Eto 'Foolish Young Man; @ Or, the Belle of the Season. CHAPTER XLII. es, my father bough the place," said i. °F ay} a to so, and he nted at once. could not have let to strangers. ee - ron er T had so 80 begpy here; it wae here that you ask- me to be your wife. And father has to settle it upon us," she bluched tly, and her eyes bevwame dcwneast. is no longer--opposed to our mar- ; he knows that I would manry you ll the word cried 'No!' " had been sitting talking for near- n hour, She had recovered from the : of his sudden presence, and was pted beside him--so close that dhe could uth him with her hand--calm now, but with a glow in her usually pate cheek, a light in her eyes which had been absent for many a weary month past. He ihad given her, mostly in answer to her eager questions, a very abbreviated account of pag! in Australia; telling her less even win he had told Ida; and it is needless _ to remark, saying nothing of tho cause _ of his hasty return. "ih, well," she eaid, dvawing a long 'breath, "it is all over now, Stafford. Ah, it is gocd to have you back cafe and S$. = nd. You are well, are you not? You I cuppese it's the journey. Yes, it is all over; you need not wander any longer; you have come back to me, have you not, dear? Bf you knew how I have mi you, how I have longed for you! if now you wil sett'e down an place in the world and be happy! Do you think I ford? Ath, do nct be afraid;" 3 her shelf. a "T only know that I am quite umworthy eo Maude," he eaid, gravely. © looked up at him and laughed. "Are you? Who cares? Not I! Tf only know that I love you so dearly that me, He was filled with shame 'and proach, and turned away his head 6 miginxt not see the shame in his eyes. "How did you come?" ghe asked, pre- eenthy. You could stay with us, then." "ft am etaying at 'The Wocdman,' " aid ey ca, secmed embarnaceed. that it waa imp Ida's' name. euricus emille. "Who was it?" he said, trying to speak casually, wondering what she would eay, ferventiy that she would ask no questions. 'Ttho blood rushed to her window. standing there looking out, but seeing nothing. He had gone to her the moment he had returned: what did it nean? But she dared not ask; Knew inctinetively how = slight ehain by which she hetd him. effort she rectrained the sage, was With an in violent reproaches and acewiations; and after a minute or two she turned to him, cutwardly calm and gmiling. fford ?"' "Have you mado any plans, § she asked. 'My father was speaking of your return; he thought of writing to you. Dearest, there must be back. See, I speak quite frankly. My fa- ther thinks--tthink; that our marriage ehould take place at once. He has with- drawn tis objection, and--and you will not thwart him, Stafford? me to have to say this; but--but you will understand." "T understand," he said in a low voice. "Tl am grateful to your father. Our mar- riage shall take place ag goon as you please. It is for you to fix the date, Maude." She nestled against him and touched-his eoat with her lips. "Tam ashamed of myself," she murmur. ed; "but, ah, well! love casteth out ehame." : A servant knocked at the door. "The horse is round, mies," he an- nounced. "T was going for a ride," she said, "but I will send the horse away--uniess you will ride with me. You will, Stafford?" "Certainly," he said, glad of the inter- ruption to this tete-a-tete which had been to him a positive torture. "T will not be five minutes,' che said, brightiy. "You'd like to go over the house? They shall bring you something to drink in the emoking-room, or here, if you like; you are losd and. master." She went up to her rocm, and, when ehe had rung for her maid, paced up and down feverishly. He had gone to that girl before he had come to her! She was racked with hate and jealousy, which was atl the harder to bear because she knew cho must hide them within her bo- mm, that no word or look of hers must let hic see that she knew cf her rival. Some time, after they were married, she would tell him: but not till she was safe. fhe got into her habit quickly and went down to him. He wae standing where she had left him, and as she entered the room ehe saw, before he had time to turn to her with a emile, how haggard and har- waesed he looked. "You have 'been quick," he said. ' "Yes; I am learning one of my wifely _ duller: not to keep my husband wait- a . they went out, and Pottinger etanding Nat ay y the horees, touched hig hat and grew Pred with joy at sight of his master. _"Well, Pottinger! Gilad to see you!" aid Sitafford; and he was genuinely glad. "You're looking well, and the horse is -. too. Haloo! you've put the side-wsaddle on Adonis," he added, as he went wp and pat- ted tho horse. 