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. . . . . ' ̂ ' . ' . , , v y _ I. VAN tlYKE, Editor a» i4 Ppbftik*;. tr.-.srwirov ~ A(CB.SnKl, ILLINOIS US - -' «tER AT LAS: '.• St KDGAR A. PO^ fhank heavens! the crisif»» Tho danger--is put, A«i>] the lingering illness &• , , Is oyer at last, '. jfcad the fever called "Livttjr i Is conquered at last. Sndly, I know ^L.. . I urn Bhorn of my stren{jW|» And JIO muticle I move < - As I lie at fall length 1 But no matter!--I fuel I am better at length. AadI rest so composed M»w, in ray lwl, That any beholder Mifilit, fancy me deiul-- ML lit. start at beholding nS% Thinking me dead. : The moaning and groaning--' • The sighing and sobbing-- A>*" qnietv'd now. V With that horrible throbbing At iheart: ah, that horribly jttoK^ible throbbing I Awl oh! of ail tortures. That torture the worst But abated--the terrible Torture of thirst For the napthaline river Of Passion accurst; I have drank of a water That qucnchos all thirst; Of a water that flows. With a lullaby sound,. . From a spring but a very few • IPeet under ground-- Itam a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my roo.n it is gloomy. And narrow my bed; For man never siejit ,. ' In a different bed; ' And, to sleep, you must slumbw In just such a bed. THE MYSTERY OF EASTHAMPTOW The time' htm come when I am at liberty to make public one of the strangest stories ever given to the world--a story so strange and so romantic that if it were not absolutely true it wonld -be pronounced unlikely to the verge of impossibility. Its most minute details have been known to me lor more than four years, but for sev­ eral reasons it has not been permitted DM until now to narrate them. f. 'V'i T. It was April, 1840, forty-five years ago. It was six years before the Mexi­ can War. Where San Francisco, with its 350,000 inhabitants, now stands, was then, and for nine years later, the little Mexican settlement of Verba Buena, whither a young man who wrote Two Years before the Mast went in a Boston •hip for hides. Denver, with its 50,000 inhabitants, was founded nineteen years after. We "make history" so fast in this country that forty-five years with us oonnt for more, indeed, in the world's progress "than a cycle of Cathay." In , this sleepy corner of Long Island, how-1 trail." ever, there has been precious little' me what he properly called "a very change for the better, and Easthampton j tantalizing letter." Said he, "I know qnented la summer <fey "city folks," cu­ riosity spread, and grew apace. Tho most strenuous efforts were mado to discover who John Wallace was. One man, bearing an old New York name, and since dead, had the ill grace to threaten him. He told him that the "census marshal" was coming, and that unless ho told that functionary just who he was he wonld be put in prison. After this in­ terview the late excellent Dr. Hunt­ ington fonnd the poor old gentleman in a pitiable state, and learned of the threat just made. "Give yourself no concern," sai l he. "The 'census marshal' has been hereu' He asked vonr name. I told him, an«^ he has gone." But on the night of the 30th or 31st of December, 1870, there came to the door a census marshal who could not be barred out, a messenger who brought at ouce a summons and a release. Mr. Wallace raised himself from his peaoeful pillow--there was not even time for him, Jike Colonel Newcome, to say "Adsum"--his head dropped, and his eighty-tirst year, his lonely life, and the year of our Lord 1870 came to an end together. One can almost fancy that eveu in the sol­ emn moment when his soul left the weary body there may have come to him a flash of satisfaction that he had baffled all the curious, intrusive dis­ turbers of his- peace. In the express-1 ive language of Shakespeare, "he died and made no sign." Often during his life, in the village he would come from the post-office holding a letter in his hand, and re­ mark, "This is from my lady friend, in Edinburgh." When he had passed away, Mrs. Huntington, with rare good taste and pathetic kindness, wrote a letter de­ scribing his last moment*. She addressed it to "Mr. Wallace's Lady Friend, Ed­ inburgh," and sent it through the chain of banks through which the old man's money had come. In due time a reply arrived--cold, formal, unsympa­ thetic. It was signed "Mr. Waitace's Lady Friend." n. "Who was Mr. Wallace?" I see the question in your eyes. I went to East­ hampton in the autumn of 1878, and did my best to find out I talked with Miss Cornelia Huntington (author of a charming little monograph anent East­ hampton and its ways in days gone by, celled "Sea Spray") and I should count a pilgrimage fruitful which gave me the pleasure of their acquaintance. I found them at the time of my last visit enjoying a green old age, loved and re­ spected by all. They told me much of great interest about Mr. Wallace, and among other things they spoke of find­ ing copies of his accounts (of charities in his native land) with the headings torn off. One had been carelessly torn, and on it I found a name. 1 sent this name with a mass of notes to my late accomplished friend Robert Mackenzie, Esq., of Dundee, Scotland, author of A History of the Nineteenth Century, and other interesting works. In a feW weeks he wrote me that he was "on the In a few weeks more he sent was a more important place than now in this month of April aforesaid. It was perhaps on just such a day is this-- the sea as blue, the air as clear, the sails of the old windmills as active-- that a high-bred, dignified gentleman, about fifty years of (age, walked up to ~,„$he little inn, followed bv an attendant. 