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THE UPPER DBS MOlNESyALGONA, IOWA, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7,1891. GHASTLY BUSINESS. "^Some Observations of a Skeleton Dealer Who Has Had Twenty Years Experience, A Veritable Chamber of Horrors Is 'JS! That of M. De Robaire in Philadelphia. Skeletons are Imported in Large Nnm- bers, Still the Demand is Not Supplied. To denl in the bones of 'huinan beings would be an occupation rppugnftnt to most nien, says the 1 Philadelphia Eeborcl. Yet in the vicinity of Sixth, and South streets lives an old Frenchman who finds more pleasure in this occupation than anything else in his Ife. His store is a veritable den of skeletons. The weather-beaten sign swinging over the door, creaking dismally with every gust of wind, bears this simple legend. "M. de Robaire, Parfunierie." from which it is evident monsieur would have the world believe that he deals almost exclusively in those berfumed waters so dear -to the feminine heart. Every family has a, skeleton hi the closet, however, and tne monsieur's family, which consists only of himself, is no exception to the general rule. He has bis skeleton, "n fact he' has scores of them in [closets _ and otherwise — the majority tierwiee. The truth of tha matter is, .e plfl Frenchman deals in skeletons. Living as he does in a neighborhood thickly populated by ignorant negroes, >«rho are, as a rule, very superstitious, De 'Robaire has found it necessary to ply his queer trade as secretly as possible. The ''doctor" has occupied his present headquarters for the last quarter of a century, and enjoys quite a large practice among the colored people, who would have nothing to do with him did they suspect the weird doings about the little shop. The second floor boasts of only two small rooms, the rear one being used as a workshop, while the other, directly over the store and fronting on the street, serves the double purpose of bedchamber and storeroom. Such another bedchamber as the one occupied by the old Frenchman probi bly does not exist, and how monsieur manages sleep the sleep of the just amonc- such grewsome surroundings in an insolvable mystery to the few who have been admitted to it. The walls of the small room are ornamented with skulls and crossbones and real lifesized skeletons, or, rather, death- size Skeletons in all sorts of grotesque positions. Four hideous skulls grin from their positions on top of the four posts of the bed and close to the sides of the bed stands a skeleton with arms outstretched doing duty as a clothes rack. The whole is dimly lighted up by a a faint gliumer of light emanating from a lamp made of a gastly tkuiJa suspended from the middle of the ceilling with thongs of tanned hu- De Robairo himself is an old-looking man, and the resemblance between him and one of his own skeletons is decidedly striking. He has gant, wolf-like features, his thin upper lip and bony ' chin being adorned with an iron-gray; mustache and imperial; His htad is entirely bald save for a few bristly red hairs standing upon his forehead like a small bonfire, and under a pair of bushy eyebrows of the same fiery hue his small black eyes glitter like coals of fire. For a score of years he has been carrying on his business in the old place, having emigrated from France in 18G5, coming direct to Philadelphia, where ho established himself, in business. For a time he had a hard struggle to keep soul aud body together, owuig to the number of competitors in tlie field, together with the dullness of business. Ip soon became necessary for him in addition to Kis other trade to sot'liimself up aa a druggist, and he still runs his little shop, though principal lj as a decoy. Latd in the '60's, when the Knights of Pythias were organized in this ttate, the demand for skeletons increased, as they •were used to a great extent in the lodge- rooms. De Robaire prepared as a' consequence, since most of hia competitors had given up the business. Off and on during the following twenty years business was brisk and dull by turns, but the old man has amassed a' small fortune, and there .is no-reason why he should longer continue in the business, excepl that he has taken a liking to his work. He is a true artist in the full sense if the word. There is undoubtedly no one •ho can articulate a skeleton as neatly as he, and is no idle boast on his part when he claims that with eyes blindfolded, he can take a mass of bones representing the human frame and build vp Ihe skeleton at it was originally, without one bone out oi place. Again, be can by merely touching a bone, tell to a certainty what part of the frame of man or beast it belongs. There is no possible way of determining the nationality of the person who txisted arounc a certain skeletor during life except thai in the case of a, npgro, the aperture in the skull