The Indianapolis Journal from Indianapolis, Indiana • 6

TnE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, MAY 1, 1887-TWELVE PAGES. JOI rriuM by Special Arrangement Copyrighted 1SS7. THE MAJOR'S WIFE BY S. SIDNKY. The Major plowed along doggedly through, the ehill mist of the November twilight toward his quarters.

The wind was keen and the Major's rheumatic arm was plaguing him, and his brow was what would be called corrugated in the novels. But his heart was light and very tender. He was thinking of how cozy Marjorio's little corner room would look the dancing wood fire, the big arm-chair drawn up to the table with the lighted lamp upon it and Marjorie herself with her trim figure and eyes like April violets. For although the Major was grizzled and had twinges of rheumatism in his strong right arm, he was a sentimentalist A hich-piicbed feminine voice called out, "Major Standiford! Major Standiford!" The Major had heard the grinding of carriage wheels overtaking him, and he recognized the voice of the Colonel's wife aa she stopped him and stuck her bold, handsome head out of the window of the stylish brougham. Far back in the carriage he could see the little Colonel himself, who was seldom in the foreground when hia madam was present.

Major Standiford raised his T'cll-worn cap. and stood in an attitude of rieid politeness, but his eyes did not show the kindly light that usually filled them when he spoke to women. "Good evening. Mrs. Meyrick.

How are you, Colonel" "How do," feebly responded the Colonel, while Sirs. Meryick burst forth glibly. "Now, Major Standiford, you really must come to the bal pondie. I know you'll look stunning in a Louis Quatorze costume, with your hair powdered. "My hair won't need any powdering, thank you," remarked the Major, grimly, lifting his cap agaio, and showing a handsome iron gray head.

"But yon must come. I've promised myself the pleasure of dancing with you, and we can give these things up to the lieutenants entirely, can we, Celonel "No, my dear, we can't," piped the Colonel from the depths of the brougham. "Arid you particularly request that Major Standiford be present or accounted for, don't you. Colonel, at the bal "Of course I do," obediently replied Colonel Meyrick, who was somewhat afraid of the Major, but considerably more so of Mrs. Meyrick.

Meanwhile the Major had been gradually working himself into a kind of cold fury. Not one word about his wife bis poor Majorie. "It altogether depends," said the Major, with avage distinctness, fastening his resolute dark yea on Mrs. Meyrick's, "upon whether Mrs. Standiford wishes to go.

In that case I shall, of course, accompany her. I seldom go to balls except to oblige Mrs. Standiford. Good afternoon." The Major lifted his hat and pursued hiu way. But his heart was heavy.

It was always like this. The men dared not omit Mrs. Standiford but the women ah, how those smiling creatures could rend his soul about poor Marjorie! For Marjorie was what is railed under a cloud. Somebody bad said that Mrs. Standiford had another husband somewhere and the possible reappearance of this other man furnished gossip for all the tea tables at the fort.

In vain that every man who knew the Major knew that he could no more take a wicked woman to bis honest heart than he could fly. In vain Mrs. Standiford might justly claim to be the quietest, most stay-at-home woman at the post yet not a day passed that these two poor souls were not made to feel that impalpable suspicion that was like death to each, and then there was something after all. The Major conld swear upon his untarnished honor that both he and Majorie thought the man dead but suppose suppose The Major was a brave man. but this thought always made him tremble.

Then he hated the world. When she had been the victim of a brute, and he had stood forth to protect her as a brother might shield a sister, the blind, doting, hateful world had visited her with contempt not him, the strong man, but her, the weak woman. He trudged along in anything but a heavenly frame of mind until he reached his own door and opened it. Yes, there was the cheerful, crackling fire, the book he had left laid on the table waiting for him at the very page for the Major was a taciturn and reading man but no Marjorie. He stood for a moment with hts back to the fire expecting to see her enter, but she did not come.

He went and glanced in the cold, dark drawing-room opposite, and the pleasant dining-room where the cloth was laid. Next, with a troubled heart he mounted the stairs and knocked at Majorie's door. No Majorie. Then he went to bis own particular den to look for her. The leaving of this den to him was one of the wisest acts of Majorie's wise married life.

Here the 31 a or could retire unmolested when he wanted to indulge those bachelor habits that had been well fixed npon him when he bad married Marjorie. Herself the soul of neatness, Marjorie did not permit the invasion of the housemaid into this sacred spot. The Major never knew when it bad had a cleaning or not, and he sometimes thought if Majorie bad swept and dusted much there, he could'nt have loved her as well as be did. As he opened the door he rather hoped he would not find her. Only a few times since they had been married had Marjorie sought refuge there, and then when her heart had failed her; when she had cast herself absolutely on the Major's tenderness.

But there she was, cowering in the corner of the old cracked, brown-leather sofa. The minute Major Standiford met her glance he knew what had happened. The blow bad fallen. The znan was not dead after all. He shut the door, and going to the sofa took the poor thing in.

his arms. She did not speak or cry, but clung to him with a desperate affection. "What is itf asked the Major, presently, 'lis-has he "Yes." groaned Marjorie. "He wrote here is the letter." With a sudden impulse of fury he dashed the letter into the fire-place. "Damn him! Damn him!" he almost shouted.

Marjorie disengaged herself from his arms, ran to the fire-place, and almost from the live coals with her little white hand dracced the letter out. "You must read it you must read it," she pleaded. The Major took it gingerly and glanced through it. It was short. The writer informed Mrs.

Standiford that he was not dead as she probably hoped. That he didn't wish to make trouble, but merely wanted "an accommodation." "It's a black-mailing scheme," groaned the Major, clutching at a straw. "Yes," said poor Marjorie with pale lips and frightened eyes, "but on Tom Forrester's part. I Know the letter. If I could believe it was not his I would die with joy." Major Standiford sat with his eyes fixed on the fire.