3 -In pleasant voice, and with a Scotch accent, he asked if he could have ac­ commodations. The landlord looked at him with a certain hesitation. ^ "Is that man your servant;?" be *ked. , ; -v "He is," was the reply. " Well, he must §at at the same table jfsith you." " "1 shall conform to your customs regulations," was the smiling an- awer. . For five long years did this courtly , gentleman sleep in the cramped cham­ bers, breakfast, dine, and sup at the frugal board of this humble hostelry. Then he became an inmate --fortunate anough was he to find such good friends--of the home of the Hun tin g- , ton family, and in that substantial I house (it is the lourth from the old * Presbyterian Church, going south) he j spent about twenty-five years more. He was a man of marked piety and be­ nevolence, of charming manners and add ress, of extreme culture,,of rare so­ cial qualities. He had been the friend and associate of Jeffrey and the liter­ ary giants of his day. He had ample means, and remittances came to him through a chain of banks, ending in a well-known New York house, who de­ nied any knowledge of his personality «T belongings. He led a blameless, a lovely life, in this quiet town. He was the friend of aH, the comiorter of the afflicted, the lielper of the needy. Books and mag­ azines in large store came to him. He versified the Psalms and taught Latin to the l>oys. A blameless and lovely life indeed; but a martyrdom, a living death, one would have said, to a man of his tastes and antecedents. Think of it! He remained, an exile, in this town for nearly thirty-one years--from earJy in his fiftieth to the end of his eighty-first year. In all this time he never saw the face of a relative or an old friend. He went at first on Sun­ days to the Episcopal Church at Bag Harbor, seven miles distant, but he was instrumental in the building of the little one in Easthampton which we just passed; he contributed largely to its support, and he was made a lay reader, and for a long time conducted /the services himself. With the excep- „ J tion of this church-going at Sag Har­ bor, the only time in thirty-one years that this remarkable man passed the limits of the little village was on the Occasion of a single trip to Southamp­ ton, twelve miles distant. The servant,, • Scotch valet, went to the West, and •aarried. He made his appearance •f4 intervals, evidently to extort money from his old master. f During his entire life in Easthamp- " / fen this man successfully defeated ail attempts to discover his identitv. When he entered the little inn in April, 1840, the name he gave was John Wal­ lace; John Wallace he was to the end; 'ftud John Wallace is the name which ; ^rou will find, under a cross and anchor, On the plaiu white marble slab in that \ southern cemetery over which the old the mystery to the very bottom, but-- I may not tell your Not a little disappointed, I commu­ nicated this information to a circle of equally disappointed friends. One of them, a distinguished divine, told me that "it made his flesh creep like one of Wilkie Collins' stories." Then I went to Scotland? No--to Colorado, of all places in the world, and at the foot of Pike's Peak, in the summer of 1879, I found out all about the poor exile. As living persons are concerned in the manner of my discovery, I may not rightly publish the details thereof; but they are among the strongest happen­ ings of any life. Suffice it to say that on my return I held all the clews, proof, and facts in my hands, and that only now am I permitted to tell the truth about John Wallace. ra. Perhaps some of you know how distin­ guished and important a judicial officer is the High Sheriff of a great, Scotch county. Such distinguished and im­ portant officer was, in 18-iO, Sheriff W , resident of Edinburgh. He was a bachelor of 50 years of age. He was famed for his benevolence and his good works. He was the friend to the poor, the widow, and the orphan. His services to the State had earned him a public testimonial. He had "honor, love, obedience, troops of friends." He was a founder and ardent supporter of Sunday-schools. People flocked from cultured Edinburgh homes to hear his weekly addresses to the children. One day, at the height of his fame, there was made against him the subtle charge of a grave and mysterious crime. At 6 o'clock in thfe evening the Lord High Advocate went to a mutual friend. "Go to Sheriff W at once," said he, in sad and measured tones, "and tell him that when I go to my office at 10 o'clock to-morrow morning a war­ rant will issue for his arrest." That night Sheriff W died out of Scotland. He had just time to say to a friend that he was not guilty of more than an indiscretion, but that he could not face even the shame of that. His disappearance is mourned in Ed­ inburgh after all these long years, and tears come to the eves of old friends when it is mentioned, The man who so patiently bore the long crucifixion of a self-imp^ped exile, the man who en- dured the penance of thirty-one years among strangers in a strange land, the man who read the beautiful service in the little Easthampton Church, was no John Wallace. Under the white marble tablet in the old Easthampton cemetery sleeps the scholar, the great jurist, the courtly gentleman, the humble Chris­ tian--Sheriff W .