4 Pettinger touched his hat again. "Yes, sit; Miss Falconer's been riding him, and I did not know that I ought to enee, the gaddile. I can do Go in a min- a "No, no," said Stafford, "never mind. I will ride the hunter, as you have the waddle on him. You like Adonis, Mande?" "Oh, yea," she replied. "Though I'm not quite aure he likes me," ehe added, with a& laugh, / Stafford put her up, and noticed, with geome eurprise, less and ill at ease, and that he ehivered S . ' "He seeme fidgety. Does the saddle fit?' "Yea, sir," sald Pottinger, with a halt- vant who cannot apeak ont. "Ho is troublegqome' somatinies," * - Maude: "but can manage him quite "Oh, yes," aesented- Stafford; "he 16 ae aut as a lamb; but he ia highly bred ret and 6 highly etring." eaid mured: ' *'Dan't cith him too tightly, miés."": 3 ed, the clouds had passed away, and a feeling of triumph swelled in her bo. oy ay "How dittle I thonght yesterday, even th'a morning, that we sho 'ede by side, Stafford," ehe eaid. again, my own, my very own! these months you've been away seem like a dream to you? 'They do to me." drow a long breath. the dale." ' = "You will find it wet there, had you not better keep to the road?" "No, no," she said; "Adonie {a dying for bes a gall ; seo how he ia fretting." Stafford looked at the horse curiously. He was champing his bit and throwing up 'his head in a nervous, agitated manner emit Stafford had never seen him dis- iy belore. "I cannot make the horse out," he aaid, more to himself than Maude. "Perhaps hell be ail right after a gallop." hey croesed the road at a trot, which was an uneven one on Adonis's part, and got on the moor, Maude, still in high epérit, still buoyed up by her feeling of .. triumph, talked contdnuovély; telling him - @ of the London news, planning out - © tiheia future. They would have a bowmp : gone take hie pr oe ee place in the wortd; they would step back into the high position which wag his by right, as a Staif- pale and thin and-and tired. But And take your shall not make you hapny, Sta- eyes sought his and her hand stole towards his ara fie rose and leant against the mantel- if you were the blackest villain to be found in fotion, it would make no difference to sellf-re- that "Tif my father were only at home! he j tho regarded him with some é6urprise. 'Last night! Late, do you mean? Did you meet, see anyone?" 'inere was a dawning suspicion in her and she regarded his averted face keenly; she noticed that he hesitated and "No one you know," he replied, feeling sible for him to speak "Hlow do you know?" she asked, with a "T met M'as Herondale of si as gel anc hoping more face, her eyes; flashed and her lips tightened; but she did not upeak as she moved away to the for she the the fierce jealousy, which threatened to buret forth no reserve between us now--now that you have come It is hard for | } 'i that Adonis seemed rest-| life ehe was going to eave we | and shrank a6 he felt Maude on his back. | or, if she did, she was indifferent to it-- "Whit is the matter with him?" he 6.id.! that she wae risking her own life to nave 4 nervous glance at Maude, followed by the thet was enough for Ida. She slipped her imgxiewive oxpression" of g#he. trained «er: | ] | pert's mouth firmly but gently, leant for- Ae they were ebarting, Pottinger mur-! the bow. "Made ignored the warning; and~ ¢he | and ctafford rode out. The rain had ceas- | cow'd with oadety, dhe mode. a enaich at in! Adoria'a rein ab the moment dhe the joy of his nearness, her wpisits rode,' alongside him. She would have catght wid be viding in her seat by the nearneca of her would- "How | be rescuer, raised her whip and atruck little { thought I whould have you back | Ida acrocs the besem and acroes the out- Don't ail siretcined hand. The blow, in' ite e She, gnort he tore siway from the other horse Let us ride acrces and swept onwards, with ford was scare i realm. ely 'lietoning. A question cover 'wiag horror and not fear that struck her was 6! as the madly kicking animal, now in 'te Sea aeT ater,bstore sho ant after, before could re: = her paralys: is of terror--the was haunting him, a question which he could not thrust from him: he was going to mai Maude Falconer, going to take the hard and stony road of duty which Ida, in her noble way, had pointed out to him. Ought he not to tell Maude about Ida and this broken engagement to her; would it not be betiter for both of them, for all of them, if he were to do so? He would have to tell her that he could not live at the Villa; shé would want to know the reason; would it not be better to tell her? He, raised his head to begin; when aud: denly he saw, going up the hill in front of them, a horse' and horsewoman, She was walking wp slowly, and, long before ther figure ctocd out against the clear sky, he saw that it was Ida. