"â€"?" He is wandering. dreaming his death- fate ! DISGUISED FOR MANY YEARS. A Woman .‘llniqiiermicx as a Man In Mon- irenl. One of the strangest, and most suc cessful cases of masquerading eve'» heard of in Canada came to light the other afternoon in Montreal. While Constable li‘afard was on duty on Ottu‘ wa street he saw a smallâ€"sized, dark-- haired. paleâ€"faced man, without a but and dressed in an overcoat and ablack pair of trousers staggering in an in- toxicated condition across the street. dream of happier days, going back. even as he Sinks into everlasting sleep. to the gilded hours of youth. lhe girl presses his hand to rouse him. flunk of me now," she entreats, despairineg; "it will only be for a lit- tle whileâ€"such a little while,â€"and then you Will be With her forever. 0h. papa! mygdearh my dear; smile at me once again. lhink of me happily; let me feel when you are gene that your last hours With me were peaceful." His eyes meet hers. and he smiles ten- derly. _Gently she slips her arms round him. and, laying her golden head upon the pillow, close to him, presses her 1113 to his,â€".the soft warm lips, that conâ€" trast so painfully with those pale cold other ones they touch. So she remains £0013. 103g time, kisdsinlg him softly every ' an a am, an i " of the endg t nkiug hopelessly She neither sighs. nor weeps. nor makes any outward sign of anguish. Un- like most people, she has realized to its fullest the awfuluess of this thing that is about to befall her. And the know- ledge has paralyzed her senses. render- in her dull With misery, and tearless. . rcscntly the _white lids, weary with nights of watching. droop. Her breath comes more evenly. Her head sinks more hcayily against the pillow. and, like a child worn out with grief and pain, she sleeps. . When next she wakes, gray dawn is everywhere. The wind still moans un- ceasingly. Still the rain-drops patter against the panes. She raises her head aiirightedly, and. springing to her feet. bends with bated breath above the quiet form lying on the bed. Alas! alas! what change is here ‘3 He has not moved; no faintest alteration can be traced in the calm pose of the figure that lies just as she last saw it. when sleep o'ercame her. The eyes are closed; the tender smileâ€"the last fond smileâ€"still lingers on his lips; yet. he is dead ! . The poor child stands gazing down upon him With parted lips and clasped hands. and a face almost as ashen as that marble one to which her eyes grow With 'horror unspeakable. He looks so peacefulâ€"so much as though he merely Yet an immortal soul v- islecpsâ€"that for one mad moment she Is passing now." . --Caroline Southey. A little room, scantily but neatly fur- nished. A low bed. A dying man. . A tries not to believe the truth. Yet she knows it is death. unmistakable and re- lentless. upon which for the first time she looks. ’ He is gone, forever! without another kneeling girl,â€"half child, half woman kiss. or smile, or farewell word beyond -with a lovely, miserable face, and! pretty yellow hair. 1 It is almost dusk, and the sound of. the moaning sea without. rising higher; and hoarser as the tide rushes in, comes. like a wail of passionate agony into the- silent room. . The rain patters dismally against the' window-panes. The windâ€"that all day‘ long has been sullen and subduedâ€"isI breaking forth into a fury long sup-f pressed, and, dashing through the little; town. on its way to the angry sea. makes the easements rattle noisily and the tall trees sway and bend beneath its touch. Above, in the darkening heavens, gray clouds are Scurrying madly to and fro. f "Georgie," whispers a faint voice from. out the gathering gloom. “are you still' there i" ‘ "Yes. dear. I am here, quite near to you. “'hat is it'?” -, "Sit where, I can see you. child,â€" where I can catch your face. I have, something to say to you. I cannot die' with this weight upon my heart." ! "What weight. papa ?" l “The uncertainty about your future”. says the dying man. with some excite-E ment. one. to fight this cruel world alone I” l ' "Do not think of me." says the girl. in a voice so unnaturally calm as to be- I tray the fact that she is making a suâ€"’ preme effort to steel herself against the )etrayal of emotion of any kind. By, and by. will there not be long years in which to make her moan. and weep, and . lament. and give herself wholly up to: that grim giant Despair? "Put me' out of your thoughts altogether. I shall, do very, very well. I shall manage to live as others have lived before me." ‘ '1 'our Aunt Elizabeth will take on in for a little while. and thenâ€"t en acious. stress on the wordâ€""in love as â€"â€" I have been scores of times." "What a melancholy time you must have put in! “"lien a fellow is in love he s to skin and-bone. doesn’t he? slig is his dinnerxand refuses to find solace in the best cigar. It must be tryin .â€"very; especially to one's fnen s. I doubt you were a suscept- ible youth. Arthur. I’m not.” "Then you ought to he." says Sar- toris. wit some anger. "All young men should feel their hearts beat. and their pulses quicken. at the Sight of a prcttv woman." ' " My dear fellow." says Branscombe. "I_ shall go out as a governess. . I shall get into some kind. pleasant family. and every one will be very good to me." says the girl. still in a resolute cheerful tone. "It will just suit me. I shall like it. .Do on understand me papa? I shall like it better than anything. because children are always fond of me." The father's face grows sadder. even grayer. as she speaks. He sighs in a troubled fashion and strokes feehly the little fragile_ hand that clings so des- rately to his. while the damps of death ie thick upon his brow. "A governess," he murmurs with some lbrain-fever followed upon it, attackin those last. uttered. He had set out upon his journey alone. had passed into the other happier land. in the cold silence of the night. even while she‘-slept,~had been torn from her, whilst yet her fond arms enCircled him. Impelled by_ some indefinable desire. she lays her fingers softly on the hand that lies outsxde the coverlet. The-aw- ful chill