--A. A. Hayes, in Harper's Magazine. The Judge and the Jury. Judge Sanford loves a good story, of which his telling this one of the jury at the recent term of the court is proof: Meeting a man recently while walk­ ing in the streets of Hartford, he was somewhat abruptly but cordially greeted, when the following conversa­ tion occuirad: "Don't yotrkno JT me, Judge?" "No, sir. I am sorry to say that I have not that honor." "Why, Judge, I was on the jury in Litchfield when the -- case was tried, ["On® London 4e*lMr la bird* received, when the foabto* jjws aft its height, a single consign­ ment of 88,000 humming birds, and an­ other at one time veceived 30,000 aquatio birda and 300,000 pair of wing*."} Think what a price to pay, | f Faces so bright and gay, .if, Justforahatl *; > f Flower* uuvisited, mornings unsung, > BiMUlges hare of the wings that crenwong-- Bared just lor that 1 Think cit tho others, too, Others and mothers, too, Bright-Eyes in hat I near you no motlu r-proan floating In air. Hear vou no little moan--bmlltng s despair-- Somewhere, for that? FT / ; Caught 'mid some mother-wort^ ^ • r f by a hunter Turk, Just for your hat I Pletny of mother-heart yet ill the world: All the more wings to tear, carefully twirled-- Women want that! i . h Oh, but the shame of IV '>f Oh, but the blame of Priceofahat! *:'?•:1 *1 s' : » .Ttlgt for a jauntiness brightening the This is your halo, O faces so nweet-- Death ; and lor that! -- W. C. Gannett, in THE ONE GKAV HAIR. BT WALTER SAVAGE LANDOB. The wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies. And lovo to hear them ton; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one-- . ... . Scime in his youth, and more when he grew old I never sat among » • The choir of wisdom's aOBg, But pretty lieslovodl" As much as any king-- . When youth was on the wing, And (must It then be.told) when youth had qnlte gone by. „ Alas! and I have not .i'v- The pleasant hour forgdfc^ • * » Wht u one pert lady sfUtl, v "O Lundor, 1 am quite ? ; K;f Bewildered with affright • I have (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head 1" Another, more benign. Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended she had found That one, and twirled it round. Fair aa She was, she never was so fair, ' windmill watches. To the exce'i&ht ma(*e s<? muc^ talk." family withsfrhom he lived, and whose\ T ^member the trial very well, and fondness to him while on p&rth on.i 1 remember this, that the decision of the jury was simply outrageous." "Outrageous, Judge! Outrageous? fondness to "him while on earth and ^ .. tender regard for his memory are alt f?ether lovely, he, waking or sleeping, - .fitalwart or failing, jnrtEe^T^eae-intuua- >'" ' bvy of three decades, gave no word. IRhe inhabitants of the village, his neighbors and l>eneficiaries, accepted Ibis kindness and constructed theories about him. With the perverseness of "ipoor human nature, they constructed h them to his detriment. He was a j*r>" Bishop of the English Church--"an­ other good man gone wrong." He was a .a murderer. He was--Heaven knows -what he was not! As .years passed by, and -the #UM* was more and mere in- What do you mean? ~ I tell you this: We did not care a continental for what you said. We decided the case, as we ought, according to law!"--Norwich Bulletin. IN forty years the mean duration of human life in Lngland ha^ gained two years among males and nearly three and one-half years among femalts. A WIDOW in Wilton, Connecticut, says she never intends t<u marry again. She , is LITTLE MISS MOYI "This, I suppose, must be the place." A lady descended from a carriage drawn up in front of ihis great gateway open­ ing to the grouiids of an imposing man­ sion up the Hudson. This lady was neither old nor young; she appeared to be well cared for; she was well dressed --equipped from tip to too in a pros­ perous neatness and womanliness. She surveyed the handsome grounds "It's a good place, but it must cost a good deal to keep it up," she murmured, critically. Tiuly, it was a handsome home; the soft forenoon sunlight lay on the grass of the lawn, on the lilies and the still water in the great stone basin where a pipe dripped. It was delightful; two or three statues, pieces of gray, weather- beaten marble stood at agreeable dis­ tances, and a sun-dial, evidently not in­ digenous to the place, graced a sunny grass-plot. Presently this appreciative visitor stopped, and, turning, addressed some one who had kept a seat in the carriage. "Yon can stay where you are, my dear, or you enn cpme and look about in the ground. They are very nice. As for me, I shall go al once ta <3abriel." She passed beyond the gatewry, where two large stone heads grinned at her from the high arch. "Heathenish!" muttered the lady, "but, then, what could'you expect from a painter?" She paused, for just then a man, a young, handsome man, came out from a sidewalk shaded with pink kalmia and confronted her. He had a fine mass of ruddy hair falling to his shoulders; he wore a velvet morning coat, and he was smoking a cigarette; that seemed to be his only occupation. The strange lady regarded him a moment. "Ah," she said; and then, smiling a litt e, "I know the look; you've got the family look, after all. You must be my nephew, Gabriel Hertford!" The young man doifed his cap in courtesy. "That is my name, at your service; if I am your nephew, then you must be my aunt, but I beg pardon for not knowing your name." '• Ah, yes, 1 forgot! I am Miss Pen- field -- Mary Penfield. I came this morning to look you up as soon as I heard of that shameful business. 