"Dearest." said Marjorie, in a voice that trembled, "what will we do?" The Major looked at Marjorie and for answer kissed her cold hand. That was too much for her. She broke into tears, and sobbing, and fell upon bis breast. "Oh. what trouble have I brought upon you?" she cried.

"Not trouble not trouble, my dear," said the Major, in a husky voice. And then the two poor creatures sat hand in hand and talked over the death of their happiness. And two things were settled that as soon as the Major could apply for leave and get it, be was to take her to the one woman that would stand by them through it all the old maid aunt of the Major, that sometimes made him think that when angels appeared upon the earth they would wear mob caps and old-fashioned black silk gowns like his Aunt Erneline; and the second was that on the next night they should gu to the bal pondie so that notbine might give rise to suspicion. And then the Major was to see this wretched ghost that had risen from the dead to slay them and then and then Neither could face that terrible hereafter. Only, if they never met again, nothing could change that everlasting love.

Presently they went down to dinner. As Marjorie caught the reflection of ber own face in the dining-room mirror, she smiled a little bitter smile. She had never been strictly a beauty, and now a few gray strands were coming in her brown hair to match the Major's grizzlsd locks. And for sneh a face had Mnjor Standiford ruined his life! She forgot to count the soul within, which was what the Major chiefly valued. II.

Naturally, Mrs. Standiford loved She was the normal woman, hut on the lew occasions when pride for herself and respect for the Major induced her to go out. she often thought of the poor princess who walked smilingly over red-hot plow shares. The neglect of the women was bad enoucb, but the unremitting attention of the men was worse. Unluckily for Mrs.

Standiford. she danced beautifully and had that inexplicable charm that, without extraordinary wit or beauty, brought men to her feet. The good, the chivalrous, the appreciative, with the well-meant Uiocv of their sex. paid her a very marked and particular attention. Th youngsters and the unthinking were captivated by her soft attractions, and those who aspired to be gay and dashmir blades thought it a lark to follow Mrs.

Standiford around upoi the few occasions when they had the chance, considering their renatation johaneed by their attendance on one who was indefinitely desc.ibed as having or.ee been "talked about" Of course this flock of admirers did not tend to make the women love her any better. Neither the maids nor the matrons could regard her as anything but the enemy of their sex when they saw her surrounded by a cloud of lieutenants, while captains, and majors, and colonels hovered in the outskirts, and poor Marjorie was frightened and annoyed by it all, but carried a brave front over her sinking heart. "If they'd only keep away for to-night," she thought as she stood before here glass pinning a bunch of Parma violets into her white wool gown. But there was no such good luck. Pain and excitement, and the strong neeessitv of keeping her head well np toward the world then, if ever, had brought a brilliance to ber eye and a brightness to her cheek that made hr beautiful.

Her powdered hair enhanced the darkness of her eyes, and narrow, well-marked eyebrows, and she wore around her neck the diamond pndant that was Major Standiford's wedding gift, and was not put on for slight occasions. "By George! ain't she stunning to-night," remarked the lieutenants to one another, as she entered the ball-room, and by the time she had reached the spot where Mrs. Meyrick. resplendent in her red and gold, stood, she had a train after her. Major Sandiford felt her hand tremble oh his arm.

Even with him present, interviews with Mrs. Meyrick were of a trying nature. Mrs. Meyrick extended the tips of four gloved fingers to Mrs. Standiford, to which Mrs.

Standiford. summoning all that was left of a on high spirit, responded with a bow as slight as Mrs. Meyrick's. The Major, however, was gushingly received. "So glad to see Colonel, here's Major Standiford.

I can't believo your hair isn't powdered, after all. It is hard for a man to check a woman's politeness, no matter how meant. Major Staudi-ford, however, gave Mrs. Meyrick a look which, although it did not intimidate that redoubtable lady, brought the Colonel out from somewhere in the recesses of Madam's train. The Colonel was a good soul, though timid, but he saw it wouldn't do to try the Major too far.

"Delighted to see you, Mrs. Standiford," he observed. "Major, won't you allow me to take Mrs. Standiford off for ten minutes? Come and look at the decorations. What an amazingly pretty gown you've got on," and the Colonel, repeating the mistake of all the other men of feeling, tucked Mrs.

Standiford under his arm and marched off. Mrs. Meyrick and Major standiford stood still and glared at each other. But each was wary. Mrs.

Meyrick's weapon for striking the wife was adulation to the husband. The Major replied in monosyllables, but nobody could say he was not strictly attentive to all Mrs. Meyrick was saying. "Why weren't you at the tennis tournament!" she asked. "I hate tennis," was the Major's sententious and comprehensive reply.

Mrs. Meyrick lauehed. "I remember when you were the beau general of the post and didn't miss anything." "I'm a domestic man now," said the Major, with a smile in which there was no mirth. "Ah, that's what they all say," replied Mrs. Meyrick, wagging her head playfully.

"But I don't allow Colonel Meyrick to urge that as a sufficient excuse." "Colonel Meyrick isn't under good discipline. I'm afraid," coolly replied the Major. "Yon shouldn't allow him to insubordinate that way Under the powder Major Standiford saw the hot blood rush into Mrs. Meyrick's handsome face, lie would not willingly have hurt a fly, but he. stabbed back with keen delight the woman who had stabbed his Marjorie.

Everybody knew who commanded the commandant. Then he followed it up. "Won't you take my arm for a turn'" he asked, and before she knew it, Mrs. Meyrick was strolline around the room on Major Standiford's arm. That meant that Mrs.

Standiford could hold or to Colonel Meyrick indefinitely, and as the Cdtnel was stiff and starched where he dared to be, that Majorie would not be molested durine the promenade by the gilded youth. And both ColoneT and Mrs. Meyrick heard, besides numbers of other persons, that after the ball Major and Mrs. Standiford were to take a night train r'or a visit to Major Standiford's aunt but that Major Standiford would return and the news came from the fountain head. Tho ball, like all military balls, was a pretty one.

