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THE UPPER DIES MOINES. ALGONA. KTK A< WEDNESDAY, JUNE 17,1891. HUMAN .STATURE ONCE MORE. Ho* it U That the Snppiy of Irish La«R«s Never Full* Short. have heard of th< old story of the jwtnan—it has been told on Barnum, course—wlio.mnd-f hiti_ fortune by ad- srtifiing a hor»e with his head where his il ought to be. .Thousands tame to see the wonder and jcb visitor fniiiid himself sold—yet amus- so—for all that there was inside the it'was a horse hitched wrong end to in stall. The showmen inside suggested to his ite visitors that it would be a good joke sell their neighbors when they went out pretending to be greatly struck with e wonders of the horse and thus getting to pay a visit to the show, and as iach one took his advice the secret was [f intact, and the showman reaped the regards of his genius and insight into human nature. • r I thought of this story one evening when ' I heard of our pood Annie vowing and < tumming in the kitchen that she was_going tack to Ireland again. She was tired 1 of work, she said, and America was a humbug, and she was just about ready to shake the dust of it from her feet for- 'fever. T "Why, Annie," 1 said, "you surely don't have to work'any.harder in.this country than you did at home." "Sure and I do, sor. I didn't do much work at home, 1 can tell you " "But who did it then?" "Well, (.here was my mother did most of it; and then there is always some one poorer than poor are in Ireland, no matter now poor you are, and you can hire them for a song' to do your work for you. And then you see there isn't much work to do there." "But how is it you all come over to ' America? _You surely do not como over here expecting to be fine ladies right off, without even doing any work?" "Indeed and we do. sor. and that is just where it lies. A girl comes over hern supposing that all she has to do is to sit still and the money will drop i..to her apron. Well, when a girl gets over here and finds that she has to work just as hard here as anywhere one is naturally backward about telling the folks at home that she is working out in somebody's^kitchen. She spends her first wages_ for gimcracks and gewgaws, has her picture taken and sends it over to the folks at home with all the airs of a queen, and of course every girl of her aequaintence is just burning up with envy laying plans to come over and be a fine lady herself, and ride in the park and go to summer resorts. She does not tell them that it is done as hired help." "But how is it, Annie, that all_the girls who go babk to Ireland come flying back here again by the very first steamer?" "Just give me a chance and see if I will, sor?" "But how about jour beau?" ' "Och mavoarneen, f never thought of that." But I thought that the burden of the soul of the gentle handmaiden was lightened by the suggestion. A KISS OUT OF PLACE. :o pnsh a hole in the planks with a small cane. "John!" "Susie!" The people around in the immediate vicinity heard these ex- claimationa and looking nround they saw a young woman sobbing with her face on the shoulder of a fine looking young man. The man looked puzzled, bat liappy, while the young lady was unconscious of all surroundings. She did not care who saw her now. All unpleasantness was forgotten. The couple had made up, but they did not kiss. Carney looked as if be would like to, but he had one terrible experience and that was enough. Constable Brady took the document from his pocket and deliberately toro it to pieces. When the bride sought him to say that bis services were not needed he had disappeared. RUBHEUS. Whore the Material Comes from, and How They arc Made. Many people suppose that rubber shoes are made by melting the material and running it into moulds. Such is not the case. The manufacture of rubber shoes is not very much different from the manufacture of leather shoes. They are made on lasts just the same, but instead of being sewed they are cemented. "We get most of the raw material from South America," said a drummer. It is about the color of mo 1 asses and is of a spongy nature. First it goes through a crushing or rolling process and comes out in rough sheets and looks very much like a cow's hide, then it is taken into a compounding room, where it is mixed with a compound and vulcanized. After that it is cut up into small pieces, according to the parts of shoes which we wish to get, and is afterward fitted on to lasts by the workmen in the same manner that leather is. "How much pure rubber is contained in the manufactured article? About 70 per cent. The best Para gum costs 85 cents a pound, so you see rubber boots and shops can not be made for nothing. In the smallest rubber -shoe made there are about four ounces of pure rubber, and from that to probably four pounds in a pair of rub her boots. "Old rubbers are ground up, lining and all, into what we call rag carpet, and it is used for insoles. "The work is nearly all done by hand, and in the