1 am sorry for you." "Ah," said the young man, slowly, "you are very good to remember mo; you are the first one to say you are sorry for me!" "I dare say; nobody cares, although everybody talks about it; but, then, there are a great many others. I call it a great shame that one man can fix things so that his falling will drag hundreds of others with him. This man, Gould, ought to be put in jail!" Miss Pen field looked about her. Ga­ briel had flung his cigarette away, and was looking at his visitor in what seemed to be a mixture of perplexity and aniusement. "2liis must be a verv expensive place to (keep up; it must take a lot of me^fey." /'Yes," said Gabriel, evidently, fol­ lowing as best he could where his aunt led, "it takes a good deal, but since my fkther died it has rather 'run down. My being alone, you know " "Well, I don't' suppose you will try to keep it up any longer, even as a bachelor's establishment. You will have to go to work now to earn vonr own living. You like to wojrk, I hope, Gabriel?" "Yes, I like to work." Miss Penfield smiled rather 'grimly. "I have coiye to offer you a situation. You know I own all the land bstween the two rivers out there"--she spoke as if she thought Gabriel must have a map of the section where she dwelt "out there" before his eyes habitually -- "and I am always on the lookout for a good overseer--a good man to man­ age. There are the cattle--such work as I have, losing thousands of dollars I every year. It's my firm conviction that Baker, the man I have now, sleeps all day and plays poker all night. You are young and strong; yon are of my kin, althcugh I must say I never ap­ proved of my sister marrying a poor man like your father--ju6t a painter." Perhaps you don't like painting yourself, my dear aunt," said Gabriel Hertford, softly, and with a perfectly serious face. "Oh, I like paint in its place--on the fences and outbuildings: catch a poor bit of color on my barns! But come; are you going to accept my offer?--are you going with me? Mako up your mind. 1 shall go on the evening ex­ press." GaWiel put his hands in his pockets and stood looking at his aunt in some perplexity. He was evidently trying to say something suitably. "The salary is good," said the lady, abruptly. "For you I will make it 4200 more than the present man receives." She named a sum. Gabriel said to himself that she was sufficiently gener- pus. ' • •**My dear aunt," he said, aloud to her. your jfrwt foodaeii . yegr inexprisas' . r ible kindness and thonghtfulness de*|to serve a far' better " They had been, while talking, sauntering up and down, side by side, across this lovely Eleasnance. Gabriel, in the middle of is speech, stopped. "Who in heaven's name ia that? Where did that vision come from?" For there, before them, right in the center of a big bed of lilies--tiger lilies and sweet-williams and micrnon- ette, stood a young girl--a tall, beauti­ ful figure in gray silk drese and mantle, a great feathered hat over her lovely browB, and a silver chain about her neck and waist, shining in the sun. Across her long, gray-gloved arm was laid a big stem of lilies--in the manner of angels bearing palms. The noble innocence of look and at­ titude weie charming; it was a vision, a medhvval picture put there in Ga­ briel's garden for profane eyes to look at and be healed. "Where in Heaven's name did that lovely vision come from ?" " Who ?--where ?" Miss Penfield gazed about her. "Oh, that is my niece, Moy--Moy Farrars; she lives with me. I brought her on this jour­ ney for a change, poor thing! She has not been well!" The kindled fire had not died out of Gabriel Hertford's face; bis brows re­ mained flushed. "As you were saying, my dear aunt, in your goodness, I must work--yes. I will go with you; I will try to serve you well." A groom in livery came up the car­ riage walk, leading a young colt. "Send some of the fellows about to tell Saunders to put up things for a {"onrney. I am going away. Things to ast for a long stay." "My goodness!" Miss Penfield stared; "is that the way you do? How will you manage about the house? You take things somewhat cool, I mnst say." "Ah, the house--that is already fur­ nished with an occupant--an old fellow With his wife, you see, they do things quickly in these cases. I have only to go " "Well,I declare!" Miss Penfield gasped, "to go and leave everything, my poor^ boy 1 I am glad I thought to come io^ J you; my place is not so fine as this, but I guess I am about as well off. You don't catch me putting my money in the bank just for sake of losing it. Moy, child, come!" Is this my cousin, too?" Gal riel asked, looking at the fair vision with the won­ derful depth of still sweetness in he r eyes, standing there with her white lil­ ies across her arm. No, she is not your cousin; she is-- well, its no matter what she is." Gabriel was capable of reading a meaning between words sometimes; in this he fancied that his aunt had meant to express: "She's nothing to you. sir!" That one year of his lifo passed at Miss Penlield's home, called by her the Bowerie, was an experience Ga­ briel Hertford never forgot or under­ rated. It wajpSnTs^ucation-J^BOO acres, all clear, jtolling j&iiivsoft flowing river je^nd noble forest. The wild, glad life'suited his s trong, poetic nature; the long gallop from place to place; the gusty wind in his ears; the voices of men at