The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on July 29, 1891 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Wednesday, July 29, 1891
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THE UPPER DE8 MOINES. ALOONA, IOWA WEDNESDAY, JULY 29, 1891. HIE URfiAMEB ON BfiAtTTt'S ARM. Aft Incident In ft Broadway Cftr Which Made Men Envious. New York Commercial-Advertiser. He was a small nnd freckled lad, and she was n lady fair. They met by chance, the favorite way, in an uptown Broadway car. The day was hot and muggy and he was tired and enormously sleepy for his size. She was a pretty young woman, and as she came into the car as it crawled by the postoffice _clad in a_ cool blue gown, crowned with a big pink rose at the apex of her hat and set off by a frosty chatelaine full of useless things, every man in that car felt as agreeable a sensation in his parched throat as if he had spied a •frappeed watermelon set before him in slices of pink abandon. The best afforded by the car in the way of seats was proffered to the lady. She smiled a swift, three-eighth smile, and gracefully seated herself; crorsed her neat patent-leathered feel, with both soles properly down, took a dime > from her silver charity box and held it between her teeth until the conductor came and ex- chansred it with an air of courtly grace for a coin of baser metal. From Canal street to Grand the observed of all the observers fixed a non-committal gaze upon the space which lay in a direct line in front of her pretty nose, and was none tbe less admired, of course, for that. At Grand street "He" got on. Being very young and very shabby, and of the genuine red-headed errand boy ^ort, he was a safe person for beauty's kindness. With a white gloved hand the crisp blue skirts were drawn aside. The graceful form hitched a hand's breadth to the right, and a smnll slice of space thereby made for the little fellow's repose. Directly the youngster had wedged his way in so that his meagre shoulder blades 'rested upon the back of tha seat, his eyelids began to swell and waver. In two minutes ho had wrapped his fiery little cocoanut smartly against the window frame. The shock awoke him, ond he : looked up in a startled sort of a way at his fair friend only to meet with a smile of bland encouragement. He was such a clean, ragged, respectable little being-, so distinctly the son of his mother, and she a poor widow, Again his eyelids wavered, and again he slept, only to bo hunched off the arm of a light-brown dude against whom he had lurched. Once more awakened, once more to sleep. He had tried tho window, he had tried to sit upright and sleep, he had tried the light-brown dude, aud there was no peace in them. There was no refuge but tho being in blue. Yet once again the little lad slept and like most persons he slept along the line of least resistance. His thin arm rested against her shapely one. It was not rebuffed. • The little frown, between his sandy brows disappeared then as if it had been nulled away by an angel's whisper, and its place came a look of vast content ihat would have fitted^loosley a man three times his size. It was growing a little warm, for Beauty, but she bore it bravely, looking down upon the little fellow with a look of womanly tolerance fit for a Madonna, Freckled Boy knew it, even though he slept, and being well pleased "with his inch, reached put for his ell. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, while every man Jack in the car held his breath, and thought unutterable things, he approached his heart's desire. Beauty saw him coming and blushed furiously, but Freckled Boy saw not that sweet flag of distress. He was fast asleep, his cheek snoozled up to that cool firm pillow and his forehead bedewed with the tiny beads of childish sleep. With flaming cheeks and downcast eyes Beauty held her burden until Washington town was reached. Then with unutterable firmness and white-gloved hand she raised the sleeping boy from her arm, leaned him over against the light-brown dude, smiled sweetly and left the car. : Twtlve there were she left behind her. One was the boy and one was dude; five ware her slaves who thought of her beauty, and five were they who thought what a lot they had had for the price of admission. OLD AND NEW ANCHORS. business. None but she saw these things. None but a loving heart could see them, That, was the secret of her heavenly power. The one who will be fonnd in trial capable of great acts of love, is ever the one who is always doing considerate small things.