The band crashed merrily. Young fellows with red stripes down their legs, and others with yellow stripes down their legs, waltzed and polkaed, and old fellows with red and yellow-striped lees also stood around and conversed sagely with the dowagers. Marjorie danced almost incessantly. She had reflected that she could only dance with one man at a time, while if she sat down she could not prevent half a dozen congregating around her chair and for her, then, she would cheerfully have given nil their lives for the Major's little finger. The Major waiked through a quadrille or two with a wall-flower he was tender-hearted to women when they allowed him to be and listened as attentively to ber mature gush as if that night was not to take Marjorie from his home perhaps forever.

The Major, too, was a proud man. He hated and feared the bandying, of bis own as well as his wife's came at the officers' mess and thi" women's tea-tables. But he was also brave hud true, and it could cot turn him from his course. It was getting on toward midnight when supper was announced. The poor Major had gone through it all, but toward the last his courage failed him.

They were to leave on a train which passed at 2 o'clock. He could not bear to give up that last two hours to all the popinjays and idlers who fluttered Marjorie. They had agreed to leave tho hall at 1 o'clock, so that Marjorie might charge her gown, and they only had fifty yards to walk to the little way station. But the Major's heart began to ache too intolerably. Marjorie was on her way to supper on Colonel Meyrick's arm when Major Standiford Btopped her.

"1 don want to interrupt your enjoyment but do you think it's quite safe to leave ourselves so little time we might miss the train," he said, lamely enough. "I think we'd better go now," answered Mar jorie, hurriedly, disengaging her arm. "It is very little time," she added, in a trembling voice. "A very, very little time, indeed! "Why, this is perfectly preposterous," cried the Colonel, kindly, who suspected that Major and Mrs. Standiford hadn't bad any too good a time, and with the usual blundering of mascu line good will, thought it well to prolong the ag-oav.

"You really can't fnd shan't go. Major, as your superior officer, 1 insist that you shan't break up the ball this way. Come, Mrs. Standi ford, don mind him." "But I must mind him." said Mariorie. with a little, piteous smile.

"And what he says is very true. You know I'll be gone some time," she said, steadying her voice. The Major turned a little away when she said this. "Sorry to hear it but you'll return to us even more blooming than before," gallantly replied Colonel Meyrick, who was complimentary, not to say flowery. when Mrs.

Meyrick's back was turned. 'So." said Marjorie, holding out one slim hand, "I'll say a real eood-bye. There are so many others that 1 can say good-bye to and you'll tell them I didn't like to break up the ball. You've been very kind to me," she said with a sudden impulse, and then stopped shcrt Was she indeed going awayf And was this the last time she could hold up her head and look the world bravely in the face? The Colonel murmured all sorts of polite things, and pres ently she slipped away, and she and Major Standiford walked arm and arm in the darkness along the road where Mrs. Meyrick had stopped the Major a few davs before.

1 hey scarcely spoke. They were not yet familiar enough with their trouble to speak of it The Major opened the door, and they went into the little sitting-room, where some of their happiest hours had been passed. The embers gave out a dull, red glow, as they sat hand in hand waiting the stroke of the clock. The Major, like a man, was restless in his anguish. He would leave Marjorie and walk fiercely up and down the dark, cold hall outside, and come back and fling his arms desperately around her.

Marjorie, like a woman, was patient in her pain. She thought of everything. The Major, but for her, would have gone away in his uniform. But at last the clock struck the quarter hour, and a soldier came and tapped on the "Train's coming, sir," he said, touching his cap. Marjorie rose and gazed around her by the dim iight How sweet it had always th home.

How sweet, now that she was about to leave it! The Major read her thoughts. He carefully raked the embers down, led her from the room, locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "So long as I live in this house nobody but me shall enter this room until you return." "And if and if I should not return." She had meant to pay something to thank him for all the peace and happiness she had known in that house, but she could not and besides that they had reacned the front door, and the soldier stood there holdmc a lantern. "Don't say that." said the Major, hoarsely. "If I thouaht that by God, I'd be afraid to trust myself with, my own pistol." And so these two unfortunates made their sad way under the gloomy trees, with the wind southing dolefully through the branches; while afar off shone the lights of the ball-room, and the faint echo of dancing feet and merry music floated out oc the still air.

IIL After that the days were dismal to the Major at the fort, and to Marjorie at the little town a hnndred miles away. For Tom Fornester was indeed alive and piaguicg for money, which the Jlajor would have given him had not Marjorie and Aunt Emeline wisely prevented. The Major wanted Marjorie to apply for a divorce from th wretch, to which she agreed williogjy enoueh. But after the divorce Marjoiie cried a if ber heart would break, when the Major stormed, and she fainted dead away when heat last broke down and fell on his knees before her, imploring ber to take pity on them both, a'nd nsrree to a remarriage after the divorce. But the woman who had been "talked about" was brave enough to withstand it all.

I took that wretch for better or worse it has turned out to beworee. I ll acree to the divorce to keep him away from roe but to marry again could I ever look you in the face?" She said this many times to the Major, and she wrote it to him and at last he suilenlv accepted it. Nothing but to wait until whisky should kill the wretch, or rascality should direct a bullet into his heart Meanwhile, no suspicion had gone forth. There was no need to tell anything for the present The amateur detectives at the fort bal found out that Mrs. Standiford was really with Major Standiford's aunt and also, that Mrs.

Standiford had not been well, and the air of the little mountain town was better for her than the fort And then the Major had been detailed to goon a long and fatiguing Western trip, so bis locked and closed quarters did not excite any unusual speculation. But the Major came back after a while, and his altered looks beean to make people ask him sly questions. The Major's heart seemed to have altered, too. The devii of vengeance possessed him. Marjorie was ill.

