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.. "N, l, . ,., ~m WV" THE Viii’ifs aux/MESS CHAPTER XX\'I.â€"Contlnued. He '3 sitting at the head of the long table looking strangely solitary, and very much aged, considering the short time that had elapsed since last he left i‘ullinghrun. you are home again, Arthur." says Dorian. coldly. but with apparent composure. face since that last meeting, when hitâ€" ter words. and still more bitter looks. Mid passed bets een them. Now, letting the quickly spoken sent- ence take the place of a more active greeting. they nod coolly to each other. and carefully refuse to let their hands touch. "Yes," says Sartoris, evenly; "I re- turned two days ago. Business re- called me; otherwise I was sufficiently wish to remain there." “And Constance, is she quite well 1" “Quite well, thank you. Your cous- Ins desired to be remembered to you. So did she of course." . A pause, prolonged and undestrable. "You will take some claret 3‘" says Burtoris, at last, pushing the bottle toward him. ' "No, thank you; I have only just din-. ed. 1 came up toâ€"night to tell you what I dare say by this you have heard from somebody else; I am going to be mar- ried on the 9th of next month. Lord Sartoris turns suddenly to con- front him. . “I had not heard it," he says, With amazement. "To be married! This is very sudden." Then. changing his tone, “I am glad," he. says. slowly, and With an unmistakable sneer, "that at last it has occurred to you to set that girl right in. the eyes of the world. As a man of honor, there was no other course left open to you." I "To whom are you alluding ‘3" asks Branscombe, growing pale with anger, an ominous flash betraying itself in his gray eyes. "I hope I understand you to mean to offer full, though tardy reparation to Ruth Annersley." . With an effort Branscombe restrains the fierce outburst of wrath that is trembling on his lips. "You still persist, then, in accusing me of being accessory to that girl’s dis- appearance 3" “You have never yet denied it," ex- claims Sartoris, pushing back his glass, and rising to his feet. “Give me the he dircct, if you can,â€"-if you dare,â€"â€"and I will believe you.” O “I never will," returns Dorian, now thoroughly rousedâ€"“never! If‘ my own character all these past years is not denial enough, .1 shall give no other. Believe what you Will. Do you imagine I shall come to you, like a whipped school boy, after every'supposed o_f- fcnso to say, ’I did do tlns,’ or,“I did not do that 7’ 1 shall contradict no- thing, iuiscrt nothing: therefore judge me as it may so please you. I shall not try to vindicate my actions to any liv- in man." . glue tone, his whole bearing, should have carried conviction to the hearts of most men ' but to the old lo.rd,_ who has seen so much of the world in its worst phasesâ€"4m criiclties and falsehoods,â€" and who has roughed it so long among his fellow-men, faith, in its finer sense, is wantin . . "Enough," he says, coldly, With a slight wave of his hand. “Let us ernd this subject now and forever. Xou have come to tell me of your approach- ing marriage; may I ask the name of the lady you intend making your Wife in "Broughton; Georgie Broughton, says llrunscombo, briefly. ".llroughtoii,â€"â€"I hardly fancy I know the name; and yet am I wrong in thinking there is a governess at the Vicarage of that name i" _ . "There was. She is now staying With Clarissa Peyton. I am to be married to her. as I have already .told you, early next month." “A govcrncssl’” says Siirtoris._There is a world of unpleasant meaning in his tone. "Really,"-â€"with slow con- tempt,â€"â€""I can hardly congratulate you on your tastes! You hwo might have chosen your wife almost anywhere, can find not hing to suit you but. an obscure goveriicss.” . “1 don't think there is anything parâ€" ticularly obscure about Georgie,” re- lies Dorian, with admirable composure, hough he flushes holly. “Have you ever seen herl Nol’ .‘l‘hcii. of course. you are not. in a position to judge of either hcr merits or demerits. .I shall thunk you. iherefore,"â€"surveying his uncle rathir iiisolenily, from Ilt‘llllnto heel.