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that his heart stood atild. That she should have appeared be- fore him in his sight, as such a moment, while he was riding besile his future wife ~--hie future wife--filled 'him with bitted- ness. His face muct hive paled, or Maude must have seen him stant, for she looked at him and then turned her head and looked in the direction in which his eyes were fixed. she recognized Ida in-tantly; the color rushed to her face; her. hand tightened on her rein epasmodically; for a moment che felt inclined to turn aside, to nide aiway, escape from the girl she hated and loathed. And then she 'was moved by another impulse; the demon of jealousy whispered: "Tlhis is the moment of your triumph; why not enjoy it to the full; why not let her feel the bitterness of defeat? There is your rival! Let her see with her. own eyes your triumph and your happiness." Tihe temptation was too great for her, and she yielded to it. "Who is that riding up the hill?" she eaid, controlhing her voice admirably. 'It is Miss Heron, is it not?' : "Yeu, it is," he said, as impassively as ihe could. Her lins curled scornfully sumption of indifference. a "T have seen her and met her," she said, "but I have not been introduced to her. Let us overtake her, and you can intro- duce me. I should like to know her." at his as- He looked straight before him, his face grave and set. "Ts it worth while?" he caid in a low fice. 'Some cther time----"' "Wihy not now?" @ae asked, 'We can cateh her quite 'easily." the moment had ccme for him to tell her. "Not now," he gaid, huskily. "I have something to tell you, Maude; something you ought to know before--ibefore you make Mies Heron's acquaintance." She turned to him with a Jow laugh. "Do you think I don't know?" she said, between her teeth. "I have known all along! I read the letter you wrote to her --I got it--stole it; if you like--from Pot: tinger. I have known all atong--do you not think I have been very paitient, very dizereet? Even now I bear no malic ean forget the past, forget and f Why should I not, seeing that Iam assur- ed of your love amd good faith? You will see how completely I forget, how little im- portance I attach to your fancy for the i a fancy which I am sure you have e outgrown. Oh, I can trust you! We join Miss Heron by all means." ace was dark and heavy. not, Maude, unitil you've = is "Do heard that yet had comething doubting and de- eperate in it, she sent Adonis on. He whole affair was one of a moment and all," he began, but with a scornful laugh | pea ae quickly as a flitting cloud. Stafford was by her ede, and at work ex- trieahing woman from horse. It was aot an task, for though Adonis was now dead, of a broken back, a part of Maude's body lay under his shoulder; but with al- mest herculean strength Stafford suc- ceeded in getting her alear, and lifted her owt of the hole on to tie grass. Kneel- ing becide him, Ida, walm now, but tremb- ling, raised Maude's head on her knee and wiped the blood from the beautiful face. Its loveliness wes not marred, there was no bruise nor cut upon it, _the blood having flown from a wound just be- hind the temple. : Stafford ran to the brook for some wa- ter and tried to force a few drops (hrough the clenched teeth, while Ida bathed the white brow. Suddenly a tre- mor ran through him, and he put his hand over Maude's heant. It was quite ritill; he bent his cheeks to her lips; -no breadih met them, For a moment or two he could not speak, though he stayed Ida's ministering hand, and locking uD at her, said: : : "Tt ig of no use. She is dead!" (To be continued.) 4 Ba "To Fight Till Mien - Slay Men No Wore" The following poem was written by a young officer--Lieut. Stanley C. 8. Kerr, of the 10th Royal Gren- adiers company, 20th Battalion, a son of Senator J. K. Kerr. It is entitled "To England."' To England. Oh! mightiest mother of nations, Thy peoples hear thy call. Z Strike with thy sword and vanquish Thy foe that's the foe of all! le Steady thy hand for the struggle! Hark to thy peoples' strain ! That the lives which are lost in the battle Have passed, but net in vain. For the grave can gain no victory, The sting of death must cease ; For the lives that are lost for free- dom Are gained for a blessed peace. From the swollen lips of the, dying, Parched with a fevered thirst ; sprang forward nervotdy and shivering under a getroke from her whip, and ewill- ly lessened the distance between him and Rupe:t, who heard h appreacta bed Ida did, and wino neighed a welcome, turned and saw who wae L eaw Stafford just behind, and gatnering | her reins togetiher she rode Ruper ly to the top of the hill. é Ms roa!' eried Maude, in a voice of covert olence, but almost open tr- umph. 