—F. W. Robertson. JOE WAS liEPT. She Preferred to Marry Jim Even If She Had to Ent Liver. Brooklyn Citizen. In a quiet streeHn the seventh ward ;here dwells a receptive bachelor with large ears. He relates a bit of doorstep dialogue which reached him the other night after he nad returned to his abode, and sat down at :he open windo tr of his hall bedroom to fan away the stimulation of soda water he lad been imbibing. "Now, Joe, I do not want you to talk ihat Way about Jim any longer"—such were the words that quickened liis impulsive curiosity. He looked out. Down on the steps next door wasj the daughter of the house and one of her many admirers. It was midnight's bewitching hour, and all the neighborhood was deep in sleep. "Well, I want to know," said Joe earnestly, "what Jim and "you were talkidp about the whole evening there when I saw you both and you tvould't look at me." The dtiughter of the house laughed. "Jim wouldn't like it a bit if I told you," she answered. Then Joe said he didn't care whether Jim liked it or not; he wanted her to tell him all the same. "He was talking about us getting married," she said, and laughed again. "Married!" Joe exclaimed. "Yes; whv not?" she asked. "Say, Bella, do you know what that fellow gets a week in the store where he works?" Bella did not answer. She begun to hum a hand organ melody and put a little foot on the stone step. "He gets just $7 a week," continued Joe, "and I've often heard him say that he could live cheaper married than he can single." Bella stopped humming. "That's just what everybody says," she returned, "and I guess it's abouttho fact." Jon's low, earnest pleading voice, revealed the emotion he. was trying to subdue. "Now look here, Bella," hesnid, seizing 01-16 of her hanrls, ''let me give you the plain truth about Jim. If you marry him he will feed you every day on liver I heard him saying the other day that liver was only seven cents a pound" Bella sat silent, looking straight at the moon, just climbing up the sky. Joe looked at Bella and waited. "I like Jim and 1 like liver too," she said at length. Joe jumped up. Evidentlly he had played his last card and lost. In a moment they had bidden each other a formal good night. Joe walked slowly and sadly <iway. The lock of the front door snapped and Bella was gone. THE CUB AND THE TAPELINE. Sailors Becoming Attached to the Stoohlesa Steel Type. Among the many inventions that catch tho eye of the observant man along the piers where the big merchant ships are made fast, none is more striking than the passing away of the old stock anchor, and the subtitution therefore of the cast steel stockless type. The seamen of the old school were and are very slow about making this change, for the simple old mudhook of their ancestors has survived all the changes which have brought about the swift merchant ships of to-day. iMowadays, space on board the average ship does not permit the stowage of a great cumbersome iron anchor. Particularly is this true iu the navy, where the anchor with its long stock often interferes with tbe arc of fire of the guns. In an engagement, if an attempt were made to ''cat and fish" the old-style anchor, A dozen men or more would bj directly exposed to the enemy's fire. For these reasons, and for the labor that is saved, seafaring men are beginning to prefer the new stockless anchors, which can be hoisted well up into the hawser holes and secured there without interf, ring with tne linn of fire of the guns. Davits and cattails, which are always unsightly things in the bows of ships, are thus done away with. One of tbe best known of the new anchors was recently invented by_ Lieutenant H. 0. Dunn, of the navy. This anchor is made of steel, and tho prow and flunks revolve on the shanks, to which they are conceeded by a pin. If this pin breaks, the anchor still holds fust, for theshank is enlarged beyond the shoulders of the crown and cannot escape. As soon as the chain is taut after the Dunu anchor strikes bottom, the flukes bite, both at once, owing to the weight and shape of the crown. With both flukes firmly imbedded, a pretty strong grip is obtuineo:, and the dragging which often sends a ship ashore is avoided. The old anchors, with their long stocks, frequently fouled the chain, but this, too, is prevented by the Dunn patent, because there is no stock. Secret Power. What was the secret of such one's power? Absolutely nothing; but radiant smiles, beaming good-numor; the fact of divining what every one wanted, told that she had goc out of self and learned to think of others; so that at one time it showed itself in deprecating the quarrel which lowering brows and raised tones already showed to be impending, by sweet -, words; at another, by soothing a Bobbing child; at another, by humoring and softening a father who had returned weary and ill-tempered from the irritating cares of A Trout Fisherman Chimed a Little Hour anil Captured it by Stratagem. M. E. Lilley or' Canton, Bradford county, captured a this spring's bear cub a few days ago, after, a lively and funny chase, says a Pounsylvania correspondent of the New York Sun. Lilley was trout-Hatting along the Linnemahoning creek, when the little bear came out of the woods and stood on the bank, a curious observer of'Lilley's sport. The bear seemed so tame that the fisherman laid down his rod and started to capture it. The cub stood still until Lilley was within a tow feet of it. and then turned his tail and scooted up a small chestnut tree, from the crotch of which it gazed down misohieviously