once covered by the nose is not so narrow and sharpened as a white man. The "doctor," while standing in his workshop a few days ago,> with his sleeves rolled up over his skinny arms, thus helc forth on the subjfct nearest his heart •'This skeleton you sen me operating on ] have imported from France. You wiL potice the high polish on the bones, clue to a method of preparation practiced only by the French. They clean the bones by r process of maceration with muriatic acid, the whole operation requiring two or three mouths' time, t wbjle in this country th« bones are hastily and carelessly boiled ane come out rough and dirty. In all my 2( years' service I never came across a Chinese skeleton. This is duo to the fact that a Chinaman believes he will not reach heaven unless his bones rest in the Flowery Kingdom." "The different prices of skeletons are bas_ed upon their degrees of hardness anc whiteness, upon the development of the bones, and the amount or absence of fat in weir extremities. For this reason the French article is decidedly of more value than the American or German. Up to thb year over 2,600 skeletons have been imported into this country, but they have become scarce of late for some reason, and to supply the demand 1 find it necessary to manufacture them of caper. Of course ] have a stock of them in my bedroom, but I would not part with any of them. Mon >ieu! I have come to Inqk upon them ns dekr friends and companions. Here you see my artificial teeth, and the whole covered with a white polish which gives the appearance of the genuine article. I can make three ef these each week, and heh bring from $10 to $r5, white the itn- jorted genuine article cost from $30 to $35, ind the domestic $20. But then the imi- :atioos are bought only by secre"; societies. "Yes, 1 have grown old in the business and love it. 1 havearticjlated and handled over 5,000 skeletons in my life." A FKJ5AK OP Plating Transferred From n Sword to a CiU'8 Body. A correspondent of Rutland, Vt., has .;omp, in possession of the facts regarding a freak of lightning, probably more remarkable than any hitherto recorded, which occurred near the small village of New Salem, at the foot of the Helderburg mountains, on the fourth of July. One of the oldest residents of that locality is Areuf S. Van Oyck, who occupier an ancestral mansion a mile'or so west of the Village. In the large parlor of the Van Dyck mansion there are displayed many quaint and curious relics of the olden time, whichjhave been handed down in the Van Dyck family from generation-ID generation. Among_ the collection was a actable sword with a revolutionary history. The scabbard was heavily plated with silver, and hung on the wall near a window. On the night of July 3 a heavy thunder-storm prevailed among the Helclerberg mountains, and the flashes Df lightning wore incessant and vivid. Some time between 12 and 1 o'clock on the morning of the Fourth the occupants of the Van Djck mansion were awakened from sound slumber by a terrible crash, which caused the whole building to tremble. All were momentarily stunned but Mr. Van Dyck quickly recovered his senses and, realizing that lightning had struck either the mansion itself or some object in close proximity to it, hastily arose and started to investigate. He was joined by his son and t'jey began a search. That the lightning had ignited nothing they soon found out. Nor were signs of damage any where apparent. All the outbuildings were intact,' and as far as they could ascertain the mansion had not been damaged. They went through all the rooms but found nothing until they entered the parlor in which the relics were kept. They noticed a strong smell that was unlike anything they had ever smelled before. It was a sickish nauseating smell. They entered and looked around the room. Suddenly the jounger Van Dyck uttered an exclamation of sur prise and pointed to an old-fashioned sofa that, stood against the wall near a window Upon it lay what was apparently the ail-, ver image of a cat curled up in an exceedingly natural pose. As far as the shape and posture of the animal were concerned, it might have been a live eat. Each glittering hair was separate and distinct,' aud each silvery bristle of of the whiskers described a graceful curve as in life. The claws, the tail, the ears, the nostrils, were perfect in every detail. Father and son looked at each other in much astonishment. Suddenly and al most simultaneously, their eyes turned toward the sword which hung upon the wall justabove the sofa, and there they saw that the sword had been stripped of all of its silver. The hilt was gone and the scabbard was but a strip of blackened steel. Like a*flash the explanation of the silver cut came to them. The family cat had been electroplated by lightning. Further investigation showed that thin explanation was in fact the correct