Nothing particular was the matter with her. The doctor bad told Aunt Emiiine plainly that something was on Mrs. Standiford's mind, and until that was removed ho could do nothing. And Aunt Emiiine had written anxiously, and said that every week Marjorie wa3 getting thinner and paler, and that all night long she heard her light step pacing up and down the room, and that she feared Marjorie was not lone for this word. When the Major read this letter he felt a change, sudden and sharp, within him.

He must kill that man. Murderer or felon. Marjorie would marry him if he were frea He would give the wretch a chance for his life but the world was not big enough for both of them. Then he groaned over himself. Wrhere had gone that other brave, enduring self, and whence had come this bloodthirsty, craving, revengeful self? He would go to Bellport He did not distinctly say to himself that he would find Forrester and kill him.

but he knew Forrester would be there, and he did what he had never done before he took with him a little seven chambered revolver a dangerous toy. He got to Bellport in the evening and walked past the house where Majorie lay. He longed to ask after her, but he dared not Something made him fear her perhaps that dreadful, half-formed purpose in his mind that made him hate himself worse than he hated Forrester. He went to the hotel and ate his supper gloomily in the sraudy little dining-room. There was no sign of 1' orrester, but yet he knew he was in the house.

He went out and walked the streets nntil midnight When he returned, he glanced into the smoking-room. Three men sat playing cards. Forrester was one a tall, handsome, rakish looking fellow, elaborately dVessed, like a gambler in luck. The Major walked in. No one recognized him except Forrester.

Forrester had but one virtue, and that was courage. "Won't you join us in a little game euchre, you see," he said with cool and easy insolence. "With pleasure," replied the Majer, giving Forrester a glance which made him repent having ever come iu Standiford's way. The otherkwo men, one of whom described himself as a commercial traveler, and the other said he was "nothing but a plain drummer," looked surprised. They did not often Sde men like Major Standiford join that sort of a game in that sort of a way.

Standiford took a seat 6ilently, opposite the plain drummer, and the cards were dealt Standiford and his partner had a continual run of ill luck. Standiford played boldly and well, but the cards were against him. Presently the deal came to Forrester. He turned ud an ace. Standiford laid hie cards down on the table.

"Put down that card, that was on top." Forrester's face did not change color, nor did he flinch. Standiford reached behind him and took out the little pistol and laid it down beside him. "It's a seif-cocker," remarked Forrester, calmly surveying it, and sorting his cards. Major Standiford put the pistol carefully back into his pocket, and suddenly rising, reached out and seized Forrester by the collar. "Put down that card," he repeated.

Here the drummer interfered. "I guess you'd better bring that card out. I saw you, and this gentleman appears to be stronger than you, and to have his pistol handier." Forrester, with Major Standiford's hand still at his throat, reached down, and from some unknown depths, produced a card the ten of spades. Standiford let him go, and taking out a baud-kerchief, coolly wiped his hands. "Gentlemen." said the plain drummer, "this' thing's gone far enough for me.

I like a social game myself, but I 6een trouble coming when. Mr. What's-his-name camo into the game. My. little bed is a-waitin' for me.

Wishin' you a pleasant evening, I must bid you good night" His companion, who had in the beginning retired preeipitatebly to a 6ofa in thejeorner, also rose. "Them's my sentiments, gents," he said, and vanished with his friend. Forrester rose and shut the door after them, then returned to his seat facing Major Standiford. Standiford's face was pale, and great drops stood on his forehead. Forrester bad not once lost his coolness.

"I didn't think you'd undertake to kill me like that You did as if you'd shoot me down, just now." "I did not think so once, either." answered Standiford, "but you have made me almost as vile as you." "Well," continued Forrester, after a pause, "I going to do for you a favor. I'm going to save you from being a murderer. As for me, it don't matter much. There are two or three men out West looking for me, and I've got a kind of feeling that a bullet's coming my way soon. May be you know that men in my way of living generally know when their time's coming, and I've known for six months mine wasn't far off.

So it wouldn't matter much if you did for me, though I tell you fair and square I'd get the drop on you first if I could. But I'll never get the drop on any man now. I know it." "Go on," said Standiford, quietly. "Well, neither of us, neither of us, can have her. you know." "Don't speak her name," shrieked Standiford, springing at him like a wild beast Then he dropped back into his chair.

"She's you know, don't you?" "Know what?" replied Standiford, turning ashy. "She's dying," answered Forrester. Standiford rose, put on his hat, and walked straight out or the room, lie took his way toward the small white house he knew so well. His head reeled. Had he then been saved the awful need of killing that man Mieht he once more go among his fellow men without feeling that he was foredoomed to wash his hands in blood? And was Marjorie, poor Marjorie, dying?" He paused before the door.

He had not dared to go there two hours ago. Even now he was not certain that if Marjorie lived he should cot vet kill Forrester. But something a feeling that he was not yet a murderer, even in his heart, gave him courage. He walked up the steps and was about to pull the bell when the door opened as if some one were waiting for him. The fresh-faced housemaid, with her hand on the knob, started back, with a half scream.

She knew who the Major was, and his face frightened her. Without saying a word, he walked in. The gas in the little parlor was yet lighted, although it was long past midnieht. Everything had that dreadful air of order and precision that immediately follows a death. The Major made his way to the staircase.

He remembered seeing a light in the upper windows. His heavy step aroused the house. Miss Emiiine slipped out on the landing. The Major knew what had happened then, just as he knew the day he had found Marjorie in the corner of the old sofa at home. When did she die?" he asked in his own strong, steady voice.

"This afternoon, at 6 clock, answered Miss Emiine. "It was so sudden at the last I could not telegraph you in time. I thought she would last a month or two yet." "And her message?" said the Major. He knew Marjorie so well. "lo keep your bands oft that man.

Ah, how well Marjorie knew him, too. "She wanted to live," kept on Miss Emiiine. "The preacher I sent for said it couldn't be called a resigned death-bed. 'I can't live for she said, 'but 1 can die for Nevertheless, I believe her to have been ooe of God's women always." The Major knew the door by instinct He opened it and went it Occasionally during the nieht Miss Emiiine glanced in. Sometimes the Major was kneeling by the bed, holding the icy hand.