-â€"“io be silent on the subject. _ After a slight. pause, he turns again to Snrtoris. and, forcing him to meet his use. says haughtily.â€" “3 my we hope you “ll! be present at our wedding, my lord l" “I thank you. no. I fear not," reâ€" turns the older man, quite as haught- v. "I hope to be many miles from gore before the end of next week." Dorian smiles unpleasantly. ‘ "You will at least. call upon Miss Bron hton before leaving‘the neighbor- hood " he sure. raising his brows. _ At this Sartoris turns upon him fierce! '. stung by the apparent uncon- cern 0 his manner. _ "\\'hv should i call?" he says. his voice full of indignant nnger._ ' Is it to congratulate her on her coming un- ion with you? I tell you, were I to do so. the face of another woman would rise before me and freeze the false wards u n my li . To you. Dormn, my 0 d age, 31 my heart wen_t_out. hf hopes, my affections. my ambitions. an and ended With you. A'nd what a reward has been mine! ’iours has bean the hand to drag our name down to a level with the dust. Disgrace follows hard upon your tootsieps. \Vcre I to go. as you desire. to this in- noccnt girl. do you imagine I could .ak fair words to her! I tell you. no! should rather feel it my duty to warn or against entering a houseuso disâ€" red as yours. I shouldâ€"â€" "Pshaw l" says Branscombe. check- 'l‘hey had not been face to Toe-ard the close of July, contrary to he_ . _ expectation. Mr. and Mrs. Branscombe "Times," busy studying the murders. di- return to Pullingham. and. in spite of voroes, Irish atrocities, and other pleas- ing him with an impatient gesture. 5“Don’t let us introduce tragedy into this very commonplace affair. Pray don't trouble yourself to go and see her at all. In your present mood. I rather - think you would frighten her to death. ,I am sorry I intruded my private mat- : tcrs upon you; but Clarissa quite made '; a point of my coming to Hyihe to-night éfor that purpose, and, as you know, she [is a difficult person to refuse. I'm sure I beg your pardon foi'l having so funwarrantably bored you." , "Clarissa, like a great many other charming people, is at times prone to i rive very unseasonable advice," says 5 artoris, coldly. - Q .“Which, interpreted, means that I {did wrong to come. I feel you are gri ht." He laughs faintly again, and. ; ta ing up his hat, looks straight at his [uncle He has drawn himself up .to ibis full height, and.is looking quite this handsomest. He is slightly flushed {(a dark color that becomes him, and gasneer lies round the corners 0 his comfortable where I was to make the lips. "I hardly know how to apolo- ize," he says, lightly, “for having orced myself upon you in this intrusn'e fashion. The only amends I can pos- Slbly make is to promise you it shall never occur again, and to still further give on my word that, for the future, 1 sha i not even annoy you by my pres- ence." _ So saying he turns away, and, inclin- ing his head, goes out through-the door, and, closing it gently after him, gasses rapidly down the long~ hall, as t on b in haste to depart, and, aining the entrance-door, shuts it, too, ehind him, and breathes more freely as he finds the air of heaven beating on his brow. Not until he has almost reached Sar- toris once more does that calm fall up- on him that, as a rule, follows hard upon all our gusts of passion. The late interview has hurt him more than he cares to confess even to himself. His regardâ€"nay, his affectionâ€"for Sartor- is is deep and sincere; and, though wounded now, and estranged from him, because of his determination to be- lieve the worst of him, still it remains hidden in his heart, and is strong enough to gall and torture him after such scenes as he has just gone through. Hitherto his life has been unclouded, â€"hllS been all sunshine and happy summer and glad with laughter. how a dark veil hangs over it, threatening to deaden all things and dim the bright- ness of his "golden hours." “He who hath most of heart knows most of sorrow." To Dorian, to be wroth with those he loves is, indeed, a sort of madness that affects his heart, if not his brain. He frowns as he strides discontentedâ€" 1y onward through the fast-falling night; and then all at