factories are employed young children, men and women. A bootmaker gets 20 cents a pair for making them, and a good man can turn out from ten to twelve pairs a day. "There are between fifteen and twenty rubber boot aud shoe factories in the country, with a total capacity of over 150,000 pairs of boots and shoes a day. "There are four factories having a capacity of over 25,000 pairs each, and one which has a capacity of 40,000 pairs. It is d mystery where they all go to." THE AMERICAN GIRL. An Encaged Bride Dcaerls Her Hubby, but Afterward B Repents. A little incident occurred on the Missouri Pacific train recently which should prove a terrible warning to newly married men not to fall too deeply in love with their brides or permit themselves to become too demonstrative in their display of affection. It was but a kiss, and yet it rent harshly asunder the hearts of two young and loving ptrsons. Both were fiom California, J. C. Carney, the young bridegroom, is the son of the owner of an extensive orange grove and fruit plantation near the city of San Diego, and the bride, Miss Susan V. Mayberry that was, is the daughter of Capt. Robert Mayberry, a wealthy neighbor of the Carneys. Carney had loved and courted his wife for three years, and now that she was at last his, his joy knew! n ° bounds. They traveled from Kaiisas City to St. Louis during the day, arriving here recently on the Missouri Pacific fast mail, says the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. As the happy young groom gazed into _ the liquid eyes of his adored one his admiration knew no limit, and forgetting himself, he clasped her affectionately in his arms and planted a loving kiss on her Cherry,, lips.. The Pullman sleeping car, in which the young couple wore riding, was filled with pas- sengfirs, and somehow they all seemed to enjoy the kiss fully as much as Carney himself, and that is saying a great deal. A titter went up all around and the crimson blood rushed to the bride's cheeks. She was tho one person in the car who did not seem to enjoy the kiss. It was an unpardonable piece of presumption and extremely impolite for Carney to have attempted to kiss a young kay to whom he had only been married three days, and she soon made him realize the_ fact. To have kissed her in so short a time would have been bad enough if they were alone, but to have done so in the presence of other people was certainly a most unheard of.piece of familiarty on Carney's part. The young bride sprang up from her seat beside the groom in the drawing room of the car which they wore occupying, and declared in the hearing of all prasent that she would leave him forever the instant the train reached St. Louis. The bridegroom told her she could not have her trunks, three in number, as he held the checks. In a most defiant manner the furious young bride informed her rude and forward darling that she was fully capable of taking care of herself. The young couple thereupon exchanged some very harsh and angry words. When the tram pulled into Union depot the bride took a cab for uptown. Wishing to get her trunks, and not thinkingof the publicity that would come, she asked to be directed to a justice of the peace's office. She was taken to that James McCaffery. At her request Constable Benjamin Brady made out replevin papers. She stamped her foot frequently to impress upon the counseling constable that she meant business. But Mr, Brady had a scheme, He disired to get the young couple together and then witness a reconciliation. The papers were made out and the constable, accompanecl by the injured bride, started for the depot to take possession of her worldly goods. During the ride the bride of only a few days broke down and began to cry. The constable told her that her husband had not meant anything, but overcome by his love for her, hence the kiss. Tkis consoled her to some degree, and she began to inquire if it were not possible to recall the replevin, ;,;• "Certainly!" said Mr. Brady, That uras just what he wanted. /jetting on the ^outb. side of the depot Mr. Brady heard the lady exclaim, "There Bt/ IB!" and suddenly leave hit side and hurriedly hasten to that of a gloomy, blue looking gentleman, who was trying She Is Not Wlint She ITsod to Be. This charming product of the western world has come into great prominence of late years in literature and foreign life, and has attained a notoriety flattering or otherwise to the national pride. No institute has been better known, or more marked on the continent and England, not excepting the tramway and the Pullman cars. Her enterprise, her daring, her freedom from conventionality, have been the theme of the novelist and the horror of the dowagers having marriageable daughters. Considered as "stock," the American girl has been quoted high, and the alliances that she has formed with families impfcunious but, 1 noble have given her eclate as belonging to a new and conquer- race in the world. But the American girl has