Again he sat in a chair and stroked the soft hair. It wrung his heart still more to see how many gray hairs bad come there since first he knew her; and then she had been bis salvation. But for that message he could never aeain meet her. The Major was a man in his grief. He went throueh all that followed without one touch of unmanly weakness.

But he could cot go bacic to that house. Another man. took the Majors quarters, and another had Marjorie's little sitting-room, while the Major fought with the cold, and the scow, and starvation, and Indians far off, and Marjorie slept peacefully in the little burying ground at the fort The Major had always said: "Don't let the red devils get my body." So when the day came, although they could not save his life, yet the Major's body, all full of bullets and hacked bs only the Indians know how to hack the dead, was found and laid be.ide Marjorie. And Forrester stvli lives. How was it! THE LITTLE ISLAND OF REIL It Is in the Human Head and Is the Most Wonderful Isle in the World.

Instances of How Persons Los the Power of Calling Things by Their Right Names, and let Are Perfectly Rational. The Island of Reil, though diminutive in size, its area cot to do measured by square miles or even acres, is by far the most wonder ful isle in the world. It is net locate! in any school atlas, and it is Quite unlikely that it has a place upon any shipman's chart with its latitude and longitude correctly given, yet it is the seat of the most wonderful and ceaseless activity, being engaged not only in the mightiest operations of commerce, but in all the intricacies of science and art. Notwithstanding its importance its discovery is recent All the great navigators from Noah down to Captain Cook, whose disappearance immediately preceded a Fiji clambake, sailed by it, leaving its discovery to John Christian Reil, who was not a navigator at all, but a German anatomist, born in February, 1759, and who died; in Berlin in November, 1S13, for the Island of Reil is an isle of the brain, "an isolated cluster of convolutions at the bottom of the fissure of TJilvius between the anterior and middle lobes of the cerebrum." Anyone can locate this mighty island in h'a own head by placing the finger just in front of the left ear, at the top of the ear, and drawing a line forward toward the eye and a little above. The island is about one and three-quarter inches in length.

It seems to be in a section, and almost a separate portion of the cerebrum. When this little island is disturbed by a shock some strange things take place. It is sometimes impaired by b'ows over the temple in external injuries, but when harmed from internal causes, which are much more frequent, the injury is caused by a plugging up of the branch of the artery that supplies that portion of the encephalon. It is sometimes harmed through inflam mations cocnected with the ear. When the Island of Reil is internal properly nourished it is fair and beautiful, filled with all manner of wonderful things, but when its proper supply of moisture from the life-giving artery fails a deadly drouth comes on and everything dies.

On the other hand, if the arterial current is too strong and its supply greater than is needed the island becomes overgrown with a wild tangle and all is confusion. The island is the seat of language and of memory, and during the last thirty years has been closely studied by students of brain diseases, especially various forms of aphasia. Aphasia is the loss of power of speech, or, as usually understood, the partial or complete loss of the power to articulate speech from cerebral difficulties. Amnesic aphasia is the loss of memory of words. The movements necessary for speech remain intact, but the words needed will not come, or, if they do, cannot be expressed.

Sometimes only certain kinds of words are forgotten, or it may be even only parts of certain words, so that only a part of such words can be spoken. It is common for old persons to for.get proper names. Ataxic aphasia is the loss of speech owing to inability to execute the various movements of the tongue and lips necessary for speech. a person so afllicted attempts tc speak the effort re-suits in mere grimaces and inarticulate sounds. In this phase of disease the patient may still be able to give expression to his thoughts by writ ing.

Agraphia is another phase in which tho nerve centers are so attacked that writing is not possible. In the incomplete formation of this portion of tne Dram in children there are example of aphasia existing from the time thev begin to speak until they become masters of the language. These are frequently very interesting nod amusing, and are long remembered in the annals of household humor, and related with pleasure. The curious expressions that infants make in describing things are caused by the im perfection of this part of the brain, and it may really be called one of the organs of the brain. Large numbers of persons are more or less aphasic from infancy, and increase of vears and protracted study seem to cure what is as much a defect as a deformed armor leg.

In stuttering and stammering the deficiency comes as much from the Island of Kiel as from any assumed de nciency in tne vocal cords. Aphasia in its lighter forms is shown in many ways, none of which is more frequent than that of a person who, in attempting to speak the name of an individual, a name with which he is perfectly familiar, suddenly finds himself unable to make the combination necessary to its utterances. There are many notable examples of this, in some cases it comes unpleasantly near home, as in the case of a German professor, who, being suddenly called upon for his name. was unable to give it. It had seemingly been as completely obliterated from his memory as if it had never found lodgment there, and when, at his request, restored by a friend, he was hardly satisfied, thinking perhaps a substitution had been made and that he was entertaining a lounonng.

t-uny notes or tne or tor Jiessaia Corvinus that he forgot his own naroe and coth iiig else. A frequent modern fornr of aphasia is to forget the names and faces of ones creditors, though remembering perfectly where their business houses are located, and remembering, too, like Dick Swiveller, to take another thoroughfare when going about the city. The Island of Reil is so intimately related with not only the organs of speech, but in communication with other portions of the brain, where ideas are stored away for use, that it seems an organ of combination, much like an instrument with chords attached to different keys, or like a telephone exchange, connecting many thousands of different wires. The diseases of this organ present a series of most curious phenomena from the simplest loss of a word to express an idea up to complete loss of all power of expression, and yet the individual suffering the loss may be perfectly sane and competent to transact business, or follow any occupation. In answer to an inquiry as to tho number of aphasic persons at the Hospital for the Insane, Dr.

Fletcher, the superintendent of that institution, said: "There are really but few. I knew a remarkable instance of aphasia in the city awhile ago. The subject had formerly been a raiiread engineer. One day while sitting at home at table. be was attacked with a sudden faintness, and fell to the floor.