once a thought comes to himâ€"a fair vision seems .to rise almost in his pathâ€"that calms him and dulls all resentful memories. It is Georgie,â€"his love, his darling! She, at least, will be true to him.. He will teach her so to love him that no light winds of scandal shall have power to shake her faith. Surely a heart filled with dreams of her should harbor no miserable thoughts. He smiles again: his steps grow lighter! he is once more the'Dorian of old; he willâ€"he mustâ€" bc, of necesity, utterly happy with her beside him during all the life that is to come. Alas that human hopes should prove so often vain! CHAPTER XXVII. "‘Tis now the summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, thou h sorrow long has washed them.”-" 6 Gaiiiester. The weddingâ€"a very private one-â€" goes off charmingly. The day breaks calm, smilin ly, rich with beauty. "Lovely are trim opening eyelids of the morn." Georgie, in her wedding garments, looking like some pale white lily, is in- deed “pzissiii r fair." She is almost too pallid, but the very pallor adds to the extreme purity and childishness of her beauty, and makes the gazer confident “there's nothing ill can dwell in such a~templc." and unmistakably content, Seems a very fit guardian for so fragile a flower. Of course the marriage gives rise to much conimcnt in the country, Brans- combo being direct heir to the Sartoris title, and iiesumably the future pos- sessor of all his uncle's private wealth. That he should marry a mere govern- ess, a positive nobody, horrifics the county, and makes comfortable shoulders and give way to more malicious talk than is at all nec- essary. With some, the pretty bride is an adventuress, and, indeed,â€"in the Very softest of soft whispers, and with a gentle rustling of indignant skirts,â€" not altogether as correct as she might be. There are a few who choose to beâ€" licve her of good family, but "awfully out-iit-elbows, don’t you know;" a still fewer who declare she is charming all round and fit for anything; and hardly one who does not consider her, at heart, fortunate and designing. One or two rash and unsophisticated girls venture on the supposition. that perhaps, after all, it is a real bona fide love-match, and make the still bolder suggestion that a governess may have a heart as well as other people. But those silly children are pushed out of sight, and very sensibly pooh~poohed, and are told, with a little. clever laugh. that they “are quite too sweet, and quite dear babies. and they must try and keep on thinking all that sort of rctty rubbish as long as ever they can. t is so successful, and so very taking nowadays." Dorian is regarded as an infatuated, misguided young man, who should never have been allowed out. without a keep- er. Such a disgraceful flinging away of opportunities, and birth, and post~ tion. to marry a woman so utterly out of his own set! No wonder his poor uncle refused to be present at the cere- mony,-â€"actually ran away from home to avoid it. And-soâ€"by the bye, talk~ in of running away, what was that affair about that little girl at the mill? Wasn't Branscombe’s name mixed up with it unpleasantly? Horrid low, you know, that sort of thing, when one is found out. The county is quite pleased with its own gossip. and drinks innumerable cups of choicest tca over it, out of the very dninticst Derby and Sevres and "Wooster," and is actually merry at. the expense of the newly wedded. Only a . few brave men among whom is ‘ Mr. Kennedy, who is staying with the Luttrels. give it as their opinion that Bransrombe isa down- right lucky fellow and has got the hand- somest wife in the neighborhood. Dorian, tall and handsome, [ it shrug its. censure. and open protest, are literally inundated with cards from all sides“ The morning after her return. Georgie drives down to Gowran, to see Clarissa. and tell her "all the news."es she de- clares in her first breath. "It was all too enchanting," she 583's. in her quick, vivacious way. "I enjoyed it 50. All the lovely old churches. and the lakes. and the bones of the dear saints. and everything. But I missed you. do you know,â€"ycs, really, without flattery, I mean. iEvery