that meets her touch seems to reach even to her heart. Throwing her arms above her head, with a wild passmnate cry, she falls forward, and lies senseless across the lifeless body. . o c o . o p Misery hurts, but it rarely kills; and broken hearts are out of fashion. All this unhappiness came to Georgie Broughton about a year ago, and though her with vicious force. and almost haml- ing her over as a victim to the greedy grave, yet she had survived. and over- come death. and returned from the land of shadows. weakened. indeed. but with life before her. Months passed before she could sum- mon up sufficient think about a possible future. All this “How can I leave you. my little time her aunt Elizabeth had clothed and‘ but unwillingly._ fed and sheltered her. Indeed, so grudgingly had she dealt out her measure of "brotherly love" that the girl writhed beneath it. and piued with a passionate longing, for the day that should see her freed from a dependâ€" ence that had become uns eakab - l' - . .. p I) m fnow known as Barkly, in lbbb. ter to her. Today, sitting in her little room.â€" an apartment high up in Anni betli's houseâ€"she tells herself she will healtate_no longer, that she is strong now, quite strong. and able to face the world. She holds up her delicate little hand between her eyes and the window, as a test .of her returning only .to find that she can almost see the light through it.â€"â€"so thin. so frag- ile. has it grown. But she will not be disheartened: and. drawing pen and paper toward her. she tries to write. . But it is a difficult task. and her head is strangely heavy. and her words will not come to her. A vague feeling. too. that her letter will be unsuccessful. that her friend will fail her, distresses and damps her power to explain her posmon clearly. “'ho can say if Clarissa Peyton will be the same at heart as when last thev parted. with many words of good will l energ' to plan or! - Eliza-i strength, diamond. ; was On accosting the iuebriate the latter remarked that he was going home to his house on Tar Lane, a small thor- oughfare off Nazareth street. Think- ing the man's voice sounded feminine the officer arrested the individual and took him to No. 7 station” There he gave his name as James Mitchell. lab; orer. On being searched. the "man was found to be a woman. At eleven o'clook at night a woman called at the station and said. "You have arrested my husband, I want to see him.” Asked what her name was she said that she was Mrs. Mitchell and that she had a twelveâ€"year~old son by Mitchell. Ihat they had lived on 'llar Lane for'twelve years, and they had been married for five years. Her son's name. she said. was Sandy Mitchell. In the morning, the alleged Jas. Mitchell, said that her right name was Annie Thompson. She also said that she had lived as a man for the past five years_on_ .lnr Lane. working as such and associating entire- ly with men. How. the'woman inan- aged to conceal the identity of her sex for so long successfully is a mystery. as for that period she has always been regarded as a man by the inhabitants of Tar Lane. She always smoked and would ct drunk. . The Rgceorder remanded her until next Friday as the police Wish trnexamine her premises which they say is full of |goods. They also claim to have strong reasons for suspecting that the allege son is a. girl. u THE MAN AT THE LEVER. flow a locomotive Luizlneev Acts when llunnlug a Very Fast Trnln. The looomotive engineer is a remark‘ ably placid fellow. with a habit of delib- erate precision in his look and motions. He ocoasionally turns a calm eye to his gauge and then resumes his quiet watch ahead. The three levers which he has to manipulate are under his hand for in- stant use. and when they are used it I . . . . is quietly and in order, as an organist pulls out his stops. The noise in the cab makes conversation difficult,but not as bad as that heard in the car when pass- ing another train, with or without the windows open, and in looking out, of the engine cab the objects are approached i'adually. not rushed past as when one ooks laterally out of a parlor. car Win- dow. The fact is that the engmcerdoes not look at the side-he is looking ahead â€"aud therefore the specd'seems less, as the objects are approaching gradual- ! '. ' 3Those who have ridden at ninety miles an hour on a locomotive know that on a good road (and there are many such) the engine is not shaken and swayed in a terrific manner, but it is rather ('(Hll- fortable, andthe speed Hunt so a mnrent as when one is ruling in a par or our, where only a lateral view is bad. . The engineer can be very comfortable if he is quite sure of the track aheadnand it is only in rounding curves or in ap- gi preaching crossings that he feels ner- vous. and it is (loubtf‘ll if it is anymore ‘ strain to run a locmuuiivc at, high speed c ride a bicycle through crowd- Judiiing by the rider and 1than ed 'lhoroughfarcg _ icouiilienance of the bicycle ithe engineer,, the engineer has rather the best of it. Discovered the First Diamond. , The Cape of Good Hope (lovornmcnt ' is contemplating the bestows! of a pen- sion upon Lennard Jacobs, who found the first diamond in the colony. Jacobs. a Korannah. sczilcd in I’enicl. Alier- ;man missionary. Kallcnlxrrg, told him 5 to look sharp for diamonds. explaining to the ignorant Korannah ihe‘value and appearance of the stones. Jacolm' children soon after found several glit- I lering stones. One proved to bee real The others were crystals. Jacobs' wife, not knowing that any I particular value attached to the jewc , exchanged it for calico. Jacobs set ‘out on the trail of the lucky trader, 'and, finding him. forced him to return the jewel. The Korannah's stone forwarded to Port Elizabeth. ; where Sir l.’!iilip_Wmiehpuse. the Unv- ; crnnr, purchased it for can: lie namin it the “Star of South Africa," and it sslill remains in his family. Jacobs, iafter a lapse of two years. received a .horse, wagon. and some sheep or. pay- ment. The man is now an colic-finer- inn and in hearty health. I .1 i . a a “While you are only a'and affection. and eyes dark with tear?! ' .. .~ ups, >-;