Whan taken up be was found to be partly paralyzed, but in a few weeks regained all his normal powers except that of expression in speech. That his ideas were perfectly clear was shown by the fact that he was able to nnderstandingly do various pieces of work about his home, and that when his wife would give him the grocery book to ge to the neighboring store, and have written the list of the material she desired, the errand would be accurately performed. He would carsfnlly examine the articles given bim and determine whether he wished them or not. but his only power of verbal expression was the two words, 'how and whether be wanted the article or refused it his sole expression, going and coming, was 'how This was some five years ago, and the man continues in the -earn condition to this day. An instance where ideas were expressed in an odd form was given by a patient in the hospital.

He could write after a copy when placed before him, but when the copy was removed he could not sign eves his own came. When shown the picture of a camel and asked to write the name, he could nt do so, but expressed bis idea by saying, 'desert, far "Another patient who had been struck over the temple with a pick recovered from the first injury with almost complete sphasia. He would use the utmost endeavor to express ideas or to answer a question, making all sorts of wry faces and erimaces, twisting bis body in many uncouth shapes, when ficaJly, in utter helplessness and disgust, he would throw up hia hands and turn his back upon those who were so anxious to bear him speak. I recently observed a ease of partial aphasia, both of speech and by the expression of the buds and facial muscles. I asked this patient hew old be was, 'Pretty very up high' was his answer.

Knowing quite well he did not give proper answer, he endeavored to correct it, but his langnage was so confused and insufficient fhat he abandoned the attempt This man, in writing, could construct a sentence, but an aphisic word coming in would cause him to stop writing. He could cot continue his sentesei, neither could he skip the wort "There is anotherinterestmg apbasic patient in the hospital, a nun who had not, as the result of an injury above temple, spoken for years. An operation had Jeen performed, removing a portion of the dentpssed bone. has since been able to express himself in speech, but it requires a lone time for him to collect the ideas from the different portions of the brain, and co ordinate them into the sentence. An on time, after having been silent for some week, he was strongly urged to answer a question Remaining wuh his eyes closed for some minutes he hastily, almost explosively, and with great rapidity of utterance, as if afraid the idea would eludf him before he could voice it.

said, 'A man should alwavs consider before I said. 'Henry, whvdon'tyou answermy queatton. ion can talk, for I have heard youf After trying hia best, after long thought, evidently, trytne to brine all tha lines into harmony to get his words. then having woiked the force up. he uttered the brief reply very rapidly.

This is always his method whpn he has anvthine to express. It is evident a great effort is required to fit the ideas together and get the tongue to act before they vanish. "There is a form of aphasia noticed frequently in children who have scarlatina, or in persons with fcootted fever, or an abscess forming at the basti of the brain will cause them to utter a series of sentences that are rhythmical or meas ured, and they will keep these measured utter ances going, hour after hour, speaking, sometimes, in unknown toncues. making new com binations, forming sentences that would puzzle Merzofanti himself, yet, at the same time ap-nearinff to have ideas and seeming to be intent on giving them expression. A few instances have occurred where the persons affected no longer spoke in their own laniruae-e.

but snoke in one acquired in their vouth. A minister of the gospel, who had been a Hebrew student, and yet had not used the laneuace for many years, when affected in that portion of the brain, spoke only in the Hebrew tongue. A singular thing is that many persons tipeakioe German as their native tongue. speak only Enelish when so affected, the knowl edge of all other laneuage, for the time, being obliterated. Others, who have spoken only L.u- elish for many years, will return to the Ger man." OF INTEREST TO WOMEN.

SSlSWl A Tlan by Which Spring: Cleaning May Be Advanced to the Dignity of a Profession. Written for the Indianapolis Journal. A New Ittialnes fur Women. "The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year. Of cleaning paint, and scrubbing floors, and scouring far and near." The back yards are littered with all manner of household goods, and the thwack of carpet-beat ing is heard on every hand, and the feminine world is enjoying the high tide of the spring cleaning carnival.

In the spring a woman fancy turns to thoughts of renovating all her belongings, from Faster bonnets to kitchen closets, just as surely as the "young man'sfancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." This great domestic upheaval that the average man cannot "see any sense in" is but the following out of resistless feminine instincts. This natural desire for change and cleanliness does not stop at house-cleaning, and is one of the important elements in the process of evolution. Otherwise this old earth would soon be lost under its own dust, and ashes, and debris. In her spring cleaning career the housekeeper frequently has need of aids extra "help" to carry out her plans and fulfill, her desires. Among the comparatively few working women who don object to doing house-cleaning at cents or $1 per day, provided all their condi tions and environments are jnst right at the time they are wanted, she may find one who is willing and efficient But with the majority, as with many housekeepers, the theory and practice of house cleaning is "slashin's and elashinV of soap and water applied with little elbow grease and less brains.

1 he better tho housekeeper deritands the science of cleaning the more di fll cult it is to obtain help that is of any real value to her. Perchance she emplovs a man. Men are traditionally prompt and thorough in their work, but traditions are not always supported by facts. The man on whose promises she implicitly depends is apt to put in a late appearance, having been detained by an imperative demand else where for hia invaluable services. Ten chances to one she finds that his theory of house-clean tng is embraced in getting the carpet up, and in getting it down again, and that he is dominated by two ideas only he isn't going to be hurried.

and he won't be bossed by a woman! This latter assertion is a besetting weakness of the superior sex. and the less capable a man is of controlling himself, or of directing his affurs wisely, or do ing a certain work skillfullv, the more emphatic and defiant is his declaration that he "doesn't allow no woman to boss him." As a paid occupation, housecleaning is ranked low, though the pay is better than in many others. Few women are willing to engage in it. It is too hard, dirty and disagreeable they r.ty. thoneh why it is harder than running a sewing machine sixteen hours out of twenty-four, or why it is more dirty and disagreeable than sorting rags or stemming tobacco does not appear.