not simply a slender figure and a fine eye and a ready tongue, she is not simply an engaging and companionable person, she has excellent common-sense, tact, and adaptability. She has at length seen her varied European experience that it is more profitable to have social good form according to local standards than a reputation for dash and brilliancy. Consequently the American girl of a decade ago has effaced herself. She is no longer the dazzling courageous figure. In England, in France, in Germany, in Italy, she takes, as one may say, the color of the land. She has retired behind her mother. See who formerly marched in the van of the family procession, leading them—including the panting mother—a whimsical dance, is now the timid and retiring girl, needing the protection of a chaperon on every occasion. The satirist will find no more abroad the A merican girl of the old type whom he continues to describe. The knowing and fascinating creature has changed her tactics altogether. And the change has reached on American society. The mother lias come once more to the front, any even if she is obliged to own to forty-five years to the census-taker, she has again the position and the privileges of the blooming woman of thirty. Her daughters walk meekly and with downcast (if still expectant) eyes, • and wait for a siern. MONICA. A LOVE STORY OF MODERN DAYS. ,. When Pluck Was Slang. The word affords an instance of the way in which slang words in the course of time become adopted into current English. We now meet with "pluck" and "plucky" as the recognized equivalent of of "courage" and "courageous," At entry in Sir Walter Scott's Journal shows that in 1827 the word had not yet lost its low character. He says: "Want of that article blackguardly called pluck." Its origin is obvious. Prom early times the heart has been popularly regarded as the seat of courage. Now, when a butcher lays open a carcus he divides the great of the heart, cuts through the windpipe and then plucks out altogether the united heart and lungs—lights he calls them— and he terms the united mass "the pluck." A Western Mail Carrier. B. M. Duffielcl, aged seventy, a mail carrier in Jackson county West Va., claims to have walked 110,000 miles in the lust ten years. He thinks no other man has done such an amount of walking. He is also a sort: of expressman. A few weeks ago he carried a plow ten miles and on the next trip carrier! a small cook stove twenty five miles. ' "Why is it that you write your bills on rose paper with perfumed envelopes? 1 ' "Because, "answered the tailor, "the young fellows will imagine it's a love letter and are sure to opes it." "Why, it is only 1 o'clock? I thought it was two," said Mrs. Bronson, as the clock struck one." "Naw, mum," said Bridgit, "It's never later than wan at this time uv day." Of all the four hundred methods of improving the memory invented, nothing up to date beats giving a note on thirty Hut mey are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached they pass between the rows of growing blossoms nnitd if rich in thought. At last, when silence Is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her companion turns to her. "It wasn't (me. what you said to me thnt last day, was it?" he asks, with far more anxiety than the occasion seems to demand. "Not really, I mean. Yon said it for fun, perhaps—or It has been with mo ever since. I can't forget it. You said yon disliked sudden friendships, and HIP way you said it made mo think you disliked me. Tell me I thought wrong." "Quite wrong," in a low tone. She is plucking a rose, to pieces, and keeps her eyes downcast. "When I said that, I was angry about something." ' "About something I said?" "No. Nothing you said," "Something 1 did, then?" growing more and more anxious. "Ye-es." "What was it?" "It doesn't matter now; not In the least now, and I cannot tell you, indeed." "But I wish very much you would. Perhaps being in wretched ignorance, 1 shall bo so unhappy as to do it again some day, and so make, you hate me a second time." "i didn't luttc you.'' "No? Yet there was a look in your eyes I wouldn't like, to see there again. Do tell me, lest I once more fall into error." "Oh, no,'' coloring deeply, as though at some unplensant recollection. "That would be impossible. It could never happen again. I shall take care of that. I shall never as long as I live get into a—that is—I mean—I llcally 1 have, forgiven it all now, so let us forget it too." Though still greatly mystified, Mr. Desmond wisely forbears to press the point, something in her pretty distressed face and heightened color 1'orhldding him. "Very good," lie says, pleasantly. "But there is another Uiinu' 1 have not forgotten. Have you ever cleared up (hat mystery about my uncle, and your mints'.'" "Oh! tlutt. It, cannot be. cleared, I am afraid; it is too muddy a tale for any help; but 1 have at least round out all about it." "Would it 1)0 indiscreet it I said I would glvo anything to be