time I saw alll'thing specially desirable. I felt I wanted you to see it to. And on'one day I told Dorian I was filled With a mad longing to talk to you once again, and I think he rather jumped at the suggestion of coming home forthwith; andâ€"why, here we are." _ "I can't say how glad I am that you are here," says Clarissa. "It was too dreadful without you both. I am so .de- lighted you had such a really good time and were so happy." "Happylâ€"I am quite that," says Mrs. Branscombe, easily. "I can always do just what I please, and there is nobody "And you have Dorian to love," says Clarissa, a. little gravely, she hardly knows why. It is perhaps the. old cur- ious want in Georgia's tone that has again impressed her. “Love, love. love," cries that young woman, a little impatiently. "Why are people always talking about love? Dons it really make the world go round. ‘I wonder? Yes. of course I have Dorian to be fond of now." She rises im- puISively, and, walking to one of the Windows gazes out upon the gardens be- neath. “Come,” she says, stepping on to the veranda; "come out with me. I want to breathe your flowers again." Clarissa follows her, and together they wander up and down among the heavy roses and drooping lilies that are lan- guid with heat and sleep. Here all the children of the sun and dew seem to grow and flourish. “No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, N0 arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be found To bud out faire and throwe her sweete .smels all arownd.” 'Dorian, coming up presently to meet his Wife and drive her home, finds her and Clarissa laughing gayly over one of Georgie's foreign reminiscences. He walks smslowly over the soft green grass that they do not hear him until he is quite close to them. “Ah! you have come, Dorian," says Dorian's wife, with a pretty smile, "but too soon. Clarissa and I haven't half said all we have to say yet." “At; least I have said how glad I am to have you both back,” says Clarissa. "The whole thing has been quite too awfully dismal without you. But for Jim and papa I should have gone mad, or something. I never put in such a horrid time. Horace came down occa- Sionally_,â€"very occasionally,â€"out of sheer pity. I believe; and Lord Sartoris was a real comfort, he visited so often; but he has gone away again." "Has he]? I suppose our return fright; owed him, says Branscombe, in a. pe- culiar tone. v _"1 have been telling Clarissa how we tired of each other long before the right time," says Georgie, airily. “and how we came home to escape being bored to death by our own dullness." Dorian laughs. "She says what she likes," he tells Clarissa, "Has she yet put on the dig- nified stop for you? It would quite sub- due any one to see her'at the head of her table. Last night it was terrible. She seemed to grow several inches tall- er, and looked so severe that long be- fore it was time for him to retire, Mar- tin was on the verge of nervous tears. I could have wept for him, he looked so disheartened." “l'm perfectly certain Marlin adores me," says Mrs. Branscombe, indignantly, “and I couldn't be severe or dignified to save my life. Clarissa, you must for- give me if remove Dorian at once, before he says anything worse. He is qutte untrustworthy. Good-by, dear- Iest, and besure you come up to, see me 'to-morrow. I want to ask you ever so many more questions.” I “Cards from the duchcss for a gard- gin-party,” says Georgie, throwing the invitations in question across the break- fastâ€"table to her husband. It is quite a week later, and she has almost set- tied down into the conventional mar- ried woman, though not altogether. To now to scold or annoy me in any \\’a)'-”' l is engrossed. being deep in his entries it contains. . “Dorian. do put down that_ abomin- able paper," exclaims she again, impa- tiently, leaning her arms on the table, and regarding him anxiously from the right Side of the froward urn that still in! come in her way. “\Yhnt shall I wear 8‘" “It can't matter," says Dorian: “you look lovely in everything. so it is im- possible for you to make a mistake." ,"It is a. pity you can't talk sense,"â€" reproachfully. Then, with