Properly estimated it would take a front rank. It is one of the essentials, the demand is urgent in the seasons. On it depends much of the beanty of the house, the durability of its furnishings and the comfort and health of its inmates. It is an important form of applied art and science. It calls for the 6kill of the needle-worker, the scourer and the artisan, the cunning of the chemist, the knowledge of the sanitary expert and the taste of the educated decorator.

Herein lies a neglected opportunity. Why should not some woman raise this humble occupation, which is distinctively in the line of feminine instincts and inclinations, to the dignity of a business or a profession? Just as men have evolved the steam laundry from the family washboard and tub and the great bakeries from the kitchen oven. Let us suppose, as the children say, with the budding of the trees or the falling of the leaves madame wishes her palace, with its elegant furnishings and endless bric-a-brac, thoroughly cleaned. For dust and grime accumulate, and moths and rust corrupt in th palace as well as in the cottage. Madame communicates with the office of Miss "professional household renovator." At the appointed time, weather permitting.

Miss Z. comes with her trained assistants who have sufficient strength, sense and conscience to faithfully execute orders. She brings light-padded packing cases in which the ornaments, small pictures, can be safely stored while room is being cleaned. She brings her supply of implements; her scrub-brushes and whisk-brooms and hair brushes and brooms of different sizes, her bristle brushes toclean carvings and crevices, and her assortment of clean cloths and dusters, and chamois skins. Also, her cases of chemicals and cleansing agents and disinfectants, and her assortment of silks and worsteds for darning carrots acd upholsteries.

She oeeins with the cellar. All rubbish, ashes and forms of decay are removed, coal-bins swept, walls and ceiling whitewashed, floor cleaned, and everything purified. She proceeds through the house, taking one room at a time. The range and furnace flues are cleaned, the drain pipes and stationary basins thorouehly examined and cleansed with carbolie acid, or coperas if needed. Carpets are carefully taken up, shaken and swept, not pounded to pieces.

Carpets, rues and draperies badly soiled are sent to Mies establishment to be properly cleaned. Rugs and carpets slightly soiled are rubbed hard lengthwise (not across) with cloths wrung out of water to which ammonia has been added and then rubbed dry with clean cloths, the water being changed as it becomes dirty. Woolen and silk draperies are brushed, spread upon a table and carefully wiped with soft cloths. Dusty floors are sprinkled with damp sand and swept, then scrubbed with hot water, to which carbolic acid has been added, thereby killing all' germs. Hard-wood floors, oiled or painted, are wiped with cold water, to wfewh a little castile soap is and linseed or sweet oil have been added.

Walls and ceilings are carefully wiped. Oil cloths are washed with skim mflk and soft flannel cloths and rubbed dry, without use of snap or scrubbing-brushes, then given a coat of thin damar varnish, which makes them as bright as new. Straw matting is swept and washed with hot salt water. Wooden carpets are wiped with cloths wrungout of clear, cold water, and rubbed with a dry cloth, then rubbed with beeswax and turpentine, applied with a flat brnsb, and polished with a soft cloth. Painted wood-work is washed with soft flannel, warm water and whitine, or with finely-pulverized pumice-stone, and grained or varnished wood-work with cold tea, and scratched and chipped places are deftly repaired with paint or varnish.

Windows are washed with warm water with a little ammonia in it, and polished with lintless cloths or chamois. Splashes of saint are removed with diluted oxalie acid. Breaks in plastered walls are repaired with plaster of Paris, Spots on wall-paper are cleaned with stale bread or covered with paper carefully matched. Willow furniture is washed with salt water applied with a coarse brush. Upholstered furniture is thoroughly brushed and rubbed.

If infested with moths it is saturated with benzine. Kero sene is used with a bristle brush to clean carved work. Varnished surfaces are rubbed with a mixture of one part sweet-oil to two of turpentine, which polishes and removes scratches. Oiled woods are rubbed with flannel wet in lin-ee2-oil. Grease-spots are removed from all fabric with benzine.

Ink-spots with oxalic ae.d. followed by thorough rinsing and a little ammonia to neutralize the acid. Steel ar cleaned with then rubbed fine with emery-papr and sweet-oil, a soft cloth acd newspaper Zine is cleaned with kerosene, Iicel.M Wt. vinegar and water. Brass stair-rod sets.

etc, are cleaned with ice-stone and sweet-oil and pols.hM with chamois. Steel fire sets are cleaned mZ brick dust Tarnished brass Is cleaned with alic acid; bronze with a mixture of one part ma! riatic acid and two parts water, Wla cloth, and when dry. polished with tMt Marble mantels are cleaned with pulverizd pna ice-stone, marble hearths witn sapolio stains are removed with zavelle water. These are but some of the ordinary details of house-cleaning as a fine art. Our profegsi0J renovator is fertile in resources, and hr labor tory is equal to emergencies.

Treasure tht have met with accidents the "almost rained draperies, the broken bric-a-brac, the dam! paiotine, the soiled etchings, she rutorii "a'maiat as weel as new." She iT vises the house mistress regarding UtetiM in furniture and furnishincs, the values of ferent materials and the artistic arrangement of rooms. She is alert to the dangers of nioj8r, plumbing, and to the unwhoiesomeness f- quently concealed by elegant appointment. Under her directions sanitary laws are entab lished in the sleeping-rooms and the kitchens are transferred into abodes of "sweetness light" n4 Aud all this process of renovation goes 0n ga quietly and systematically that the usual roiuin, of the household is scarcely disturbed. Expn" sivel Perhaps so; luxuries usually come high but a consummation devovtly to be wished. Specialties and division of labor are the order of the day.

and in this untroilflen path mn women mieht find a new and profitable prof. Eton, wnicu, in of inestimable sion, which, in its general application, would ha ble benefit to women. Flouence M. Adkissos. Indianapolis, Ind.