'Miss Heron, stop, please!' Ida did stop for a moment, then, feel- ing that it was impoecible for her to meet tihem, that day, at any rate, she let pert go again. By ths time Stafford had almost gained Maude's side. His face was | dark with anger, his teevh clenched tight- ly. He knew that Maude intended to flaunt her possession of him before Ida. | In a low but perfectly distinct voice, he | eaid: | "Sitep,+Maude! Do not follow She lcoked over her should 3 e her)... | at him, | her face fluwhed, her eyes flashing. she demanded, scorn is "Wihy not fully. | 'Tg she afraid, or you wino are afraid? Both, perhaps? We shall-sce! Before he could cateh her rein she had | struck Adonis twice with the shurp, cute | iting whip, and with a shake of his head and a enort of rage and resentment, he | stood on his haunches, for a moment, | then leapt forward and began to race | down the hill. Stafford saw that the horse; thad bolted, either from fear or anger; he | knew that it would only incr Maude's peril if he galoped in pursuit behind her; ihe, therefore, checked his horee and made, in a slanting line, for a point towards which he judged Adonis would go. Mean- while, Maude was ewaying in her saddie, in which she could only keep heree!f by clutching at the pomme!; it seemed every mement aa if she must fall, as if the horse itself must fall and throw her like a stone down the steep hill. Ida, the moment she had got over the top of the hill, had ridden quickly, and, of couree, quite fearlessly and safely, and had Rupert so well in hand, as usual, that when ehe heard the clatter behind her, and turning, caw the peril in which Maude had put herself, dhe was able to pull Rupert wp. It was almost a repition of what had occurred the other day; but this time Maude Falconer's peril was in- finitely greater; for her horse was half mad and tearing down the steep hill-side, rendered doubly dangerous by the loose tones, and wae all too evidently indif- ferent whether he stood or fell. And yet another riek lay just below; for William had been digging in that spot for stones ito mend the bank; and even if the mad- dened horse saw the hole, it was more tihan probable that he would not be able to lt up in time, ' Such moments ae these form the cri- terion of true courage. There was only one way in which Ida could save, or at- tempt to cave, the white-faced woman who was drawing towards her at break- neck epeed. What she would have to at- tempt to do would be to ride straight for tthe oncoming horee, swe.ve almcst ag she reached it, and keep side by side with it umtil che could succeed either in turn- ing it away from that horrib-e hole, or stop it by throwing it. She did not hesi- tate for a moment. Tt may be said in all truth that at that moment che forgot that the woman whose a .Maude ihe fact--- it bd 6e | Falconer; she did not realize t the woman who had robbed her of Staf- ford. There wos the life to be saved, and foot almoet out of the stirrup, felt Ru- ward and whispered a word to him, which it is very likely he understood-- perhaps he saiw all the game even before she did--and, with an encouraging touch of her hand, dhe let him go. ~~ He sprang fonward like an arrow from As they drew. near the flying thorge, Ida ehifted her whip to -her " left thand, so that her right should be free, and, leaning as far in thé saddle as she oume ihe rein, she might have stopped the horde or turned it ae'de, but ae hor -fin-, gers almosit grasped it, Maude, steadied finiah, fell on Adonis's reeking neck. With a : Maude once again swaying in her gaddte. Ida gazed at her in epeechless terror for an in- stant, then, as if she could look no longer ghe flung her arm acreso her eyes. A moment afterwards, a shrill scream, that rang in her ears for many a day afterwards, rose above the clatter of Adonis's hoofs, and before the cry had died away horse and rider had fallen wiith awful force into and acroes the hole. Then came a dead gilence, broken only by the sound of the horse's iron dhoes as he kicked wildly and pawed in a vain at- tempt to rise. Ida rode up, and Scviet iy herself to the ground, tried to appro the etruggiing animal. But, indeed, it motionless for a moment; for horse and wider were mixed in awful confusion, and alre: Maude Falconer's gracetsl form with blood, and battered by Ida | following her, | quick- | Ru- | do you belong?"' | | Lieut. Stanley C. S. Kerr. From the 'broken hearts of thy peoples Comes a ery 'gainst the Prussian - curse. For the sake of thy unborn chil- dren, For the grief of thy womenkind, Who sit and isuffer in anguish, Whom the dead have left behind. For the life of thy love and honor; For thy Empire's snow-white name ; For thy kith and kin who have per- ished In the war 'gainst gruesome gain: Let thy cannon rcar with anguish, Let thy armies strive and strain, Till the Prussian breed is broken And his race hath ceased to reign. Fight on to the end and conquer! And run thy course to the last, Is the cry of all thy peoples; Is the prayer of those who've passed, Purge out the pride' of this Caesar ! Humble him down to the dust! Strike out his sword from its scab- bard ! Leave it to mould and rust! Fight on! Fight on! To the finish. While our lifeblood flows within, Till we've crushed and conquered Caesar, And we've cleansed his blood-ful gin; Till freediom's cause has triumphed, Till men slay men no more, Till the sword is smashed forever, And the nations cease to war. --Stanley C. S. Kerr. Baas ads A Brace up. The following advice is not new, but it deserves to be repeated and borne constantly in mind :--"Resist the first inclination to.stoop. Brace ap whenever the shoulders settle in the least. To place oneself side- wise before a mirror and alow the back to curve forward, then grad- wally to straighten it will convince anyone that, with every inch that is raiged, ten years seem to be taken from the apparent age." Women adopt many and varied methods of holding on to a youthful figure, but this is by far the best, for it in- volves no deception or artificiality. Some people are quite as attractive in cld age as they were in their youth, but it is not those who "let themselves go" and sink into ani ap- pearance of having lost their in- terest in life. -- wt ; "Ay z His First Company. An English recruit was stopped in the street recently by an officer for failing to salute. The young fellow confessed his ignorance of the reg- ulations (having only just enlisted), and received an impromptu lesson. The dialogue concluded the recruit saluted correctly. "By the way," said the officer, "to what company "Please, sir,- 10. the Wigan Coal and Iron Com- ? pany," was the reply. 'it is roasting. : BOBS : Vegetable Left-Overs. The English have an odd way of using left-over vegetables for 4 very pretty as well as a palatable dish. It is called vegetable mould and can be made from almost any combination of vegetables. - Rub cold cakbage through a wire sieve, also some cold carrots and turnips, keeping each vegetable separate. Add to each a little melted 'outter and season with pepper and salt. Grease a small mould and put the vegetables in in layers. Then bake or steam until the mould is hot all through. Turn out carefully and serve. Other vegetables may be used in the same way. and the light- er the color of the vegetables the more unusual and attractive the mould will tbe. "Coleannon" is another English dish, simple to prepare and seldom seen in this country. This is made from cold left-over cabbage and po- tatoes. Cut the potatoes in slices and fry brown in dripping; when they are browned add the sliced cold cakloage and fry lightly to- gether. Season well and serve. A puree of peas, made in very much the same manner, offers g so- lution for left-over peas, and may also be made with the dried peas if they are soaked and boiled a_ suf- ficiently long time. Mash and press the boiled peas through a sieve. Place them in a saucepan and stir into them enough hot milk and pep- per and salt to well moisten and season them; add also butter and very little sugar. This may be served like mashed potatoes, or if preferred.it can be turned into 2@ bakiog dish and slightly browned in the oven. : Uses for Stale Bread. Not a crust of stale bread should be thrown away, for it is not only useful for the crumbs which every householder keeps on hand to use in frying and scalloping, but may be used in countless other ways. Toast, of course, is always better when made from yesterday's bread and to make good toast is no mean art. Buttered toast, which makes a very good luncheon dish, is made from slightly stale bread. Heat a dish and stand it over hot water ; toast several evenly sliced pieces of bread and spread them generously with slight!y softened butter. Sprinkle with salt; place them in the hot dish and stand for a minute or two in a hot oven; serve in a covered dish. Milk toast is delicious when \pro- perly made, but it is so simple that people are apt to make it careless- ly. Here is a recipe that, faithfully followed, makes perfect milk toast. Make a dry toast, spread with but- ter and sprinkle with salt. Place it in the dish in which it is to be sery- ed. Pour over it a little boiling wa- ter; cover and place in the oven for a few minutes to steam. Put into a saucepan one tea- spoonful of butter. When it bub- bles, stir in a teaspoonful of flour and let it cook without coloring. Add slowly, stirring all the time, one cupful of milk. Cook until slightly thickened and add a salt- spoonful of salt. Pour this thicken- ed milk over the softened toast just before serving. Stale bread as crumbs or soaked in milk, custard, or stock, may be used in the making of many sweet puddings, such as bread and butter pudding, apple Betty, plum _ pud- ding, cheese pudding, ete. Useful Hints. Whiting and ammonia are for cleaning nickel. Vinegar placed in a bottle of dried-up glue will moisten and make it liquid again. To keep irons from rusting rub with mutton fat and wrap in brown paper before putting away. Cereals will not become pasty in best cooking if they are stirred with a plated fork instead of a spoon. To soften brown sugar when it has become lumpy, stand it over a vessel filled with boiling water. Faded silks may be restored in color by immersing them in soap- suds to which a little pearlash has been added. Nail stains may be removed from wood iby scrubbing with a solution of oxalic acid, half a pint of acid to a quart of boiling water. Colored 'handkerchiefs should be soaked in cold water for a short time before they