a glance lit- orally heavy with care, "There is that flea-green satin trimmed with Cliant~ l 5.... . “I forget it," says Dorian. professing the very deepest interest, “but I know it. is all things." "No, it isn't: I can't bear the sleeves. Then"-â€"discontcntcdlyâ€"-"ihere is that velvet." "The very thing." enthusiastically. (To Be Continued.) FACTS ABOUT CUBA. They Show Some Phases of the Spanlsh Oppression. . The state in Cuba does not support a single public library. In 1894 Spain exacted from Cuba taxes amounting to $26,000,000. Before the rebellion editors were banished from Cuba without. the form- ality of a trial. . .In 1891 350 Spanish officials were in- dicted in Cuba for fraud, but not one was punished. Cuba has the right to dispose of 2.75 per cent of its revenues. Spain at- tends to the other 97.25 per cent. Cuba has fifty-four ports. many of them in a labyrinth of keys and sand bars, but only nineteen lighthouses. In the Spanish parliament consisting of 430 deputies, Cuba never has had more IEgan six and usually only three mcm~ rs. On 100 kilograms of cassiinere imâ€" ported in Cuba there is a. duty, if the cloth is a Spanish product, of-$l5.~l7; if foreign, $300. - Spain pays bounties for sugar ro- duced in its own land, but levies a uty of $6.20 on each 100 kilograms of Cuban sugar sent across the sea. Although millions are wasted in sup- porting a civil and military bureaucrâ€" ary in Cuba, the appropriation for the administration of justice never has reached $500,000. . Before the present revolution Spain restricted the right of suffrage to 53,- 000 native Cubans, out of a total native population of 1,600,000, the ridiculous proportion of 3 per cent. Spain allows Cuba. only $182,000 a year for public instruction and makes the University of Havana a source of profit to the state. EVen Hayti spends more than Cuba for the education of its people. _ There is a. a Spanish tax in Cuba. on the introduction of machinery used in the production of sugar, :1. lieavy_tax on the railroads for transporting it, a third tax called industrial duty and a fourth on exportation. Interest on Cuba's debt to Spain,sad;- died on the island without its knowlâ€" edge, imposes a burden: of $9.79 on each inhabitant. Not a cent of this debt of $100,000,000 has been spent in Cuba to advance the work of improvement; and civilization. RAPID PHOTOGRAPHY. - An Exposure _of a 'l‘liousnndfli Part of a Second. . Rapid photography is responsible for the correction of many errors, and with the latest improvements there is alâ€" most no limit to the rapidity with which pictures may be taken. Thus the flight of a. projectile has been fastâ€" ened on a. sensitive plate, the exposure being probably about one-thousandth of a second. This picture was taken by Prof. E. Mach, of Prague, who suc- ceeded not only in showing the projec- tile proper'upon his negative,‘ but he also shows the air currents and the [condensing of photograph would prob- he entirely married_that is. sedate and ably explain the luminous tail on com- sageâ€"is quite beyond Georgie. ing her, and spoiling the flavor of her its crispness. She peeps at Dorian from behind the huge. silver urn that; seeks jealously to conceal her from view, and says, plaintively,â€" now some worrying thought is oppress-l ,space upon a' larger scale. tea; her kidney loses its grace' her loaSt is air occasioned by the flight of the Just ets and on meteors, which are nothing but projectiles hurled through infinite Another very interesting photograph lcaden ball. A current of air is divert- ed: to all sides at an angle of about 45 degrees to the axis of the projectile, "Is the duchess a very grand person. i and the whirlwind in its wake shows Dorian 9" “She is an awfully fat person, at all events," says Dorian, cheerfully. "I never saw any indhat line. She‘d lake :1 prize, ithink. She is not a bad old thing whcn lin a good temper, but that is so painful- ily seldom. “in you got" I “I don't kn0\\',"â€"doubtfully. Plain- ly, she. is in the. lowest depths of despair. "Iâ€"â€"Iâ€"ihink I would rather not." "I think you had better, darling.” "But you said just. now she was al- ways in a bad