The Latest Novelties in Decoration. Novelties in portieres and curtains for summer use are of fine unbleached linen embroidered in bright-colored floss silks. Tho design may be in the form of a border of arabesques or flowers at the top and at the bottom of the car-tain, the lower one, of course, being the wider or the entire surface of the linen may be embroidered in any pattern that suits the fancy. This involves a greater amount of work, but ths effect, when, finished, is much richer. Covers for tea tables and dressing bureaus can also be manufactured of unbleached linen embroidered in a similar manner, lined with thin silk and fringed on the edges.

This kind of work orij. inatod with the Irish peasantry, and a few pieces were receutly imported to this country by a prominent art dealer of New York. They were so admired that since then they hare been most extensively copied and imitated. A pretty model for a lamp thade destined at an Easter offering was a square of white gumh with a round opening cut in the centre. The silk was hand-painted in an exquisite design ot pals wild roses and honeysuckle, and edced with wide Valenciennes lace.

The opening in the middle was faced, and had a white satin ribbon run through it, by means of which the shads was properly adjusted to tho lamp chimney. It used to be the fashion to put slices of fresh lemon in finger bowls at entertainments, bat nowadays this custom is confined wholly to hotels and restaurants. Whatever flowers happen to be in season aroused instead. Just now, violets, daffodils and lilies-of-the-valley are seeo in profusion on dinner and luncheon tables, and whoever happens to have any Bohemian glass stowed away in the cupboard has become ac object of envy, 6ince no table decoration is now considered complete without it Clara Lanza. The Professional Darner.

The last new feminine occupation, just estab lishing itself in New York, this spring, is that of a neighborhood darner, in one ramiiy that I know, punctually every Wednesday comes an ingenious little body, who, comfortably settled with a cup of coffee in a back room, rets to work on the havoc that the three riotous youngsters and an impatient man have wrought This mender has a clientele of from a dozen to twenty houis- holds to which she gives from a day to an hour or two each every week. Very convenient they find her for the ripping arid cleaninj of old gowns and the darning of hose sud other domestic duties for which, in the buntls and hurry of Vanity Fair, they never find time. Her engagements are systematized and she, never eoes without work and or less good pny. Watching the cheery dame over her task, it does one good to see the new system gaining foothold and to think what a relief in the long run it may very likely prove to the overtaxed American housekeeper. There are menders who handy at lace and the daintier sorts ot needle work, and if the trade becomes a recognized on it will earn a good many pennies for women forced to turn bread and butter-winners.

Yet, always a cripple, my child. And always con lined to my chair. No. I cannot remember the time When I hadn't this burden to bear. Yon ak me what makes me bright Tho' Time o'er my forehead has flung His mantle ail anhen and urny! Well, you see that my huart is still young.

Am I lonesome? No, never. 'My friends Are faithful, and come at my call. Who are they? Earth's rarest and beit; They troop here from hut and from hall. My room it is empty and poor, And the skies they are dark here, you ayt Do I mind it? No child, nnt a bit, For I've been in Venico all day. In a gondola glided all day Up and down between ftoricd old walls: Glided under the grim Bridge of Sigh.

And heard every gray ghost that calls. "In Venice? You! cripplod, and still Tied down to this ngly old Yes. mv child, Fate can't biud down tny tho-Jglifc. That as free as the birds of the air. It transports me wherever I will.

Thank (rod, in roy imnd I touch liands With my follows all over the earth. My brothers in far-distant lands. But I talk of strange countries, as one Who knows how each famous spot looks; Well, why not? Don't I go everywhere, And see everybody in books? M. N. in IJoeton Clohft, ISartlmeii.

"And Jesus answered and said tmto him. What wilt thou that I shonlil do nntr. thee? '1 ho blind msa said unto him, Loid, that I might receive my sight I would recei-e my sight; my clouded eyes Miss the if lad radiance of the morning sun, The chaiifriiig tints that glorify the ekie With roseate siilondors when the dav is done; The shadows soft and gray, tliepeatly light Of Summer twiligut deen'mug into night I cannot see to keep the narrow way. And so 1 blindly wander here and theM, Groping amidst the tombs, or helpless stray Throuirh pathless, tatifrled deserts, blealt nua kww Weeping I seek the way 1 cannot find Open my eyes, dear Ixird, for 1 am blind. And oft I laugh with some light, thoughtless isst Nor see how anzuish lines om face most dear, And write my mirth, a mocking palimpsest un Diottea scrolls or human pain ana And never see the heurtache interlined Pity, oil, son, of David! I am blind.

I do not see the pain my light words give. ftn rm ine quivering, shrinking neart i So. light of thouarht. midst hidden grief I live. a i sw.htlss ffiesi Open mine eyes, light, blessed wnys to find-Jesus, have mercy on me 1 am blind.

My useless eye are reservoirs of tears, i it.i- i i l. To weep for thoughtless wavs of wandorin? year. Becauoe I euuM not see did not know. These sightless eyes than angriest Klsnee lc XJight ot the World, fcave pity: i am ujibu. ROBINSNEST, April 23.

Robert J. The Lights of London Town. The way was Ion and wary, But gallantly they strods, A country lad and lassie. Along the heavy road. The niht was dark and stormy, But blithe of heart were thev, For shining in the distance The liehts of London lay.

gleaming lights of London, that gent tne Whafortues lie within yon, ligMs of London town! The years passed on and found them' Within the mighty fold. The years hd brought them trouble. But brought thm httlo gold. Oft fr-m their garret window. On long, still mirutner nnfhts.

They'd swk the far-olf country O. mocking lamps of London, what weary ey And mooTn the day they saw you, lights of Loodoa town. With faces worn and weary. That told of sorrow's load. One day a man and woman OfPt down a country The-y sought their natsre village.

Heart-broken from the fray. Yet shining atili behind t'nr The lights of Lor. don ly. -1 cruel lamps of London tt tears your tears orown. Your victims' eyes would weep don town.

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