at the man. The more Lilley saw of the baby bear the stronger became his desire to have it. After gazing back at the savage little chap in the tree for a minute or more he made up his mind he would climb the tree and fetch the cub clown. He climbed up the tree, and when he had his hand almost on the bear, the bear walked oub on a limb, out of reach of its would-be captor. Lilley crawled continuously after it and when the cub had got as far as it could go it suddenly doubled its head up between its hind legs and dropped off the limb. It resembled a big lubber ball when it struck the ground. When it struck it got to its feet again and looked up at Lilley in a manner that agrevated him. If he had a gun that cub would have been a goner then and there. Lilley crept back to the trunk of the tree and let himself to the ground. He was very hot, but he still wanted the cub; so he chased it again, and it ran up another tree. It took a position similar to the one it had taken in the other tree, and apparently anticipated some more of the same kind of fun with its pursuer. It so happened that Lilley had with him a pocket tape-line, and while he stood looking at the in pudent cub and wondering how he might outwit the funny little rascal, the tape-line came to his mind, and with it an _idea, He quickly made a ! slipping-noose in one end of the line, and, ! calculating about where the cub would strike the ground if it rolled itself up and tumbled from the second tree, he placed the noo?e around that spot, making a loop a yard or more in diameter. Keeping the t box end of the lino in his hand he climbed ! the tree. The cub waited again until i Lilley was almost within touching distance of it, and then walked out on the limb as , it had before. Lilley followed, and the ' little bear went almost to the end or the limb. Then it ducked its head uetween its hind lega again and dropped to the ground. It struck outside of the loop in Lille.y 's tape line, but bounded directly inside the circle. Getting upon his feet it {loyked up at Lilley, and Lilley says he : could actually detect a grin on the little ' cuss' face. But if tho cub was smiling , the smile soon left its face, for LHley ' yanked his tape-line and the noose was i drawn together around both of the cub's ! hind legs. The cub kicked, but that on'y made the noose tigbter. Lilley kept the ' line taut and hurried to the ground. _ The ' little bear fought like a fiend for a minute or two, and inflicted some deep scratches 1 on Lilley'a hands and face. But the euu gave in at last and went submissively with its captor. From the fact that the mother of the cub did not put in an appearance it is supposed that she must have been shot or trapped, leaving the cub an orphan. Lillej' has the little bear at his home in Canton, and it is as tame and docile as a dog. MONICA. A LOVE STORY OF MODERN DAYS "Have you any photographs of your children. Mr. Peck? asked a friend of the Hon. Alpheus P«ck. "I should say I had," answered Mr. Peck, "I've about a bushel of them." "Why Alpheus!" exclaimed his wife. "Well haven't we? Haven't we photographs of all four of them, and don t four pecks make &. bushel?" xi. It is ten o'clock, and as lovely a night as ever overhung the earth. The moon Is at its fullest, the wind 1ms fallen, all is cnlm as heaven itself, llironsrli which Dirtynna's unclouded grandeur rolls. The Misses Blake, fatigued by their tin- usual dissipation, ordered an early rout :m hour agoue, whereby bedroom candlesticks were in demand at nine or half past nine o'clock. , in Monica's room, Kit Is standing by the open window, gazing In rnptadmiration nt the dew-spangled garden beneath. Like diamonds glitter the grass nnd the flowers beneath the kiss of the queen of night Moonbeam* are playing in lite roses, and wrestling iu the lilies, nnd rooking to and fro upon the bosom of the stream. There Is a peace unspeakable on all around. One holds one's breath nnd feels a longing painful in its Intensity as ono drinks In the beauty of the earth nnd sky. 'Twere heaven to bo assured of love on such anight as this. Stars make the vault above so fine that nil the world, methinks, should be in love with night and pay no worship to tho garish sun. There is a rush of feeling in the air,—a promise of better things to come,—of hope, of glad desire, of sweet love pel-footed 1 "How lovely a night it is I" says Kit, lean- lug far out of the window, and gazing westward. She is at heart a born artist, with a mind, indeed, too full of strange, weird thoughts at times to nugtir well for the liap- pinoss of her future. Like many of her Irish race, she is dreamy, poetical,—intense at ono moment, gay, wild, impulsive tho next. "See what a Hood of light there is on everything 1" she says, "Bnilicdln moonlight," what a good thought, was (.lint! Monica, when I am us old as you, in a very fe.w short years I shall be a pool." "No, yon won't, dniTmt:; you will bo a, musician. See what fairies lie bimealh your lingers even now when you touch tho piano or violin; bo