temper." "Always? Oh. no: I am sure. I couldn't have said that. And, besides, she won't. go for you. you know, own if she is. The duke generally comes in for it. And by this time be rather en- ; and the e :particlcs of dust and other atoms car- ried in the atmosphere, driven with an acnergctic motion in the road which the one who could beat her i projectile has just left, and. following I . it With almost the same rapidity. l‘his ‘ihat of a. salmon photographed in the loot of 'umping up-streain over a water- fall 0 over 0 feet. This picture was .also taken in an infinitely short time. . amateur photographer who} ‘took it should certainly be congratu- glated upon such an unusual achieveâ€" : ment. l _.. , HO\V TO DRY \VE’I‘ SHOES. When without overshoes you are l I ioys it, I suppose,â€"as custom makes us i all surface water and mud from the’ love most things." I'l'r‘Bvut, Dorian, really now, what is She i e "I can't say that: it is a tremendous 1 shoes. 'l'hcn, while still wet, rub them well with kerosene oil on the furry side of canton flannel. Sol. them aside question. I don't know what she is; I until partially dry, then apply the kero- only know what. she is not." "\Vhat, then f" "'Eashioned 50' slendcrly, young and so fair,” quotes be, promptly. At which they both laugh. "If she is an old dowdy," says Mrs. Branscombe, somewhat. irreverently, "I sha'n’t be one scrap afraid of her, and I do so want to go right over the castle. Somebodyâ€"Lord rAlfredâ€"would take me. I dare say. Yes,"â€"with sudden an- imationâ€""let us go." "I shall ison Lord Alfred present- ly.” says rian. calmly. "Nothing shall. prevent me. Your evident de- termination to spend your day with him has sealed his doom. Ver well: send an answer. and let us span a‘nioe long happy day in the country.’ " " \'e are always spending that, aren't “'0?” says Mrs. Branscombe, adorably. 'Il‘hen. \gith a sigh. “Dorian. “hat shall wear " II» doesn't answer. For the moment lfore applying French kid ! ,__ _, -_- r... ...._ .ww- -m... .-..._...._._ ___. _...- - ». YOUNG Fons? GAMES FOR CHILDREN. ‘ Ethel and Bessie consider";\unt Lu" a. veritable gold mine. as she knows or invents many new games for them. The last one which she taught them is one which she says she has played at grownup parties in the city. She calls it "What I had for Supper." Aunt Luâ€"Ethcl, what did you have for supper? Ethelâ€"J hiid beefstenk. Bessieâ€"l had beefstcuk and potatoes. Aunt Luâ€"I had beefsteak. potatoes and pickles. Ethelâ€"l had beefsteak, potatoes, pick. les and bread. Bessieâ€"I had beefsteak. potatoes, pickles, bread and hot females. So it goes on. each player adding an articles to the list, which must be re- peated exactly in order every time. Whenever a player leaves out or iiiis~ pliices an article she is ‘out,’ the player with the best. memory comes off victor. Another of Aunt Lu’s plays is called “What Do I See 3" .Ethcl saysâ€"l see something that be- gins with .8. Then in turn each player guesses looking carefully about the room for articles beginning with the required letter. In this case Aunt Lu and Bessie guessed book, basket. button, banner, bookcase, bible, balloon, Bessie and board. Then Aunt Lu noticed the bow of the violin, and came off victor. It was her turn to give a letter and she said: I see something that. begins With A. Momma guessed the arch of the double doors, which was right. In this play it is not the. thing to givoup, but the players are expected to guess till the article is discovered. Mamma's button box furnishes much entertainment. Horses, cOWs, dogs, sheep. kangaroos and a whole. ineinigcrie of animals are found in it and fill many . a play hour. . These little maidens have been much interested in learning the names of the various stars and stcllzitions. Not long ago they called mamma into the sitting room to see what they had made. On the floor, done in buttons. were rcpre- scntations of the principal constellations now Visible. The bi dipper sailed around near the doubc doors, and Orion was in his place near the south Windows; the dogs, the hare. the bull and the seven sisters were between, and :Venus as a large brass button shown