as wise as you on this subject? In other words, will you divulgo the secretV" "It is a story that doesn't redound to the honor and glory of yttu-r house," says Miss Bcresford, slopping back from him with a gay little laugh, and glancing at him mischievously from under her big "Patience" hat. "HI were you 1 should shrink from hearing it." "I decline to shrink," with unparallelled bravery. "I prefer to rush upon my fate. Life, has no longer any flavor for me until I hear what the old reprobate at Coolo has done." "Well, if you will insist upon the sorry tale,'tis this. Once there lived a wicked knight, who Sv'oocd a maiden fair. But when her heart was all his own, his love grew cold, and, turning from her, he refused to fulfill his plighted troth and lead her to the hymeneal altar. In fact, he loved and he rode away, leaving her as dismally disconsolate, as the original maid forlorn. Thai wicked knight was your undo; thu maid forlorn my mother?" "You have been giving mo u summary of a fairy tale, haven't you?" asks he, in an unbelieving lone. "No, indeed; it is all quite true. From what 1 have heard, your uncle must have treated my mother very badly. Now, aren't you thoroughly ashamed of yourself and your family?" "You have proofs of his iniquity, of course," says Brian, who evidently finds a difficulty in believing in his uncle's guilt. "Yes. Ho wrote her a letter stating in distinct terms that"—and here she alters her voice until it is highly suggestive of Miss Blake's line contralto—"he deemed it expedient for both parties that the present engagement existing between them should bo annulled.' Those are AuntPriscilla'swords; what he, really meant, 1 suppose, was, that he was tired of her." "Your mother, I should imagine, was hardly a woman to be tired of readily." "That is a matter of opinion. We—that is, Terry and Kit and I—thought her a very tiresome woman indeed," says Miss Bcres- ford, ualinly. She does not look at him as she makes this startling speech, but looks beyond him into, possibly, a past where the "tiresome woman" held a part. Brian Desmond, gazing at her pale, pure, spiritual face, sustains a faint shock, as the meaning of her words reaches him. Is she heartless, emotionless? Could not even a mother's lovo touch her and wako her into life and fouling? "You weren't very fond of your mother, then'. 1 " he, asks, gently. The, bare memory of his own mother is adored by him. "Fond?" says Monica, as though the idea is a new one to her. "Fond? Yes, I suppose so; but we were all much fonder of my father. Not that cither he or mamma took very much notice of us." "Were they BO much wrapt up In each other, then?" "No, certainly not," quickly. Then, with an amount of bitterness in her tone that contrasts strangely with its usual softness, "I wonder why I called my mother 'mamma' to you just now. I never dared do so to licr. Once when she was going away somewhere I threw my arms round her and called her by that pet name; but she put me from her, and told mo I was not to make a n'oisu like a sheep." She seems more annoyed than distressed as slfe says this. Desmond is silent. Perhaps his silence frightens her, because she turns to him with a rather pale, nervous face. "I suppose I should not say such things as those to you," she says, unsteadily, "I forgot, it did not occur to me, that wo are only strangers." "Say what you will to mo," says Desmond, slowly, "and bo sure of this, that what you do say will be heard by you and me alone,." "I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh. "And, besides, we arc not altogether strangers," ho goes on, lightly; "that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?" "Oh, yes, the river," she says smiling. "Oi<r river. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property; no one olse seems to know anything about it." "1 have never been near it since," says Monica. "1 IsnijW tlutt," returns he, meaningly. She blushes deeply, and then, in spito of herself, laughs out loud, a low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief. . This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr. Desmond preternaturally grave. "May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness; whereupon Miss-Barest'ord checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, Indeed, the prettiest thing possible. . ... "I don't know," she says, In an evasive tone. 'People generally do know what they are laughing at," contends he, seriously. It wns ridiculous of me to suppose you would ever come again to the river; but one hopes against liope. Yet, as Feltham tells us.'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself iit last; th:d wns my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming, did you 1 .' Yon were quite right." "No. I wns quite wrong: but—but - i;oi/ are quite wrong too in one way,''still with her eyes downturned. "By what right did I expect you'.' 