one. In one of the panes of glass in the window was found a round hole about the size of a half dollar where the lightning had evidently entered, There was a charred streak across the glass where the electrical fluid had made its way to the sword, down which it had passed to the cat, carrying with it the silver, which it deposited upon the animal. Of course the cat was in stantly killed, and therfore remained in the position in which it was quietly sleeping when the flash came. It is thought that the. plating on the cat's body will pro- vent decay,'and that probably it may be retained among the collection of curiosties, which is more remarkable than all. Local scientists are puzzled by Ihe occurrence, and one of their members :of the Albany institute is iuvestigatinKthe case and wil prepare a paper on;it.—Exchange. The Causes of Fertility, How little we all know of the ultimate causes of vegetable growth and of the essential conditions to vegetation rnaj be inferred from the discoveries recently made with respect, to a large number ol plants, The Hellriegal experiments ol the last fifteen years prove that the growtu of the legumes is but a poor, sickly affair unless tubercles fasten upon the roots of the plants, and that theseare impossible in sterilized earth, that is, in earth sufficiently heatedto destroy microbic life, To the same affects are the experiments of M. Laurent, a French investigator, who, if reported, has practically demonstrated that buckwheat grown on sterilized mold produce only one-forth as mush as thai grown in soil swarming with bacteria, ant that even this growth is due to microbes fortuitou.-ly introduced after the soil ha been sterilized, A couple of years 0,30 we noted the fact that the results of using the sewage of Paris as a fertilizer were at first disappointing for the reason that it contained littla or no valuable p'ant food Later an immense swarm of microbes were developed which rendered it valuable and a study of tbe subject showed tha 1 atmospheric conditions were essential ti the production-of the germs which resulte in nitrification. The effort to utilize th( sewage of London disclosed a similar sei of facts, and the glimoses which the) afford of the processes by which plants, teed and prow, and of what real I y const i tutes the elements known under the gen era! name of fertility, indicate that tlu problem is a uiucu more complicated one than is generally supposed. The practiet of irrigation brings confirmatory tvidenct of this. Under it soils in which initia fertility, as disclosed by analysis, if ver> low become wonderfully fertile whei once the water is turned on. It is be cause the moisture is necessary far thi plaut, merely, or does it servo an uHerioi purpose stiJl more important and funda mental in developing gernw whose mis siocs and life history is the creation anc preparation of plant food ? lu the ligb of diecover-id facts much of the solution o the problem of fertility lies outside of anc back of Liebig'w laws.—Exchange. ENGLISHMEN WJN. Thin Time They are Successful lu the Cricket Mulch PHILADELPHIA, Oct. 2.—The crickei iqatoh between Lord' IJawkos' team o; Englishmen and the all-Philadelphia team ended this afternooc, the Bag ish men winning by oue run and four wickets. MONICA. A STORY OF THESE TIMES. When he has finished this performance, both hi; niul she *t:ire nt. the handkerchief meditatively. 'I doubt you have tnken it M off," she says, plaintively. "I couldn't, lm\c put more than that on, and surely the handkerchief has no need of » complexion; whilst 1 It must he all gone now, anil I was whiter tliiui Oils bit of cambric; when I put it on. Had I better run \tp to my room again, or " "Oh, no. You are all risrht; indeed you are.- I'd say so at once It' you weren't," says Ronnyne, reassuringly. "You are looking as lovely as a dream." "And my eyes?" "Are beautifully done. No one on earth •oulcl find you out," says Ulic, comfortably; after which they both laughed merrily, and, quitting the, impromptu boudoir, go down to the ball-room. Mrs. Fitzgerald shows a faint disposition to sob, as tliey pass out of sight. jSIiuUimo O'Connor is consumed with-laughter. "1 don't think I should trouble myself: tfo open 'that poor young llonayneV eyes, if I Were you, Edith," she says, with tears of suppressed amusement in her eyes. "lie is lostl" says Mrs. Fitzgerald with a groan; but whether she means to Bella or to decency never transpires. CHAPTER xxrn. The day is near; the darkest hour that presages the dawn has come, and still every one is ihincimr, and talking, and laughing, and some arc alluring, by the aid of smiles and waving fans, the hearts of men. Kit Boresf'orcl, in spite of her yotilli and her closely-cropped head,—which, after all, is adorable in many ways,—lias secured, all to her own bow, a young man from the Skilloreen-Uarracks (u