content, tlu'ii. with your groat gift, whieh inosl surely is yours. And to mo, indeed, it seems a itfander thing to thrill aud enchniii and draw to your foot nil hearts by the power o£ harmony that dwells within you, than by tho divine gift of song that poets have." "But their songs arc harmony," says tho child, turning quickly to her. "Ay, tho interpretation of it, but yon have, Its very breath. N"o; search tho world over, nnd you will find nothing so powerful to affect tho souls of all as music." "Well some day 1 shall want to do something," says Kit., vaguely; nnd then she turns to tho window again, and lots her mind wander and lose itself in a mute- sonata to tho fair Isis throned above. "it draws me," she says, presently, rising slowly and addressing'Monica, but always with her gaze iixod upon the sleeping garden down below. "It is so bright,—so clear." "AVhat Kit?" "The moonlight;. I must," restlessly, "go clown into it for a little moment, or I shall not sleep through longing for it" "But the doors are closed, my dearest, and Aunt Friscllla is in bed, and so are. the servants." "So much the better. I can draw tho bolts myself without being questioned. You snid just now," gayly, "I havo a fairy beneath my lingers. I think I havo a moon-fairy in my heart, because I love it so." "Stay here with me, then, and worship it sensibly from my window." "What I do you look for sense In'moon- struck madness?' No; I shall go down to my scented garden. I have a fancy I cannot conquer to walk into that tiny llamo- wmtc path or moonlight over there ncartno hedge. Do you see it?" "Yes. A^ r ell, go, if Titania calls you, but soon return, and bring mo a lily,—I, too, have a fancy, you see,—a tall lily, fresh with dew and moonshine." "You shall havo tho tallest, the prettiest I can lind," says Kit from the doorway, where she stands framed.'unknowingly, looking such a slender, ethereal creature, with oycs too large for her small face, that Monica, with a sudden pang of fear, goes swiftly up tohor, and, prossTng her to her heart, holds her so for a moment. "I know what you are thinking now," says Kit, with another laugh,—"that I shall die early." "Kit! Kit I" "Yes. Isn't it strange? I can read most people's thoughts. But be happy about me. I look fragile, I know,but I shall not die until I am quite n respectable age. Not a hideous age, you will understand, but with my hair and tooth intact. Onu keeps one's hair until forty; doesn't one?" "I don't know. I'm not forty," says Monica. "But hurry, hurry out of tho garden, because tho dew is falling." Down tho dark staircase, through tho darker halls, into the brilliant moonlight, goes Kit. The wind, soft as satin, plays about her pretty brows and nestles through her hair, rewarding itself thus for its enforced quiot of an hour ago. Hoveling in tho freedom she has gained, Kit enters tho garden and looks lovingly around upon her companions,—the flowers. Wlio would sleep when beauty such as this is Hung broadcast upon thu earth, waiting for man to feast his slothful eyes upon it? Lingeringly, tenderly, Kit passes by each slumbering blossom, or gazes into each drowsy bell, until the moonlit patch of grass she had pointed out to Monica is at last readied. Hero she stands in shadow, glancing with coy delight at tho fairy-land be- I yoncl. Then she plunges into it, and looks ' a veritable fairy herself, slim, and tall, and • beautiful, and more than worthy of the wand she lacks. Walking straight up her silver path, she goes to where the lilies grow, in a bod close 1 by the hedge. But, bsfore she comes to I them, she notes in tho hedge itself a wild ' convolvulus, and just a little beyond it a | wild dog-rose, parent of all roses. She stays ' to pluck them, and then— "Kit," says a voice subdued and low, but so distinct as to sound almost in her ear. She starts, and then looks eagerly around her, but nothing can she see. Was it a human voice, or a call from that old land that held great Zeus for its king? A message from Olympus it well might be, on such a night as this, when all things breathe of old enchantment and of mystic lore. Almost she fears yet hopes to see a sylvan deity peep out ai her from the oscalonia yonder, , or from tho wliite-Howered sweetly-perfumed syringa in that distant corner,—Pan tho musical, perhaps, with his sweet pipes, or a i yet more stately god, tho .beautiful Apollo, with his golden lyre. Oh, for the clmncu of : hearing such godlike music, with only sho herself and the pale Diana for an audience! Perchance the gods have, indeed, been good to her, and sent her a special-message on this yellow night Fear forgotten, in the ecstasy of this hope, tho ttrauge child stands erect, and waits with eager longing for a second summons. And it comes, bnt, alas! in a fatally earthly tone, that ruins her fond hope forever. "Kit, it is I. Listen to me," says some one, and then a hole in the hedge is cleared, and Mr. Desmond, stepping through it enters the moonlit patch, flushed, but shame- icssiy unembarrassed. Kit, pnlo with