work; the skies, above him; the grass below him. To Gabriel's surprise, Barker, the man whom he had superseded, staid on in Miss Pen field's employ; he had ac­ cepted an inferior post with a scant salary, and Gabriel was not slow to perceive that the man was doing him­ self an injustice filling it; the fact was patent that David Barker was a scholar; he was a man of splendidly developed powers, of keen, flashing wit and proud temper. Why was he staying there, thns ? Within six weeks G abrjel flattered himself he had found out two things, for a mysterious handwriting came to flow along the walls and writo. First, David Barker was in love with Moy. Second, Miss Penfield was afraid of David Barker; she did not wish to of­ fend him, but Bhe wished to get rid of him. For Gabriel was witness to a scene that moved him profoundly. He was sitting in the deep window of the morning-room where Miss Penfield's desk was, and he was looking over some accounts while waiting for his mistress; the curtain dropped, hid him from view, and he did not look out when Barker entered. Just in that moment's pause and silence an oppo­ site door opened to admit Miss Pen- field. With a little murmur the lady came forward to DaviJ, handing him an open letter. / "Just read that, David," she ^giu, rather exultantly. •»- With a quiet look he read the letter, and then returned it to Miss Penfield. "Yes, its a very grand thing," he said. Miss Penfield turned pale. "You--you will accept the -- the chance, won't you? You w.n't let such an offer pass V" "No; I shall not accept il!* "Oh, why-- why not?" "Because I wish to stay here.** "To stay here? Oh, David, it's no placecfor you. Go--where you can do better." Then she clasped her hands together. "I beseech you to go and leave us in peace!" The man laughed out aloud--a long, bitter laugh. ^ "Yon want me to go so much ? Well, I will go on one condition--that Moy goes with me! Give "mo Moy for my wife! You tell me to go to where I can do better. Miss Penfield!" His words were like iron missiles dropped in Marv Penfield's heart. "Tell me where that place is where can 1 do better than on my own land ?--for this is mine. I own the Bowerie; my title is older than yours; I have got it, proved and sure. But"--he advanced toward her; his words hung over her like a threaten­ ing lash--"I'll destroy it--as sure as there is the blue sky above us, I'll de­ stroy it in your sight; I'll give up every scrap of title, if vou'il give me Mov." He stopped, white with passion. Miss Penfield stood with her hands covering her bowed face. The silence was ter­ rible; it seemed to beat about the.se two actors like waves of a heavy sea rnnning over them. Gabriel sat silent; he did not dare to stir now; his great fear was that he should be discovered. Finally Miss Pentield looked up. "Moy, give you Moy ?" she murmured, wonderingly. "Why, man, the child does not love you." "Nevermind; I've love enough for two. I'll teach her to love me." The words seemed coarse, but there was hot fever in the tone. Miss Penfield at this lifted her drooped head; some spark of proud temper lit her eye; she straightened her tall form. "Moy, ray little fair Moy ? You will give me the Bowerie if I give you Moy ?" She had this while been carrying In her hand a beautiful, costly trifle. With strong fingers she now fore it through Ha, straight aorots, from edge ,j;complete. «re is the eohtraet!" she said, in her prond contempt, and she dropped the pieces on the floor at David Bark­ er's feet. The matter rested there , (or a time, and time went by, weeks and months; but the look of pain deepening in Miss Penfield's face gro.% at last more thair Gabriel could bqter. Everybody wq$w dered at the ohango in the mistress. It Beemed to Gabniel that he had lived through it jnst because Moy came and went like the rain and sweet light and dew of heaven about the house; their "little Moy," "little Miss Moy." "My dear auntH" said Gabriel, one evening, dropping ,ton the floor by her side as they sat about the great log fire--"dear aunt. I wish you wouldn't look like that. Cry, for Heaven's sake, cry if you must, but don't look like that!" , Miss Penfield put her hand on the mass of ruddy hair resting against her. "You are a good boy," she said, gently; her thin face quivered. '•I wish I could help yony" Gabriel went on, entreatingly. "Tell me your trouble; let mo try and help you; let me share it!" , "Tell you? Soon there Jwill bono need of my telling; all the world will know it. Oh, but it's wicked!" She stopped in her wild words, for a fiercer storm of the winter elements raged without. A great gust of icy wind struck the door and shook it fiercely. The windows rattled in their stout frames. They could hear the wild toss of moaning tree-tops; the creak of shattered boughs, the sough of creeping, shuddering, flying winds. Moy came and knelt on the other side of Miss Penfield; her look was like that of a spirit. "I am afraid," she whispered, "there is something dreadful out there. I can hear it walk, it steps lightly, but it comes." "Hush, child!" said Miss Penfield, angrily; "what are you raving about?" She seemed to listen to some sound. "I wonder where David Barker is? Ah, what's that?" Then came a low whine, a scratching at the outer door. "It's Fleet. I had not missed him before--strange?" She spoke of the huge house-dog whose place was usual­ ly of an evening before the fire at her feet. "Ah, there he is again; let him in, please, Gabriel. How