meager town to the west of liossmoyne). lie is a very young, young man, and is by tills time quite bun cmrumiclc with the sedalo Kit, who is especially lenient with his shortcomings, and treats him as though he were nearly as old as herself. Monica is dancing with Mr. Hyde. To do him justice, he dances very well; but (whether Monica is dissatisfied wilh him, or whether she is tenderly regretful of the fact that tit this moment sho might just as well — or rather better—bo dancing with another, 1 cannot say; but certainly her fair face is clothed with a pensivo expression that heightens its beauty in a considerable degree. "Look at that girl of Prlseilla Blake's," says Madame. O'Connor, suddenly, who is standing at (he head of the room, surrounded, as usual, by young men. "Look at her. Was there ever such a picture? She is likn a martyr at the stake. That intense expression suits her." Brian Desmond Hushes a little, and Kelly comes to the rescue. "A jjiurtyr'i"' lie says. "I don't think Ryile would be obliged to you if he heard you. 1 should name him as the martyr, if I were you. Just see how hopelessly silly—I mean, sentimental—he looks." "Yet I think she fancies him," says Lord Kussmoync, who is one of those men who are altogether good, respectable, and dense. "Nonsense I" says Madame O'Connor, Indignantly. "What on earth would she fancy that jackanapes for, when there are goorl men and true wail ing for her round every corner?" As she says this, she glances whole volumes of encouragement at Desmond, who, however, is so depressed by the fact, that Monica has danced five times with Hyde, and is now dancing with him again, that ho gives her no returning glance, At this apparent coldness on his part, the blood of all the kings of Minister awakes in Madame O'Connor's breast. '"Pon my conscience," she says, "I wouldn't give a good farthing for the lot of yoiii to let'that girl goby! She came into liossmoyne on the top of a hay-cart, 1 hear, —more luck to her, says I; for it shows the pluck in her and the want of the sneaking t'ciirof what ho and she will say (more .especially she) that spoils half our women. When I was her age I'd have done it myself. Kossmoyne, get out of that, till I g.t another look at her. I like her face. It does me good. It is so full of life ct 1e Itcante du dlable," says Madame O'Connor, who speaks French like a native, and, be it understood Irish, too. '''''" "IKc like to look at her, too," says Owen Kelly. . "To look, indeed! That would be thought poor comfort in my days when a pretty woman was in question, and men were men I" says Madame, with considerable spirit. "If I were a young fellow, now, 'tis in the twinkling of an eye I'd have her from under lier aunt's nose and away in a coach- and-four." "The solo thing that prevents our all eloping with Miss Beresford on the spot is—is— the difficulty of finding- the coach-and-four and the blacksmith," says Mr. Kelly, with i-ven a denser gloom upon his face than usual. Indeed, he now appears almost on (lie verge of tears. "We never lost time speculating on ways and means in tlwise days," says Madame O'Connor, throwing up her head. "Whool Times are changed indeed since my.grahd- father played old Harry with the countrymen and my grandmother's father by running away with her without a word to any one, after a big ball at my great-grandmother's, and that, too, when she was guarded as if she was the princess royal herself and had every man in the South on Ms knees to her." "But how did he manage it?" says Desmond, laughing. "faith, by making the old gentleman my great-grandfather as drunk as a fiddler, on drugged potheen," says Madame O'Connor, proudly. "The butler and he did it between them; but it was as near being murder as anything you like, because they put so much of the narcotic into the whisky that the old man didn't come to himself for three days. That's the sort of thing fur me," says Madame, with a Jittie flourish of her shapely hand. "So it would be for me, too," says Kelly, mournfully. "But there's no one good enough to risk my neck for, now you have refused to have anything to do with me." "Get along with you, you wicked boy, making fun oC an old woman 1" suys Madame, with her gay, musical laugh. "Though," with a touch of pride, "I won't deny but I led the lads a line dance when I was the age of that pretty child yonder." "I wonder you aren't ashamed when you think of all the mischief you d.d," says IJes- nv.nul, who delights in her. •MXvil a bit!" says Madame O'Connor. "Still, 1 really think Kyle ail'ects her," says liossmoyne, who being a dull man, 1ms clung to the first topic promulgated. "That's uotlilusr, so long as slie doesn't alfect him," says Kelly, somewhat sharply. "But perhaps she does; and f dare say lie has money. Those English fellows generally have a, reversion somewhere." "Not a penny," says Mr, Kelly. ,'And, whether or no, I don't believe she would look at htm." "Not she," says Madame O'Connor. "I don't know that. And, even allowing whnt you say to bo true, women are not always "to be Won -by wealth" (with n faint slsh), "and he Is n very good-looking fellow." "Is he?" says Desmond, speakina with nn effort. "If flesh counts, of course h« is. 