are washed. This will prevent the colors from run- ning or fading. When baking, the scissors are useful; a snip and the biscuit dough is quickly apportioned; a quick out and the drop cooky falls into place on the baking tin. ' The celery and cheese sandwiches are delicious. A little mayonnaise is mixed in with the cheese, which is finely grated, -the celery being put through the mincing machine. To keep curtains from 'blowing out the windows, conceal thin iron washers in. the hems and. corners. It will make the curtains hang evenly and «without constant stir- ring in a breeze. Don't buy a chieken if the eyes are not bright. When the eyes are dull and sunken, you ean be sure that the fowl has been killed some time. : 8 If you have any icing left over after the cake is iced, spread it on buttered crackers and sprinkle with nuts, raisins or dabs of peanut but- ter. If the turkey is not very fat, avoid its being dry after roasti iby spreading butter over the out- side, and baste it frequently while A | in 'come very much creased. Hang | an oyster shell in the kettle to pre- like the Scot, grew strong upon por- diet, But foreign victories brought foreign manners, and Juxury made an' easy conquest of Rome, which presently adopted the three meals of the Greeks, to divide the day. In the early morning the Roman was satisfied with bread, dried fruiits and cheese. prandium, which consisted, in. sim- a pleasant addition of e tables and wine. epicure looked forward as ithe very climax of his day, when he might take his ease and indulge his fancy. The cena, indeed, was an elaborate meal, which followed a rigidly pres- ¥ time often be- { drawers for some them in front of the fire for a while and the creases will disappear. A teakettle should tbe given fre- quent baths, else lime and other salts will settle on the sides. Keep vent this. : : "Ia cooking rics, if you wish to keep every grain separate, cook in rapidly boiling water, with cover off the vessel." To remove stains from white flan- nel shirts and similar things, smear with equal part of yolk of egg and glycerine. Leave for an hour and wash them in the usual way. Never throw away cake, no mat- -ter how dry, but the next time you bake a custard, slice the dry cake on top just before. you place it in the oven. This makes a delicious caramel. Bake pastry in a hot oven; this will expand the air in it and thus lighten the flour. Handle pastry as little and as lightly as possible. Use rolling. pin lightly and with even pressure. Flannelette may be rendered non- inflammable by rinsing it after washing it in alum water. Dissolve two ounces of alum in a gallon of FOOD THE ANCIENTS LIKED NOT SO VERY MUCH DIFFER- ENT FROM OURS. w. Cooks Held in High Esteem After the Simple Life Had Been Pushed Into Shade. The Ancients, by whom we mean the Greeks and Romans, ate very much the same food that we. eat to- day, and with the same appetite. They looked upon the process, per- haps, with an eye of greater cere- mony. In Homeric times the gods took.their share of every banquet, and in a later age of the placing of the guests, the conduct of the sym- posium, were of equal import with the choice of the meats and the wines. ¢ "He dines not who eats alone," was a maxim which never fell upon dishonor. That we should notice similarity rather than difference, as we look backward, is but natural. The craving for well-cooked food is wholesomely human, 'and if the pal- ate grows more delicate as the ap- petite becomes less gross the change is not peculiar to this country or that. As in poetry, so in food, the love of simplicity is the proof of a golden, if primitive, age. The heroes of Homer, for in- stance, were not nice feeders. They seem tio have had the healthy plain food and plenty of it. They had neither butchers nor cooks. They slaughtered their own beasts and prepared their meat as well as they could. They had little taste for fish, which they ate only when there was nothing else to be had and they looked upon game as no better than the food of necessity, Nor were vegetables pleasing to their sturdy palates. bread and wine were their staple fare, and they asked for no accessories, Pork and mutton and goats' flesh 'they ate willingly. Pork Was Highly Esteemed. Indeed, the beast which, to some is still unclean, was very much to the taste of the Greeks, and was highly esteemed at their banquets unto the end. Athenaeus writes in lyrical strains of a pig that once was served to him and this friends, the half of which was carefully roasted, the other 'half boiled gently, as if it had been steamed, and the whole stuffed with thrushes and = other birds. But best of all the Homeric heroes liked beef, cut into pieces and grilled upon spits. And at was only on occasions of sacrifice that their desires were wholly satisfied. Though the godis, to be sure, claim- ed the daintiest morsels, there was enough left to appease the stoutest hunger. Nor did they demand any adornment