1 was a presumptuous fool, and got just what 1 deserved." "Yo;i were not n fool." exclaims she, quickly: and then, with a little impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him 'fair hi ih, 1 eyes. "If 1 had known you were there." she say.*, bravely, though evidently frightened ill her own temerity. "1—1—am almost sure I should have been there tool'' "No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly. Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one. hut certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater friend to Cupid than un unsought silence such as this. At last It is broken. "What lovely roses there are in this garden I" says Desmond, pointing to a bush of glowing beauty near him. "Are there not'.'" She has taken on" a long white glove, so that one hand mid arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish, but rounded mid very fair. Breaking u rose from the tree Indicated, she examines it lovingly, and then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,— "Is It not sweet?" "It is indeed 1'' He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the lillle hand Hint- holds the Mowers and keeps it in his own. He detains it so lightly Unit she might withdraw it if she 1 pleases, but she does nol. Perhaps she doesn't ploii.se, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in hisnelion. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on nil occasions, does nol change color now, 1ml chtit- tcrs to him guyly, in an unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards about the people yonder, behind the tall-flowering shrubs Unit .surround the tennis ground. And still her litlle slender lingers lie passively in his. Cihiiicing at them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings. "Four- live," he says; "quite »burden for such ii little baud to carry." "I like them," says Monica; "brooches and ear-rings and bracelets I don't care for but rings I love. 1 never really feel dressed until they are on. To slip them on my lingers is the liisl thing I do every morning before running dowu-slairs. At least, nearly the lust." "And what is the last'."' "1 say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does, isn't il'. 1 " "I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him n long, long time now since lust he said /i to prayers. Anil then he suddenly decides within himself that he will s:iy them to-morrow morning, "the last thing before going down-shvirs;" he cannot have quite forgotten them yd. lie is examining her rings iis he thinks all this and now a little pale turquoise thing nt- tracts his notice. "Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly, it is lo a jealous eye rather a lovable little ring. "Papa, when I was fourteen," says .Monica. "It Is very pretty, isn't it'.' 1 have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me Unit." "Monica," snys Brian Desmond siul I' :i'y, lightening his hold on her hand, "had you ever a lover before?" "Before?" "Yes," slowly, and us if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet, loo, \vilh a certain surprise at hisuwn question. "Had you?" "Before?" as If bewildered, she repeals the word again. "Why, 1 never had a lover til (ill!" "Do not say that again,"says Brian,moving n step nearer to her and growing pale: "/ am your lover now—-and/orcrcr/" "Oh! no, 110," says Monica, shrinking from him, "Do not say that." "1 won't, if you forbid me, but," quickly, "I am, anil shall be, all the same. I think my very soul—belongs to you." A crunching of gravel, a sound oil coming footsteps, the murmur of approaching voices. Monica, pallid as an early snow-drop, looks up to see her aunt Priscilla coming toward her, accompanied by a young man, a, very tall and very stout young man, wllh a rather drilled air. "Ah! here is AnntPriscilla,"says Monica, breathlessly. "Who is that, with her?" "Hyde, one of Ihe marines stationed at Clonbrce," says Mr. Desmond, cursing the marine most honestly in Ids heart of hearts. Clonbreo is a small town about seven miles from liossmoyne, where a company of'marines has Ijecn sent to quell Ihe Land League disturbances. Miss Priscilla is looking qnile pleased with herself, and greets Monica with a fond smile. "1 knew I should find you licrc,"shesays; "flowers have, such a 1'ascinalioii for you. You will let me introduce, you to Mr. Hyde, dear child!" And then tho introduction isgone through, and Monica says something unworthy of note to this big young man, who is slarlng at her in a more earnest manner than Is s'.rictly within the rules of ellquclto. .Somehow, too, she presently discovers sho 1ms fallen into lino wilh her new' friend, and is moving toward the lawn again with Aunt I'riscillii following in her train witli Mr, Quaking inwardly, Monica- at first cainu t take her mind oil' the twain behind her, and all the consequences that must ensue if Miss Priscilla once discovers a Desmond is being addressed by her with common civility. She is, therefore, but poor company for the, tall marine, who