the storm beats the door in." Gabriel moved to obey; he felt strangely reluctant--a voice seemed to cry to him. "Stay!" He was holding the door in his hand, anxious to let in as little of the drift as possible, when he felt himself flung backward. Some terrible thing shot forward and precipitated itself against him. He staggered down under the blow. He struggled heroically. He was conscious cf a thunderous weight on his chest, of foaming jaws at his throat, of huge claws at his breast, and hot breath burning him. Still he' would not die; he had heard cries, and now there was another sound, the voice of a cherub floating out of heaven, where God is: . "Save him, save him!" , Moy was there; her slender girl's arm was between his throat and the wolfs jaw. Mpy's little hands were striving to drag the wild beast away. Must she die, too? "'Ware there!" cried a calm* voice outside, and the splittering crack of a rifle-shot was heard/ Gabriel sat up, dizzily striving to peer through the smoke of storm and powder. "Moy!" he said, hoarsely. A face looked in the shattered win­ dow; then David Barker entered the room. He leaned his rifle against the wall, and, stooping, lifted Moy from the floor. "The ball went through her arm," he said, quietly. "I had to risk it. There was no waiting; but its nothing serious." He pushed the golden hair back from the white, still cheeks, and sighed as he bent over her; he had placed her on the lounge where Miss Penfield was kneeling, administering tender cares and caresses. 'vYou wouldn't give her to me, thus I give her back to you, and I'm not a generous man," said David to Miss Pen- field. "Is she dead ?" Gabriel asked hoarse­ ly ; he staggered up, lying against the wall; he was blind and dizzy. "It w{ts like a spirit floapng past when/gtie came to help me. Did she go straight on to another world ?" "I am here," said a naw.effear voice from that other world so far from him, across the room whe^e love was. "So yotrtrfe^dearlunt," i said Gabriel, "we are going to live our one life to­ gether. After all, I'm fit for nothing but painting. Moy says she's fit for nothing but an artist's life. We're go­ ing on a tramp through Europe first, then we're going to work." You poor things," cried Miss Pen- field; "and I've not a penny to offer you; to talk of trampiag." "We don't want any money," said Moy, in love's new voice. "We're going back to the old home," Gabriel said. "And oh, I was going to mention, I forgot to tell Moy, too, it was all a mistake about the money. I never lost any. I have got all I ever had." "Well I declare--never lost any!" "No; it was all a mistake; it was an­ other person with the same name as mine." L "Why didn't you tell)me ?--you ought to have told me," saia Miss Penfield, coldly. "Ah, but you seemed so like a saint, dear aunt, coming to me in that way that morning, with yonr generous offer." Gabriel took his aunt's hand and lift* ing it, kissed it softly. "And I--but Moy came among my posies. I wanted to be where she was, so I let you be where she was, so I let you be deceived. Forgive me--love us." "Well, I am sorry I can't give Moy something. I can't say you've done any great things here for me, nor do I be­ lieve you'll make much out of your painting stuff." "You'll work all the same, won't you?" said the love voice at Gabriel's shoulder. "Will work and do good." "Ah, my angel! Yes, do you! You'll see, aunt, what I can do when 1 paint Moy. I shall make good a picture of her standing with the lilies across her arm, and every home shall know her face, every devout heart shall look on her likeness as something sweet to say prayers before." "Ah, if you're poing to begin by spoil­ ing her," said Miss Penfield, turning away; her heart was f-ore^--they would leave her, these lovers, and, she feared, the Bowerie was lost to her. * * * • * * There came a morning when Gabriel and Moy went away from the Bowerie, man and wife. Love go with the young lovers; do good for all,, be ye, too; happy. Miss Penfield stood looking after them along the irfj they went. She lilt atom end fit «t «aa»;it was long sinoe she had h«*rd from Dairid Bark­ er; where was he? what new/blow was preparing? "Shall we throw old sh^ss after them?" said a roice, at her shoulder. "It s a sign there'll be another wedding soon." * v "I don't want another jreddin*." g>aid Miss Penfield, tartly, as she slow? $y faced him; she disdained to show surpnpe. "Alii David Barker smiled signifi­ cantly. "I have had a chance to sell the Bowerie," he said lightly. \ "Yes? I'll get out of your way at once," answered Miss Penfield, putting her hands in the pockets of her ruflled white apron to hide their trembling. "You needn't, I'm going to offer it to you." "I never take gifts." "Not even me--won't you take me?" Miss Penfield glanced at him keenly. "It's been a hard riddle to read; vou did not guess it right," said David Bar­ ker, with a smile that made his dark face tender and supplicating. 