to such feasts as these save fruit. z As the years passed the Greeks grew daintier and more critical of their food. The three meals which broke their day were not unlike those which still obtain, 'Their first breakfast was simple enlougih, consisting of bread dipped in naat wine. Their hincheon was taken about noon, and their dinner was as late as ours. Spoons and forks they knew not; nor tablecloths nor napkins; but, if their service was bad, in ithe fifth century luxury had already invaded Athens. There is no better proof of the delicacy of the Greek palate than the honor in which cooks were held. They plied their trade with the greatest freedom, and, not being at- tached ito this master or that, they were called in by the rich on oceca- sions of brilliant festivity. What wonder then the cook's was a veapectable profession, becoming a free man? * When wé turn to Rome we find the same progress from simplicity to gluttony. The Ancient Roman, ridge. Puls was the staple of his Then at noon came the le households, of the broken meats irom. yesterday's dinner table, with BBS, vege-| But it was the cena to which the [devised to stimulate appe to satisfy hunger. It cons d eeuyre, and yet resémbled the loaded side tables of Sweden and Russia mors nearly than the modest dishes of -France. There gos and vege- were shellfish and e tables, aay At the famous banquet of Tri= malchio, which, it chould be remem- but a burlesque, and was given: by a multi-millionaire, as awe should call him to-day, the gustus would have served the most of men for a dinner. A donkey of Corinthian bronze held two baskets of olives, white on one sidis, other. Then there were covered with honey and poppy seed, hot causages on a silver grill, and benesth them damsons and pome- granate seeds. But a Roman dined with Trimalchio 23 rarely as with Lucullus, and the freedman's fancy was separate and h's own. After the gustue came the regular courses (fercula ithey are called), which might be three, or even se- ven, in the houses of epicures. The Satirists and Historians, as we know, condemm the extravar gance, which yastly increased un- wealthy Romans send for their priceless delicacies to the ends of the earth. Satire had no more ef- fect than sumptuary laws, and the banquets of rich patricians and wealthy freedmen are legendary. First came the fish, for poor as for rich a necessity of the dinner. Sea- barbel and the turbot of Ravenna were the favorités and the haddock was not disdained, Oysters were as highly prized at Rome as in modern London, and were brought by the wealthy from Britain to be fattened in the Lu- crine Lake. Of the birds, the chief In esteem were fowls and peacocks, and field-fares were as eagerly sought for in Rome as in the Athens of Aristophanes. But no banquet at Rome was complete without a wild boar, whose entrance upon the table, roasted whole, marked the highest moment of the ceremonial feast, Petronius has 'described the pomp of its ecm ing with a vast deal of cireum- stance. "A tray was brouglit in with a wild boar of the largest size upon it, wearing a cap of freedom, with two little baskets wove of palm twigs hanging from his tusks, one full of dry dates amd the other of fish. Round it lay suckling pigs made of Simnel cake with their mouths to the teats, thereby show- ing that we had a sow before us." So valiant a beast, freed because the guests of y rday had sent him away untasted, deserved the ministration of no mean carver. And a big bearded man in a span- gled hunting ccat plunged a. great- knife into his sida, and as the knife entered, out there flew A Large Number of Thrushes. It was a fantastic spectacle, and suggests not the banquet of an epi cure, but what the newspapers of today call a freak dinner. And the Romans, no less than the Greeks, proved their love of the pig by the preference they showed fo: sausage and black puddings. Fe: the rest they esteemed a hare, 2 goat, or a dormouse that had been fed on chestnuts as rare dainities, and they finished their feasts with 2 fine arnay of pastry and fruit. Some there were who praised the simpl ecipe life, but we may assume that Hoy ace, when he declared this hatred «! ng parsici apparatus, was expres no more than the remons palate. Yet if we compare the luxury of modern times with the luxury of Rome, we shall observe but few dif- ferences, We do not, like the Ro mans, recline at our meals; we do not observe the ceremonies of the triclinium ; we are more sensitive in keeping clean our hands, andi pre- fer forks to fingers, but the taste of man hae not greatly changed' in 2,000 years, and if it could be our good fortune to dine with Lucullus, his table would cause us no confu- ston and but small surprise 2 olf a jade OE ORIGIN OF THE DOLLAR MARK SIGN USED IN) PORTUGAT, IN SIXTEENTH CENTURY. Was Called "Cifrao" -- First ana Last Letters of Word Mean Thousands. Of all the theories advanced in explanation of the origin of the dol- lar mark