seems, however, quite satisfied wilh the portion allotted him and maunders on inanely about the surroundings generally. When the weather and tho landscape have been exhausted, it must bo confessed, however, that he comes to a stand-still. Madame O'Connor, going up to Miss Priscilla, engages her in some discussion, so that presently Monica finds Brian beside her again. "You will let me see you again soon," ho says, in a low tone, seeing Hyde is talking to Miss Fit/gerald. "But how can 1?" "You can If you will. Meet mo somewhere, as I may not call; bring your brother, your, sister, any one, with you; only meet me." "If I did that, how could I look at Aunt Priscilla afterward?" siiys Monica, growing greatly distressed. "It would bo shameful; I should feel like a traitor. I feel like it already." "Then do nothing. Take a passive part, if you will, and leave all to mo," says Desmond, with a sudden determination in liis eyes. "I would not have you vexed or made unhappy In any way. But that I shall see you again-and BOOH—bo sure." "But " "I will listen to no 'but;' it is too late for them. Though all the world, though evej you yourself, should forbid me your pros encc, i should contrive to meet you." Here somebody addresses him. and he is obliged to turn nnrt smile, and put off his face the touch of earnest passion that 1ms just Illumined It; while Monica stands silent, spell-bound, trying to understand it all. "Is it thus that all my countrymen make love?" she asks herself, bewildered. At the very second meeting; (she always, even to herself, ignores Unit ignoniinohs lirst) to declare in this masterful fashion that he must and will see her ngiiin! It is rapid, rather violent wooing; but I do nol think the girl altogether dislikes il. She Is a little frightened, perhaps, and uncertain, but there is a sense of power about him that fascinates her mid telts her vaguely that fnilh and trust in him will never bo misplaced. She feels strangely nervous, yet she lifts her eyes to his. nnd gazes at him long and bravely, and then the very faintest, glimmer of a smile, that is surely full of friendliness and confidence, it" nothing more, lights 11)1 her eyes and plays around her pensive mouth. A moment, and the smile has vanished, but the remembrance of il lives with him forever. Yes, his wooing is rapid, and she Is not won; but "she likes me," thinks Desmond, with a touch of rapture he has never known before. "Certainly, sho tikes me; and— there is always time and hope." "My dear Monica, it grows laic.'' says Miss I'riscillii al this moment, "Say good- by to Madame O'Connor, and let us go," "Oh, not a bit of It now," says .Madame O'Connor, hospitably, in her rich, broad brogue, inherited in all ils purity, no doubt, from her kingly ancestor. "You musn't lake her away yet; sure the day is young. Mr. liyde, why don't you get Miss Beresford to play a game with you? In my time, a young fellow like yon wouldn't wait to be old to make himself agreeable to a pretty r irl. There, go now,do! Have you brought •our own racket with you?" "I left it at home." says Mr. Hyde. "Fuel ," affectedly. "1 didn't think tennis was uiowii over here. Didn't fancy you had a uirl in the laud." 'Phis speech tires I hi 1 blood of UicO'TooIes' ast (U'sceiiihinl. Madame O'Connor uprears a haughty crest, and li\cs the luckless lieutenant, with in eagle, eye, beneath which he quails. 'There is no doubl we lack much," she, wys, taking his measure with lofty scorn; 'but. we have at least, ouriixui/KT.s'." With this she turns her bade upon him, 'eminences a most alTnble discussion with iliss Penelope, leaving her victim speech- ess wilh fright. Have a brandy-and-soda, Itydev"' says Mr. Kelly, who is always everywhere, retarding the wretched marine through his .•yo-glass wilh a gaze of ineffable sadness. 'Nothing like it, after an engagement of his sort." I thought, Ireland was the land for okcs," says the injured Hyde, indignantly, 1 —"stock-in-tnule sort of tiling over here; ind yet .when 1 give 'em one of mine they urn upon me us if 1 was the worst in the vorld. I don't believe any one understands em over here." "Yon see, your jokes are loo line for us," siiys Mr. Kelly, mournfully. "We miss the lo'int of them." "You are all the most uncomfortabe pco- )le I ever met,," says the wrathful marine. "We are, we are," acquiesces Kelly. "We ire really a very stupid people. Anything Iclieate or rellned is losl upon us, or is met n an unfriendly spirit. I give yon my word, 1 have known n fellow's head smashed for ess than half what yon said to Madame O'Connor just now. Prejudice runs high in his land. Yon have, perhaps." In a friend- y lone, "heard of a sliillalah?" ' "No, I haven't," sulkily. "No? rent I y,' It is quite nil Institution :ioro. ll'sa sort of a big slick, a very nn- [ilcasanl stick, and is used freely upon Ihe imullcst difference of opinion. You'll meet hem round every corner when you get more ised to us; you'll llldi to see them, wouldn't you?" "No, I