disappointment, regards him silently with no gentle glance. "And to think," she snys nt leuath, with slow scorn, looking him up and down with measureless contempt—"to think Iwns mad enough to believe for one Ions moment that you might he Apollo, and that your voice was a cry from I'arnassns!" Atwnicu, 1 regret to say, Mr. Desmond gives way to most unseemly mirth. "I never dreamed I should attain to sneh great glory," he says. "I feel like 'tho rapt one of the godlike forehead.' " "Yon IIKIJ/," says the younger Miss Heres- ford, who has awakened from the dim dusk of "faerie lands forlorn''to the clearer lisrht of earth. "Yon may," witheniisrly, "./Vet like it, but you certainly don't look like it" "t am not complete, I know that," says Sir. Dosmond, still full of unholy enjoyment. "I lack 'bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair;' but. it you will wait n moment I will i tin back to Coolo and got tho nearest tiling to it. 1 ' He turns ns if lo fulfill his words, but Kit stops him. "Don't go," she says, lausrhiua: gayly, now herself. "Even the very original lute would not transform you Into a god. tit ay if you want to. After nil, now 1 am again in my senses, I dare say you are as good to talk to ns a heathen deity." "Oh, no," says Mr. Desmond, humbly. "They always thundered when they spoke; so think how imposing and convincing their arguments must have been I" "llorrld, I should think,' 1 says Kit "And now tell mo what brought, yon here?" This is nhriipt, but, Inking her in her own mood, Desmond answers, bluntly,— "Monica." "Sho told you to come?" "No. But I want to see her." "She has gone lo her room." "Make her leave it again. Tell her I cannot ivsl until I see her; tell her anything; only bring her to mo for even ono short; ino- mei'it." 'Hut it Is some lime sin(V I left her; perhaps sho is iu bed." 'But not asleep ye.l, surely. Sho loves you. Kit; induce, her, Ilien, to coino to her window, that t may oven catch a glimpse of her, if 1 may not speak with her. Hut she cannot be in bed; it. is so early," snys Mr. Desmond, desperately. 'Well." says Kit, relenting, and striving to forget the blank occasioned liylhi! substitution of an ordinary Desmond I'm 1 an extraordinary deity, "I'll see what ean bo ilimi'." "You will." eaircrly, "really?" "Yes, really. I \\illslimd your friend," says Kit, solemnly, IVrlinr now thai, even if the old gods have denied her an intimate acquaintance with them, still they have devoted her («> tin 1 service of ('upM, and havo secretly commanded her I n help on tin 1 machinations of his naii'-shly liltle highness. "Then will yon tell her I want to sec her — here Hunt -(nr only a bar.' second if she so wills il? Will yon loll her this from me? Dual 1 Kit Kwwt Kit, I cut real you to do this." "Oh I how sweet, I am when you waul, mi- to do soiiK'thinir for you!' 1 snys she, with a little smile. "Then! I lean see llirnii'zhyoii as clearly as though you were cryst.-.il; but. I like ytiu'all the same. Von must have some good in you to fall in love with uiyMnnioa." "Olhi.Ts can f.'ill in love with her, too," returns lie, with nnoily jealousy. "Ah, yes! 1 saw Unit," snys Kit, lil'ting her hands excitedly. "Who could fail to see it? Who could fail to love liw?" Miys Desmond, sadly. Then, being in such very poor ease, and looking sorrowfully for comfort from any source, however small, ho says, nervously,-"Kit, answer me lrnlhl'ull.v--yc:i havo sworn to lie my friend; loll me, then, which do ynu count, the belter man,—him, or UK:?'' But Ihnt a Si'iisn of honor I'orlild-, him to pry into his love.'s secret thoughts ho would have asked whom slit: count ;d the helt'.T man. "Yon," says Kit, calmly. "1 hnvo no doubt about it 1 lialo fat men, and so does Monica. I. hnvo heard, her say so, over and over again." "Oh, Kit! what 11 dear II!tie girl you are!" says Mr. Desmond, with grnlel'iil fervor. "Well, I'm glad you like mo," snys Kit, "bccnuso"—frankly—"I like yon. It was very good of yon lo lend that gun to Terry; I haven't forgotten that, though, goodness knows, I only hope ho won't do himself to death willi it" (sho. delights in old-world phrases such as this); "and 1 like you, too, for loving Monica. Isn't she—" laying her hand upon his arm, and looking trustfully into his eyes,— "isn't she pivtty?" "Sho is like an angel," says Desmond, feeling all his heart go out; to the fragile, ethereal-looking child before him, as ho listens to her praises of her sister. "Or a saint, perhaps. Monica is a saintly name. Was sho not tho mother of St. Augustine?'' says Kit, quickly. After the old gods, a passion for (hosaints, and their lilies and roses and liery trials, animates hcrchild- ish bo.soiu. "Oil! nnd Unit reminds me," .sho says; ":-ho told mo to bring her in a lily, fresh with (low,—one of those, lilies over there in thai, dark comer. Do you see thorn, —tall and white':" "I see. Let me pick ono for her. Hero, take it to her, aiftl," laying his lips up;m it, "this with it," "I will. And now lot mo run in and try my utmost to persuade her to come out