in_ her glory. _ It was a novel play and might be carried out by making outlines of any familiar objects, such as ani- mals, houses or plants. Children will originate many variations if started at this game. Another favorite play is with spools. They have saved fifty, and with these thcy_.p.lzi.y battle. The spools are even- ly divnled and then taken to opposite sides of the room. They are then placed in ranks. Sometimes the rule is to make them touch one another, at other. times not. The big spools are the coin- manders and stand at regular intervals a_ few inches in front of their men, and Silk spools are drummer boys. A small marble. is ammunition, and with this each Side shoots in turn. Every spool knocked over is ii dead man and is placed. at one side in the. dead pile. Sometimes a spool is knocked over but turns up on end again. it is then only wounded and may be returned to the ranks. At first; it is easy to kill the men but as the play progresses leaving gaps in the ranks it becomes more difficult and grows quite exciting to- ward the last. The little drummer boys are hard to kill and therefore very desirable. I saw two gray haired ministers watch their boys play this game, and they laughed so hard at the bad shots that the boys dared them to do better. So down they got. on llll‘ll‘ knees and were. soon as excited as [his boys had been, and made quite as bad shots, in the amusement of the reel. of the grown- ups and the delight of the boys. It is a game of which boys do not soon wearyâ€"Marie Nanlz. A LONG NAME. Frau Emma Friedcrike Schneider is rather a long name, isn't it? Yet it belongs to a. wry little lady. She was a doctor who lived in Leipsio. What do you think this little woman doctored? “People,” you say; but you do not guess right. She did not doctor men and women, no? animals nor even plants, but she doctors dolls. "Did she give them medicine ’l" you ask. “Oh, no! ters. But she did use bandages, and she was a great surgeon. A surgeon, you know, is a doctor who inends brok- en bones. So whenever a doll broke :in arm or a lcg it. was carried to the doll div-tor, who mended that arm or lcg as neat as could be. .‘Soiiielinies a dolly woul'l lose her eye; then she must be carried to the doll doctor, who gave her a new mic. ()fli-n a little girl would sendâ€"l0 this doctor a doll with- out a head, and the, dolly would always . . r - - . - - r' . Icaught m the ram, carefully remove! 3,10 back to her inanima With a new 1 r=ad. I do not think the doctor gave the dolly any medicine to make a new ihmul grow; for, as [said before, she used no inediiiiic. But. come to think, 4 I lwlii-vc she (lid use one kind of inediâ€" cinc-â€"-il. was glii“. I wiin you could have visitml tho sum. They may the" be deposited in doll doctor's office, or rather her house. 5a moderatelv warm place and left to [dry gradually and thoroughly. dressing give illicm a final rubbing with the flannel, gslill slightly dam )encd with kerosene, and the bools wil be. soft and flexible as new kid and will be very little af- fected by their bath in the rain. AGE AND INFLU INCH. Be- 3 The most influential people in Europe; are old. Queen Victoria is nearly 77,l Lord Salisbury is 65, Prince Hohcnlohe l 3pm. which wag, mad” In,“ summer. a is 71. Count Galuchowsky, the new Aus- ltrian chancellor. is 65; Prince Lobanoff, .thc Russian chancellor, is 67; Sig. Crisâ€" l lpi, the. Italian premier i pe and Mr. Gladstone are 86, ‘ rince Bismarck is Bl. and! if! 77: thi‘. : it was cram full of dolls waiting to be treated. livery one of these dolls was either armless, li-gless, earless, nose- less or headless. This doctor would never mend any dolls but thosn who belonged in Lei )- sic. I am sorry to tell on that s e is now dead. [low the children must miss herlâ€"Alice May Douglas. --â€"~â€"-.-â€"-â€"â€"-â€"-â€" SILK TENTS FOR EXPLORATION. In line exploration of the Himalaya mountains in the Nsnga Pambat re~ h.-ighl of 20,000 feet was attained by line exploring party. The tents wore made of silk; they weighed but sixâ€" Im'n ounces aiiecc and formed warm ani comfortable shelters with but the minimum of weight to carry. She had no pills or pliis- .