shouldn't," still more sulkily. "Oh, but you ought, you know. If you are .;olng to live for any time in a country, yon should study its institutions. The best, way Lo see thin one is lo make, culling remarks iboul Ireland in a loud voice when two or three of the peasants are near you. They lon'l Ilkuuiiltlng remarks, they are so stupid, and jokes such as yours annoy them fearfully. Still, yon mustn't mind that; you must smother your natural kindliness of disposition and annoy thoin, if yon want to see the sliillalah." "I said nothing lo annoy Mrs. O'Connor, at any rale," says Mr. Hyde. "She needn't have taken a simple word or two like that." "You see, we are all so terribly thin-skinned," says Mr. Kelly rcgrelfully, "I quite blush for my country-people. Oil course Ihere are noble exceptions lo every rule. I am the noble exception hero. I don't feel in the least annoyed with you. Now do try some brandy, my dear follow; it will do you all the, good in tho world." i don't know Ibis moment whether you, are laughing at me or not," says the marine, eying him doubtfully. "1 never laugh," nays Mr. Kelly, reproachfully. "I thought, eoen ynn could see that. Weil, will yon have Unit B. and IS.'."' But Mars is huffed, and declines lo accept consolation in any shape, lie strolls away wilh an injured air to where his brother oflleor, Captain Cobbell, is standing near the hall door, and pours bis griefs, into bis ears. Captain (JobboU being a very .spare lillle man with a half-starved appearance and a dismal expression, il is doubtful whether poor Hyde receives from him the amount of sympathy required. ".May I sci! you to your carriage, Miss Blake?" says Desmond, finding she and Miss Penelope are bent on going; and Aunt Priscilla, who has la ken quite a fairy to Ibis .strange young man, gives her gracious permission that In 1 shall accompany them lotlie fos.illxiud chariot awaiting them. "Who is he, my dear Priscilla?" asks Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper, as they go, "Don't know, my dear, bill a vastly agreeable man, very superior to those of his own age of the present day. Ho is marvelonsly polile, and has, I think, quite a superior air." "Qnile," says Penelope, "and a very sweet expression besides, -so open, s<i> ingeniiou 1 wish all were like him." This with a sigh, Terence having proved himself open to SUM- piylon with regard to plain dealing the pusl few days. Now, it so happens that at this instant they turn a corner leading from the shrubbery walk on the gravel sweep before the hall door; as they turn this corner, so dou.s some one else, ouly/ic is coming from tho gravel sweep to Ihe walk, so that consequently he, is face, to face with the Misses Blake, without hope of retreat. The walk is narrow at the entrance to it, and as this new-comer essays to pass hurriedly by Miss Priscilla lie finds himself fatally entangled wilh her, she having gone to Ihe right us he went lo the left, and afterward having gone to the left as lie went to the right, and so on. Finally u passage Is cleared, and tho stranger—who i.s an amazingly ugly oli man, with a rather benign though choleric countenance—speeds past the Misses Blake like a flash of lightning, and with a haste creditable to liis years, but suggestive rathe of fear than elasticity. "My uuule 1" says Brian Desmond, hi an awe-struck tone, to Moiiica, who literally goes down before this terrible annunciation and trembles visibly. It la a rtHnicouutor fraught wltl» morta horror I i the Misses Blake, r'or years they liave not so much as looked upon thelf enemy's face, and now their skirts have actually brush.-d him as lie passed. "Come, come quickly, Monica." says Miss Penelope, on ibis orcasion tic'mi the one to take the initiative. "Do not linger, child. Did you not see'. 1 It was o»r enemy that piissi'il by." If sho had said "it was tho arch-fiend," her voice could not have been more trade. "I am coining. Aunt Penny." says Monica, nervously. Now it is at this inaiispirions moment .that Mr. Kelly (who, as I have said before, is always everywhere) chooses to rush up tO Brian Desmond and address him In a loud tone. "My dear boy, you are not going yet, are yon?" lie says, reproachfully. "I say, Desmond, yon can't, you know, because Miss Fitzgerald snys you promised to play in Hl8 next mutch wilb her." The fatal name has been uttered clearly and distinctly. As though petrified, the two old ladies stand quite still and stare at Brian; then Miss Priscilla, with a stately movement, itels between him and Monica, aud, in tones that tremble perceptibly, say to him.— "1 thank you for the courtesy already received, sir; but we will no iongVr trouble you for your escort; we prefer to seek our carriage alone." She sweeps him a terribly still little 8ft- lute, and sails off, still trembling ami very pale. Miss Penelope, scarcely less pale, following In her wake. Desmond has barely time to grasp Monica's hand, and whisper, "Heinomber," In M mysterious a tone as the hapless Stuart when she too is swept away, and carried from his sight. Not until the gates of Aghyohillbeg are well behind Ih.