hero. But," doubtfully, as she remembers how Monica refused with studied coldness to meet his parting glance at tho barracks a few hours ago, "do not bo too sure of her coming. Sho mny refuse, you know. Sho is peculiar in many ways, and sho thinks herself bound in honor to Aunt Prisclllanot to look at you. But stay hero, just in tills spot, and think all tho time that I am doing my very best for you." Her little face is so earnest as sho says all this, so fearful Unit ho may havo to endure disappointment, that ho is greatly touched. Pushing back her hair from her forehead with botli hands, ho lays a light but loving kiss upon her brow. "Go, my best friend. I trust all to you," ho says, after which tho slender sprite springs away from him, anil, entering the shadows beyond, is soon lost to him. Reaching tho house, sho mounts the stairs with swift but silent footsteps, and, after a nervous hesitation before tho door of her aunt Prlseilln's room, finds herself onco again face to face with Monica. That pretty cause of all this plotting is not in bed, as Kit had predicted might be tliooase. Shu is not oven undressed. Sho has only exchanged her azure gown for a loose white morning robe, long anil trailing, and lavishly trimmed at the throat and wrist with some rare old Mechlin lace that Aunt Ponolopu had given her n week ago, glad in the thought that it may perchance add another charm to tho beauty of her darling. Her hair is rolled up in a small, soft knot behind; her face is a little pale; her eyes, large and luminous, havo groat heavy shadows lying beneath them, suggestive of 1'a- tiguo and tiring thought Altogether, she is looking as lovely as any heart can desire. "Ah, you have returned!" sho says, as Kit enters. "How long you have been I I gave you up. I thought some pixy had become enamored of you and hud curried you off to his kingdom." "I was in danger of nothing so Insignificant as a pixy. It wus tho great Apollo's self I feared," says Kit, witli a sly humor? ous smile. "And here Is your lily; fteseut; it to you with his love aud a kiss." Don't you tiiink you were n little unkind to Unit desr Brian this eveninc," sho snys. •That dear Brian will recover from my cruel treatnu'iit, I mnko no doubt," Says Monica, with affected lightness, though, in truth, remorse is gnawing nt her henrt- slrings. "If he does, he will s-liow his very good sense, lie loves you: why, then, do you floHt and scorn him?" In the ancient library below, the young ladies in the novels always flouted their lovers. Nut bavins the faintest idea how they perform this nnliions task, Kit still adopts the word ns having a sonorous sound, ami uses it now with—as sho hopes • great effect. "I do iinf flout him." says Monica, indignantly. "Hut what am 1 to do? am 1 to make Aunt I'riscilla wretched, then, bc- eatise of him, and break her poor heart perhaps?" "Monica, you like him," says Kit, suddenly, rising on her knees and looking into her sister's iiverled eyes. "1 am sure of it; I know it new. Why did yon not eonlldc in me liefore'.'" "Bt'cans:- it seems nil so hopeless; oven— if 1 loved him enough to marry him — they would never give in" (iiipiinlnir, presumably, her minis'); "so why should he or I wc.slo time over so impossible a theory?" "Why should it be-Impossible? Why should you not be married? 1 ' "Becsuise the fairs are nil iv.^iiiist ns. Not," quickly, "Mint (Jmtso much matters; I don't waul to marry (iii|/J)0(?|// But—bnt," lowerinu'her lids, "1 do wnnt him to love me." "But 1 can't boar to deceive Aunt Priscilln," snys Monica. "Sho is sokind, so good." "Stuff and nonsense!" snys Kit promptly. "Do you suppose, when Aunt I'riscilla was young, she would have deserted—let IH say —Mr! Desmond the elder, nt tho beck and call ol' any one? She has too muc.h spirit, to do her credit Though 1 must, say her spirit; is rather out of place now, at; limes. Bui," with C'meoiilrntcd energy, "1 would nut be lii'iitnl, if 1 were you." "liriilnl?" faintly. "i'es, brutal, to keep him waiting for you all this time in tho shadow near Iho ivy wall I" Having discharged this Miell, she wails in stony silence for a reply. Sho walls some Him 1 . Then— "Arc yon speaking of—of Mr. Desmond?" asks Monica, In a vreuibling voice. '•Yes. lie is standing there now, nnd bus been, for- oh. for hows,-on iholmroohnnco of gaining one word from you." "Now?" starling. "Yes. Ho said he would wait, until I had persuaded you lo go out If 1 had such a lover, 1 know I should not keep him wailing lor me all the evening shivering with cold." (It is tho balmiest of summer nights.) "Oh, what shsill 1 do?" says Monica, torn in two between her desire to lie true to her aunt and yet not nukind lo her lovor. "As I said before," snys Iho resolute Kit, turning her small pnlo face up lo her sister, "1 know 1 am not ciilillcd to dielato to any ono. but this i know, loo, that if I. were you, nnd tivcnlH Aunt, I'riseillns woro at my side, I should sllll—go lo him! There!" Sho conquers. Monica rises slowly, nnd ns a first move iu the desired direction goes —need I say It?