not one is entirely satis- factory and convincing. A Spanish source has often 'been suggested, but the fact that the ign is not used in Spain is at least a negative indi- cation that another origin sheald be sought, The following theory ds not pre-) sented as complete, but it 'has some aspects: of probability which make: it seem worthy of coneidenation. The sign $ was used in Portugal as early as 1544; how much earlier IT cannot at present say, c It. was call- ed cifroa, (ciphra means a cipher, and ¢cifroa is merely argumenta- tive). The Portuguese, however, did not use it originally or exclusively to represent a monetary unit, as ap- pears from the definitions of cifroa given in the Portuguese dictionaries. of Viera, Moraes Silva and in the Diccionario Contemporeano, all of which say in substance that the cif- roa serves to separate the thousands from the hundreds, as, for example, 800$506, and that iit serves also as an abbreviation for three ciphers, so that 745$ is the same as 7458000, ary elaborate array of what we call) thors d' bered, was not merely a banqued, | black oa the | dormice der the empire, and which bade the | 'big, generous" light to study by. The ' ; a lamp saves eye B strain. It is kero- [9 sene lightat its best B -- clear, mellow, 4 and unflickering. E The RAYO does not E smoke or smell. It is easy to light, easy to- clean, and easy to re- & wick. The RAYO costs little, but you cannot get a_ better lamp at any price. -- Made in Canada af aaa ROYALITE OIL is best for all uses THE IMPERIAL OIL CO., Limited Teronte Quebec Halifax Montreal St. John Winnipeg Vancouver ET a i ij iil ii GRU UGUWUUu UKs GUUS RI The Dictionario Contemporeano adds that it is also used to repre- sent a monetary unit, ae the pata- 228 in Macau and Timor, the dollars in Ameri¢a, etc. It may be added that Macau and part of Timor are Portuguese possessions and that the pataca is nearly equivalent to our dollar in value. The sign was adso used to represent thousands cf men as well as.of coins; thus the Pontu- guese historian Lemos writes of 48 cavallos, e 50% infantes--four thou- sand cavalry and fifty thousand in- fantiry. Carried to Brazil. The Portuguese naturally carried this sign with them when they col- onized Brazil, and it is in constant xv0 in that country. It should be observed that when the Portuguese use it in reckoning money, they al- ways use the word reis. They write 1:0008000 eis, or 4:0008000. It may be well to explyin that the-real (plural reis) is an imaginary coin worth .08 more than our min; the milreis is therefore equal to $1.03 of our currency. In Brazil it is equivalent to half as much. In rough ealeulation Portuguese money can be reduced to our stan- dard by striking off one cipher, placing $ at the loft and putting the decimal point in its place. Thus 1$00 is the same as $1.00. 108000 equals $10,000 ; 100$000 corresponds to $100,000, ard ¢o on--all this, of course, being only approximate. The same process can be followed with Brazilian money and the result afterwards divided by two. A Contraction, It seems probable that the $ is a> contracted combination of M. and 8, the first and last letters of the Portuguese word milkares, which means thousands.. The suppression of ithe middle stroke of the M would be very natural in cipher, mark, as we have seen, is in gorrral use in Brazil. It is also used the other Latin-American counties, and it seems very proba- ble tha nish America adopted it from ottuguese America. The boundaries between Brazil and the neighboring Spanish colonies were not very clearly established in the eighteenth century. For some time tho Portuguese held possession of parts of Paraguay iand Uruguay. lit } is surely not atrange that the cifrao should have been introduced. into these regions, and that its use should have extended to all Spanish possessions. % It is well known that money of Spanish-American coinage was ex- tensively circulated in the United States in the early colonial days, and the sign wou'd not improbably beemployed in commerce. Its posi- {tion before instead of after the nu- merals may be accounted for by the Engkish custom of placing the £ to the left, as has been suggested, In Spanish-American books | some- times formes cine place and .come- times another, but here again Por- tuguese influence might be traced for as its place was immediately be- fore the hundreds as we have al- ready seen, it would ¢orrecily stand at the left of hundreds 'in. writin $1.00, singe the American system o! reckoning very seldom tales 'mills © into account. An Trish agricultural journal ad- yertizes a new washing machine un- own washerwoman." The same pa- per, in its culinary department, says that 'Potatoes should be boil- ed in cold water." Can be handled vo .sthers in sage eta haying the d'sease, _ COMPOUND. Give . blood and oxpels ¢ lealems Our free Dresses : that have been laid 'wway cribed plan. 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