0 Miss Penfield looked over about her. Green wood and fertile field, river, and rolling plain, she loved them well--the old Bowerie--oh, she loved it. "Well. I guess I'll take you, Mr. Barker!" But it was the Bowerie she took I Two Problems In Gastronomies. In a weaving mill near Manchester, where the ventilation was bad, the pro­ prietor caused a fan to be mounted. The operators, instead of thanking their employer, made a formal com­ plaint that the ventilator had increased their appetites, and, therefore, entitled them to corresponding increase in wages. By stopping the fan a part of the day the ventilation and voracity Qf the establishment were brought to a medium standard, and the complaints ceased.. The operatives' wages would but just support them; any additional demand by the stomach could only be answered by drafts upon their backs, which were by no means in a condition to answer them. In Edinburgh a club was provided with a dinner in a well-ventilated apartment, the air being perfumed as it entered, imitating in succession the fragrance of the lavender and the orange flower. During the dinner the members enjoyed themselves as usual, but were not a little surprised at the announcement of the provider, that they had drank three times as much wine as he had usually provided. The perfume of the air was the cause of the increased appetite for wine. Ail Bight, Tliank You. A girl about 14 years of age Was passing through the Central market when one of the stand-keepers called to her and added: "Come up here, poor thing, while I console you a bit So your mother is married again?" "Yes'm." "Went and married a man, I sup­ pose ?" "Yes'm." "Ah--um! And it's a step-father you have, eh? Dear, dear,'but how I pity yon!" "What for, ma'am?" "For the way you'll be treated, dear child." "I guess not--not this eve! Tho first thing I did with him was to get.up a row and break one of his fingers with a club. Ma'am set in agin me and I burned up the deeds to the farm and >let forty hogs into the 'tatar-field." "Do tell! And yon don't have to put up with any abuse?" "Not a whit, ma'am. I'm all right, thank you. It's the step-father you want to weep over as soon as he can limp to town."--Detroit Free Press. Badly Scared. Kosciusko Murphy is one of the most adroit liars in the Lone Star State. At a social gathering, the cheer­ ful subject of death being under dis­ cussion, Mrs. Percy Y'crger asked him: "Do you think animals^, fear death very much?" VI know they do. I know of a re­ markable case right in point," replied Murphy. "Let us hear it." "I was coming through the woods, when I perceived a black olrecfc on a limb, about forty feet from the ground. I crawled up and perceived that it was a crow. The bird did not perceive my approach until I was within thirty feet of it. The crow then caught a glance of me, and trembled all over. I brought my gun to bear on it, but at first I could not see where it was." "It had become frightened and flown away." "No, its feathers had turned tfkow white from fear."--Texas Siftings. Strong Women and Tender Men. . "The best part of human character is the tenderness and delicacy of feel­ ing in little matters, the desire to soothe and please others--minutiae of the social virtues." Thu3 writes Em­ erson, and is it not true? Should we not cultivate this tenderness or delica­ cy? There are some great hearts who do not shame to shod a tear, although men in general consider it womanish, effeminate, something to be ashamed of to be tender and pitiful as a woman. I do not place among the tender and pitiful those hysterical, emotional, sen­ timental women, of whom we all know some specimens. I would teach my daughters to be strong and brave; my sons to be tender and pitiful; my daughters to beware of idle tears; my sons to know no shame for the eyes' moisture; my daughters to be strong- minded as well as tender; my sons to be tender as well as strong.--New York Sunday Graphic. It Will Be There Next Time. A wine merchant, or rather manu­ facturer, was recently condemned to a heavy fine for adulteration. After the sentence he asked tho chemist how he could have been so positive that the wine was a fabrication. "Because it did not contain an atom of bitartrate of polish, which is to be found in all natural wines," replied the man of science. "Thanks for the information," returned the tradesman; ' thenexttinie you analyze my wines you will find some."--Galignani's Messenger. Plates of Gold. The throne of the Empress of Bussia is completely covered with plates of gold, end contains 1,500 rubbies and 8,000 turquoises, besides many other rare and costly gems. The throne of the Czar, known as the diamond throne, is truly a marvel. It is generally con­ ceded that liussia possesses more pre­ cious stones than any other nation, a majority of which were procured at the expense of blood. The jewels in the Cathedral of Moscow alone are valued at $12,000,000- UNTIL Andrew Jackson's time, office- seekers were not permitted to see the President. : VL-..-". • • .• .'.".-V ... •, ••' ;S.::';:' /, ::i. i'Ai: .wi;,, •Eiiii.," ":Xs " i •;> i-jii.'. THE rising generation--yeast--flfhrv athon Independent THE skating rink barks a mnltitud* of shins.--Texas Sifting$. "THE COMING MAN" will be astonished when he gets here. --Barbers' Gazette^ NEVBB judge aporson by the number of his shoe '* Never judge a Christian by the rental of his pew, Texat Siftings. ; THE beesy bee's song--Be it ever s# bumble, there's no place like comb.-- New York Morning Journal. WHEN a man is asked to resign from an office, does he wear an air of resign nation ? Well, hardly. -- Brooklyn Times. A MAX by the name of Life is publish* ing a newspaper in Arkansas. A very proper name for an editor, for Life is always short.-- White Hall Times. VITRIOL throwing has become quit# common in Paris, but in America edit* ors content themselves with plain printer's ink.--Merchant Traveler. A MAN is not always the bessof hit own house even when his wife is out»> She does not always leave the key t&» the cellar behind her.