—to the looking-glass. Need ] say, also, that she fools dissntisllod with her appearnuc.L'? "Thou I suppose I hiul heller dress myself oil over ngain,"she snysglnneing with much discontent nt the charming vision tho gliiss- rolurns to her. "No, iioI",Hii.y.s Kil, decidedly. Slio Jins now arranged herself as Slistross of tho Ceremonies, and tpiilo gives horsolf airs. "Do not add oven a touch lo your loilot You are quite too sweet as yon are, and 'lime presses'" (another loved quotation from one >•/!' her moldy volumes). "But Wi/.s," says Monica, plucking at, her pretty loose gown, Unit hangs iu limp artistic folds round her slight llgnro and is prank- ed out with cosily laces. "It, is perfoet! Have you no oyos for Iho beautiful? There, go, you silly child: Nature has been so good lo yon, yon now do- ride her prodigality, and make lillle of tho gil'ls sho has bestowed upon you. fin" anil then Monica slwjis out. lightly, fearfully, up on Iho corridor outside, and so, witli her hear!, dying williiu her, creeps past her aunts' doors, nnd down Iho wldo staircase, and through the hall anil at last Into tho silver moonlight! piur. .Monten. tell in- you don t like Kyde." "I can't say," says Monica. "He is very kind to rue always. I nm sure! ought to like him." "How hns he been kind to you?" "Oh, in many ways." '•He has brought you a cup of somebody else's ten, t suppose, and has probably trot* led after ymi with a cnmp-stoo!; is that kindness?" "If one i.s hot or tired, yes." "Von are the most grateful specimen of your sex. 1 wish there was anything fof which you ini-jht \w gr.iloful to me. But I am not. grout n! the i>ctits solim business." •1 shouldn't h:ive thought so this after- 111:011," snys Monica, maliciously, "when you were M> linppy with Oiga Uohnit. But ', the moon bus risen quite above tha elms. 1 miisl iro." 'Not jot. There is something else. When nm 1 to sec yon ngn'm?-when?" "Thill is IK fats- wills it." "Voii nre my fnte. Will II, then, and say to-morrow." "No, no!'' exclaims she, rele.ising her hands from his, "I enniml indeed. I 7/uist mil. In IHMIIL; bore with \ou now I am do* ing wrong, mid nm Ix-lniyim,' the two people in Ilit- world who nre the most kind to me. llou -.hull I lo;ik inlo their eyes tomorrow'.' No; 1 will not promise to moot yon anywhere- crcr." •'How lender you HIT willi them, nnd with nit- how cruel! Monii'ii, \ou Ilk" me?" "Yes, 1 like you." stiys Mi-s Meres ford, as sho might have answered hiul she been quos- lloned ns to her opinion of mi nroinallc rua* sot. Repressing n geslureot impatience, Dos* inond goes on cnlmly,— , "Holler than Ityile?" "Than Mr. Hyde?" She sto^s, nnd #lanco§ at the snivel at her feet in a would-bo thoughtful fashion, ami pushes it to and fro with her pretty Louis Quhuo shoe. Sh« pauses purposely, nnd mnkos quite an affair of her hesitation. '' "Yes, Kydo," snys ho, impatlonlly. "Jlowenn I answer thai?" she says, at length, with studied deliberation, "when I know so lill.lo of either him—or you?" "Knowing ns both at, (cast equally wall, you must hnvo formed by this time soino opinion of us." "I should indeed," says, tho young girl, slowlj', nlwnys with her oyos upon Iho grnv el; "1ml unfortunately it never occurred to Hie,--Iho vilnl necessity of doing so, I iiu-iin." Though her head is still bent, ho can da* loci the little nninsed smile Unit Is curving her mobile lips. There onn be small doubt but. Hint she Is enjoying hlsdlscnmtlluro immensely. "You nre a coquette," ho snys quietly. Thero is contempt both in Ills look nnd tone. As she hours II, sho .suddenly lifts her head, nnd, without betraying chagrin, regards him slendfnstlj'. "Is thai so?" sho says. "Some! hues I have tliuiujlit, It, but " Tho unminlnknblo hope her pause eon- tuins angers him afresh. "If you eovet the unenviable litlo," ho says, hltlerly, "b« happy. Yon can lay just claim to It. You nre more tlinii worthy of it." "You llnller me," she says, lolling a glance so light, rest upon him Hint 11 seoius but Iho more quiver of her eyelids. "I men nt no llnltory, believe mo." "1 do believe you; 1 quite understand." ".Nol qulle, I think," exclaims he, Iho sudden coldness of her manner frightening him inlo holler behavior. "If—if I havo said nnylhing to oU'ond you, I nsk your forgive. CHArTasii xn. What a noise tho liny gravel makes bc- nenlh her feet, as sho hurries rapidly lo- ward Iho garden 1 How her hoarl beals! Oil that, she woro back again in her pretty safe room, willi the naughty Kil. to scold I Oh, if Aunt Prlsclllu wore lo rise, and, looking out of her bedroom window, catch a glimpse of her, as she hastes to meet Iho man she has been forbidden to know! A thousand ler- rors possess her. The soft beauty of tho night, is unseen, the rushingoC sweol brooks in the distance is unheard. Hhe hurries on, a little, litlie, frightoned liguro, willi wMo oyos and parted lips, to the rentle/vous sho has notsoiu'ht And what a liUlo way it had seemed in tho glad daylight, yet what a journey in Iho silent, fearsome night! Thoro are