'Lot me have men about me that are fat; sleek-headed men, anil such a-= sleep o' night,' To look fit Hyde, one would fancy he slept well, m;t only by night but by day." "I feel as if 1 was going l;»b;' -sorry for Hyde presently," says Mr. Kelly. "Well, he's not the man for Monicn,"cnys Madame. O'Connor, with conviction. 'See how sorrow grows upon her lovely face. For shame 1 go and release her, some one, from her durance vile. Take heart of grace, go in boldly, and win her against all odds." "But if she will not bewonV'sajs Desmond, smiling, but yet with an anxious expression. "That man that hath a tongue,! say, is no man if with his tongue be cannot win a woman," quotes Madame, in a low voice, turning to Desmond with a broad smile of tlio liveliest encouragement; "and as for you, Desmond, why, if 1 were a girl, I'd be won by yours at, once." Desmond laughs. "I'm sorry 1'iii beneath your notice now.' 1 "Where's your uncle? Couldn't even my letter coax him here to-night?" "Not even that. Ho 1ms gone nowhere now for so many years that 1 think ho is afraid to venture." "Tut I" says Madame, Impatiently; "bo- cause ho jilted a woman once is no reason why the rest of us should jilt him." * * * * * * * It la an hour later, and all the guests have gone, except indeed Kit, who has been sent up-stairs, tired and sleepy, to share Monica's room, and Terence and .Itrinn Desmond, who with his friend Keliy are stnu:- gliiiir into their top-coats In the hull. The r.iin is descending in torrents, iiml they are regarding with ralher rueful countenances the dog-cart awaiting them outside, In which they had driven over In the sunny morning that seems impossible, when Madame O'Connor sweeps down upon them. "Take off those coats at once," she says. -"What do you mean, Brian'.' 1 wouldn't have it on my conscience to send a rat out of my house on such a night as this, unless under cover." Her conscience is Madame's strong point. She excels in it. Sheofttiines swears by it I Her promise to Miss 1'riscilla that Desmond shall not sleep beneath her roof during Monica's slay Is forgotten or laid aside, and finally, with a, smile of satisfaction, she sees the two young men carried off by Konayne for a filial smoke before, turning in. "1 don't feel a-bit sleepy myself,' says Monica, who is looking as fresh mid sweet as if only now jnsl risen. "Neither do 1," says Oliru. "Come lo my room, then, and talk to me for a minute or two." They mu4 have been long minutes, because it is quite an hour Into when a little slender figure, clad in a pretty white dressing-gown, emerges on tip-toe from Mrs. J!o- hun's. room and steals hurriedly along the deserted corridor. Somebody else is hurrying along this corridor, too. Seeing the childish figure In the white gown, he pauses; perhaps he thinks it is a ghost; but', if so, lie is n doughty man because ho goes swil'lly up to it with a gl:id smile upon his lips. "My darling girl," he says, in a subdued vo'oij, "I thought you woru in the middle of your first happy dream by this." Monica smiles, mid leaves her hand in his. "I am not such a lav.y-boivs as you evidently thought me," she says. "Bid. I nr.i-1 hurry now, in leed, All the world is abed, 1 suppose; and if Kit walces and finds me nut, yet come, she will be frightened." '•Before you go, tell me yon will meet mo somewhere to-morrow. Von," uncertainly, "arc going home to-morrow, are you not?" "Yes. But— ])\it—liow can I meet yon? I have almost given my word to Aunt i'ris- cilla to do no'.liing— clandestine—or !li:il; and how shalll break it? You are always tempting m. 1 , and"—a soft glaum stealing to him from beneath her lashes—"! should lU;c to see you, of course, but so much duty 1 owe to her." "Your first duty is to your husband," responds he, gravely. She turns to him with startled eyes. "Who is that?" she asks. "1am," boldly; "or at least I soon Blmll be; it is all tliowune." "How -sure yon are of mo!" she says, wilh Just the faintest touch of offense in her tone that quickens his pulses to fever-heat. "Sure!" lie says, with a, melancholy raised by passion into something that is almost vehemence. "Was I ever so unsure of anything, 1 wonder? There is so little certainty connected wilh yon in my mind that half my days an; consumed by donbls that render me miserable! Yet I put my trust in yon. Upon ymir sweetness 1 biiild my liopo, I feel you would ml willingly condemn any one to death, and what could I do but die if you now throw mo over? But you won't, 1 Mnk." "No, no," says