--Fall River Ad­ vance. A FLYING snake is reported in Nevaf da. We expected this when we heard': that they had commenced making whiskey out of moonshine and feathers*- --Neivman Independent. > AN English paper says that a man named Humble has married a gilt named Proud. This is the first iiv» stance of a man being able to bumble a proud girl.--Carl Pretzel's Weekly. _ "MA," said little Tommy, "do the In* jins' own tho railroads?" "No, my son." "Well, they've got sometliin' to do with them, 'cos pa says he bought his ticket off a scalper."--St. Paul Herald. NERO is said to have played the fid­ dle while Borne was burning. If Nero played no better than some fiddlers wa have heard, his performance must have' lent additional horror to the events Boston Courier. ACCORDING to some scientists the genuine man lived about 3,000,000 years' ago, and the present generation ia "com­ posed of a lot of leavings and peelings not worthy of mention in a first reader* --Detroit Free Press. SOME observing naturalist says that mice are more afraid of women than of men. This hardly seems possible. If he had said that women are morA afraid of mice than of men, the state* ment would be generally believed.-- Peck's Sun. "JIM PATSET, I haven't got any use for you, confound your cowardly hide.. You said that you wouldn't stand and see that fellow, Johnson, thump me. "Well, I didn't. Just about the time he was going to thump you I sat down and looked the other way. Didn't sed him at all."--Arkansaw Traveler* ' THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER. In dnily conversation, 'Mid otlior commonplaces We hear tho observation , s .; ."I Circumstances alter caMI. With me tho words change places, So slow are my advances; I wouUl I had some cases To alter my circumstances. --The Rambler. "DON'T you think," said Mrs. Keen- er, "that when Adam realized the vast- ness of the world into which he had been ushered, that he must have had a great deal on his mind?" "Well," re-" sponded Mrs. Blunt, "from the photo­ graphs I have seen of him, I should say that whatever he did have on must have been on his mind."--Yonkers Gazette. Mi: s. PINAPHOR doesn't believe alt the newspaper stories she reads about ' the immense size of the Chicago girls* pedals. She says that story about j|:, goat being locked up in an unused sta­ ble, and living one year on a Chicago girl's shoe, must be considerably exagv gerated. She thinks there must have been at least a pair of shoes in the sta§ ble.--Norristown Herald. A MOTHER, YET NOT WIFE. A mother--yet not wile nor maid. For days she sat, nor spoke nor stirred. She could not, would not, bow her heat} . ; The sharp-closcd lips gave forth no wotd. , Tho father of her children ctune, Hut left her there to live or die; And yet her cheek Hushed not with shame, No tear bodewed her weary eye. Men came and looked. She reared her head, Nor flinched before their questioning "Let time fulfill its work," they said; ,v; Then sped them on their several way £ One day her place was vacant. Men i S Found near it the untasted food-- And proudly our old speckled hen Let forth her downy, callow brood. ' -- Life. A Plain Editor's Consoling Words. Most women and many men, remarks the homely editor of the Troy Time.% worry a great deal about their personal appearance. There is no reason why man or woman who is clean and dressed in good taste* should not be satisfied with the result. But often a slight physical imperfection will render thft whole life of a morbid or oversensitive person miserable. This is not as it should be. The percentage of really handsome people in the community i| very small, and those who are not per­ fectly symmetrical should remembefc that the greater part of their fellowji labor under the,same disadvantaged They should remember Grant's first; engagement. In his frank, unaffecte# way he relates how frightened he wa| on the approach of the enemy, but after he had climbed the hill and found that the foe, more frightened than he, had disappeared, he recovered his courage and never lost it afterward. The Bame principle will apply to the case of men who are nervous about their personal appearance, 'lhey should remember that probably many are less blessed than themselves physically, and thi| thought should give them confidence. The Age of Candor. "Will you take a cup of ohicory, Mr. Newcomer ?" asked the boarding-house mistress of anew boarder. "Cup of what?" • • "Chicory." "Chicory? Oh, certainly, please-- I'm very fond of chicory." "Yes," he added, turning to the near­ est guest, "I like very much to hear things called by their proper names-- I have been drinking this stuff for years, and 1 am certain this is the first time I haye heard it called anything but coffee. Please pass the butterine. --Chicago Rambler. Cruelties of Society. Society is as cruel as ever. A pretty little girl from Cincinnati is declared to be a milliner's apprentice because she wears a new hat every day, an<| when the wife of a New York mai^ asked him how the women were dressed at a certain supper party he had at­ tended without her he replied that he had no idea, for he did not go under the table.--Exchange. ?r has been dccided in Ohio that the husband is the legal owner of his wife's clothes. So absolutely is the power vested in the husband that one man, who wished to deed his wife's clothes fo her, could not legally make the Hansfer. ,' 'r" r. -. ; ..