real tours, born of sheer nervousness, in her beautiful eyes ns she runs along the garden pulh, and :il lust-aS fast—finds horsolf face to 1'aoo with Desmond. "Ah, you have come!" cries he, gladly, going to moot her while yelshoisiv lung way oil'. "Yes. But to come ham, and at this hour! II is madness!" says Monica, haslily. "A very blessed inadnoKs, then, and with method in 11; It has enabled me to see 1/011,'' "Oh, do not lalk like that Yon ought not to see me at all. And, now, what is it? Kit said you wanted inn sadly." "A nd so i do, and nol only now but always." "If," reproachfully, "11 i.s nothing pressing, would not to-morrow liavo done?" "To-morrow never comes. There is nothing like lo-d'.iy; and how eould I havo lived till lo-nio rn\\? i could not sleep, I could not rest, until I had seen you. My heart seemed on lir •, Monica, liow coulU you huvo treated me as you did lo-duy?" "Why must you choose mo lo love,—we, of all tho world?'' says Monica, tremulously; "it is wid", there are others—and—-" "Because I must It is my fate, and I urn glad of it Whom worthier could I love?" says the lover, with fond, passionate reverence. "Muuy.no doubt. And why love at all? Let us be friends, then, if it is indeed decreed that our lives meet " "There could never bo inerefrlondshipbe- tweon you and me. If your heart sloops, at least your sense must loll you Ihat" "Then I could wish myself without sense. I want to know nothing about it Alus! how sud a thing is love!" "And how joyous! It is tho ono emotion to bo fed and fostered. 'All others are but vanity.' I will persist in loving you until I die." "That is a foolish saying; and, even if you do, what will come of it all?" says Monica, with a sigh. "Marriage, I trust," returns he, right cheerfully. "Oil, Monica, if you could only love me I" "1 dare not" Thou, as though sorry for these words, she hoUlsoiit her band to him, and says wiih a quick smile, "Oh, Ilouieo, Komoo! whoroforu ait thou, UomeoV" "I wish I knew," returns lie sadly, "Yet If I were sure of one thiu 1 ;. I should not daa- "Thero Is nothing to forglvo, Indeed, mid you hnvo fulled lo offend mo. Bill," slowly, "j'ou have made me very sorry for you." "Yes, for your most, unhappy temper. It Is quite Hie worst, 1 think, 1 havo over mot willi. Good-night, JMr. Desmond; pray bo careful when going through that hedge again; there are some rose-trees growing in il, nnd lliorns do hurl so dreadfully." So saying, she gathers up her white skirts, and, wiihout n touch of her hnnd, or ovon a last glniicH, Hits like a lissome ghost across the moonlit paths of the garden, and so is gone. To be continued. JUST J.IK 10 A WOMAN. Shu i'uflitud llor Truvullng UrcHM unit Itoii- nut In Hur Trunk. Just UH I was going out today the lady in the room across the hallway of the liotol begged to see me, : ,.ys tho lady in Lhe I'hiluclolDhiu, Press. Sho looked dreadful and WUH ball: crying. "Won't you please lend mo a dross or a cloak? I have got to catch a train," she gusiied. .She soomod to need a drcBS, but 1 know her only slightly, and made up my mind sho had go e made. "My trunks havo all gone," sho wailed. "John is to meet me at the wharf. Wo sail for Curopo in an hour, 1 simply can't miss the train. 1 have no one to turn to. 1 cannot get a dross made—you can KOO that yourRolf. If you have aim- man heart you will help mo out. Give me a clonk—and a pair of _ shoos and a thick veil. Ob, please he quick." 1 told her that sho needed rest and perfect quiet, and that 1 would rub her head. 1 asked where she got tho dress eho had on "It's an old thing 1 was going to leave," she sobbed, "and I clont want my head rubbed, I want soino clothes. You see, packing in such warm work. I decided to put on thoso old things and just slippers—you mutt give me shoes, too— and—ah! I shall miss that boat. "My dear madam—" "Oh! don't you understand," she shrieked. "I have packed everything— everything. The clean clothes that I laid out and my traveling dress and everything —they are all packed—and all gone— gone. 1 forgut 1 had these things on— aud I packed everything—and John is at the wharf now, with the children from grandmother's and you will not help me." She went completely into hysterics right in my hallway. Poor little woman. She was a good deal smaller than I, but I fixed her up. J wonder what John said when he saw her. Hit) Hut Wan Ilia. On a slave plantation in Cuba the rain was falling in torrents. A negro who was walking along the road carefully stowed his hat under his clothes aud continued his journey bareheaded. '•Why, Ponipey," said a white man, "your h«md will get quite wet!" "Hee, hee, bee!" laughed the negro, "head massa's; hat my own!" The Boy to Blame. Lady customer— "That puir of slippers 1 bought of you a short time ago have worn out." Clerk —"Bad leather, ma'am?" "No; bad boy." : "U. is rat her B Iran tre that an apothecary's business should be profitable. "Who do you think BO?" "Because much of what he sells is a drug in the market."

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