-m do the Misses Blake sufficiently recover themselves for speech. "Whoever introduced you to that young man," begins Miss Priscilla, solemnly, "did a wrong thing. Lotus hope it. was done In Ignorance." "For the future you must forget you ever spoke, lo tills Mr. Desmond," she says, her face very stern. "Happily lie is an utter stranger to you, so there will be no dinicully about it. You will remember this, Monica?" "Yes, 1 will remember," says Iho girl, slowly, and with a visible effort. Then Moyno is reached In solemn silence so far as the Misses Blake are concerned;In solemn silence, loo, the two old ladles mount the oaken staircase that leads to their rooms. Outside, on the corridor, they pause mil contemplate each other for a moment arucstly. "lie—ho Is very good-looking," guys Miss •enelope at last, as though compelled to nake the admission oven against her will. "He Is abominably handsome," says Miss riscilla, fiercely; after which she darts in- o her room and closes the door with a sub- luod bang behind her. Cll/U'TKU VIII. It is the evening of the next dily, and din- ier at Coole bus just come to an end. Air. Colly, who has been Brian's guest for tho ast fortnight, and who is to remain as long us suits him, or as long after the grouse- ilioollng In August as lie wills, has taken limself into the garden lo smoke a cigar. This he does at a hint from Brian. Now, lindiiighimself alone with his uncle, irinii says, in the casual tone of one making in indllV,TOII|. remark,— 'By the bye, I can see yon are'not oil joocl terms wllh I hose old ladles at Moyno." "N'o," s;iys The Desmond, shortly. "Some old quanvl. I have, been given to iinderslaml." "I should prefer not speaking about It," says the Squire. "Well, of course, I dan; say I should not 'my. 1 memtioned the subject," he says, apologetically; "but Iliad no idea it was a sore liolnt. It was not so much bad taste on my |)iirt as ignorance. 1 beg your pardon!" 'It was a very unhappy affair altogether," uiys the old Don .luan. 'Very unfortunate indeed, from what I have hoard." •Mine, than unfortunate! --righ I down disgraceful!''says the Squire, with such 1111- iool;od-l'or energy as raises astonishment In Iho breast of his nephew. ("By ,love, one would think the o',il chap had only now .Iwakened to a sense of his misconduct," lie thinks, irreverently.) "Oh, well," be says, leniently, "hardly llnil. you know." '•yiii/c thai." emphatically. (To bo continued.) K\ 11 UIM Kl) A ITTElt 11 !1 Y'JSAUS. Thu JComiiliiH ot'ii Brlt.lHli Ollltur Dug Up to Verify IIlHtory. The body of Capt. Geary, a British officer in (he revolutionary war, was cxhuin- by members of the Ilunlcrdon County Historical society uf, Flemington, N. Y., Hie other c'ay to verify tho historical facf^s concerning his death. Ab the time the Britisn occupied Trenton llSyours ago, a squad of cavalrymen under the command of Geary was went lo Flcminulon to seize a quantity of arms in tho old stoni; house then standing near the present silo of tho Presbyterian church. The arms wore sei'/.ed, but when the squad reached a point just south of tho town they became alarmed and destroyed the guns by striking them on tho fence pouts. Meantime Caplain Schenck, afterwards colonel, collected a Land of men and .secreted them in a piece of woods between Cooper hill and Larisoif s Corners. WheA the British ciune along they were fired upon, Capt. Geary ordered his men to halt and face tho woods whence the shots came, when be was almost instantly shot through tho head. His men wheeled and fled in confusion. Capt. Geary's body was immediately burried in the woods a short distance from the road. Iho Americans marked tho spot with two lough stones. Local tradition has always claimed that tho British returned and carried the body of their captain away, but the labors of tho historical society entirely disproves this. Capt. Geary's remains were found beneath the spot marked by the two stones. Only a few bones were left'however, among which was tbe lower jawbone, which still posscfised the wisdom teeth, and which plainly indicated that the captain was a a young man when he met his tragic death. A few silver buttons, and some gold lace, were also found. The buttons were marked "16 Q. 0. D.," which indicated tkathe was a member of the Sixteenth regiment, Queen's Own Dragoons, a. proud and gayly uniformed division of the British army during the reign of George III. Miss Maguire: "Any letter here for me?" Postmaster; "What name please?" Miss Muguire: "Must 1 tell?" Postmaster: "Certainly." Miss Maguire: Well, if 1 must, 'Tom Dolan.'" First seaside Guest: "My gra.eio.usl Have you been sitting here all the rnqrn- ing? The whole town has been down to the beach to see the wreck. Big steamer ashore. Awful time, never was such a sight." Second guest (a newspaper reporter): "IV OK a vacation."