Monica, impulsively, tears in her eyes and voice. Tremblingly she yields herself to him, and lets him hold her to his heart in a close embrace. "How could you think fhiit of mo? Have you forgotten that. I kissed you?" Plainly sin) lays great stress upon that rash act committed the other night beneath the stars. "ForyetiJ/" says Desmond, in a tone that leaves nothing to be desired. "You are mine, then, now,—now and forever," ho says, presently. "But there is always AuntFrlscllla,"says Monica, nervously. Her tone is full of affliction. "Oh, if she could only see mo now I" Well, she can't, that's one comfort; not if she were the hundred-eyed Argus herself." "I feel I am behaving very badly to her," says Monica, dolorously, "I am, in spite of myself, deceiving her, and to-morrow, when It Is all over, 1 " "It shan't be over," Interrupts ho, wilh considerable vigor. "What a thing losayl" "I shall fool so guilty when I get back to Moyne. Just as if I had been doing something dreadful. Sol have, I think. How shall lever be able to look her in the face again?" "Don't you know? It is the simplest thing in the world. You have only to fix your eyes steadily on the tip of her nose, and there you ure 1" This disgraceful frivolity on the part of her lover rouses quick reproach In Monica's eyes. "I don't think it is a nice thing to laugh at one," she says, very justly incensed. "I wi ukln't liiir.fh at you, if you were unhappy. You are not the least help to me. What urn I to say to Aunt IViseillu?" "How d'ye do? lirbt; and then—in an airy tone, you know—'1 am going to be married, as soon as time permits, to Brian Desmond.' No, no," penitently, catching a firmer hold of her as she makes a valiant but Ineffectual effort to escape the shelter of his arms, "I didn't mean it. I am sorry, and I'll never do it again. I'll sympathize with anything you say, if you will promise not to desert we." "It is you," reproachfully, "who deserts roe, and in my hour of need. I don't thluk," wistiuliy, "1 am so m 1 )/ mnrii to Dlamo, nm 1? I didn't n-«7; you to tall in love with me, ami when yon ("ime here nil Ibis week to see Madame O'Connor 1 couldn't possibly have turned my lv:«k up.'u you, could I'.'" "You could; but It would have brought you to the \er.:v of suicide ami murder, He- cause, as you turned, I should have turned too, on the rhnm-e of seeing your face, ami so on and on, until vertlso set in, and death ensued,and we were bothburied Inoneeom- mon grave. It sounds awful, d«cMi'; ii? Well, and where, then, will you come to meet mo to-moi row?" "To the river. I suppose," says Monica. "Do yon kiiuw." says De-moiid, after R short pause, "1 shall have to leave you MM»U? jS'nl now; DO! until Orinher. perhaps: but \vhei."ver I do go it will be foi a month at lens!." "A imoitfi?" "Yes.'' "A whole long month I" "The longest month I shall have ever known," sadly. "I certainly didn't think yon would go and do a thing like Uml," says his beloved, with much severity. "My durling, 1. can't help it.; but wo needn't talk about it- just yet. Only it came Into my head a moment ago, that It would be very sweet lo get a letter from you while 1 was away: a letter," softly, "a letter from my own wife to her husband." Monica glances at him in a half-perplexed fashion, and then, as though some thought has romo to her for the first I .me, and brought merriment In ils train, her lips part, and all her lovely ffce breaks Inlo silent inirlh. "What is ill 1 '' asks he, n little—just n very little-disconcerted. "Oh, iiothimr; iiolhlnir, really. Only It doc-f seem so funny to think I have got a husband,'* she says, in a eliokeil whisper, and then her mirth gets beyond her control, and, hut, that I'.rian prossrs her head down on his chest, a ul so sillies It, they might have had MNs K'.t/wrnltl out upon thi-m in ten seconds. "Hush!" svhUpers thn embryo husband, giving her a little shake. Hut he is laugh- Ing, too. "I ilou'l feel as If 1 honored you a bit," says Miss Heresfoul; "and as to iho'obey,' 1 certainly shan't do thai." "As if I 'should ask you!" says Desmond. "Bui Mini, of the love, swpi'lhemi 1 ." 1 "Why, as It, Is yours, you oii.'hl to bo the one to answer Hint- question," retorts she, prettily, a warm Hush dyeiii'; her face, "But why must, you leave me?" she says, presently. "The steward has written to mo once or twice. Tenants nowadays are so troublesome. Of course 1 could let the whole thing slide, and the puiporly goto the dogs; but no man has a right, to do that. 1 am talking of my own place now, you understand, — yuurs, as it will bo soon, 1 hope." "And where is—one place?" The hesitation is adorable, but, still more adorable are the .smile and bln.sh that accompany It. "'Jn WostmeaUi," say« Brian, when .some necessary preliminaries have been gone through. "1 hope you will like it. ft Is far prettier than l'o;,le In every way." "And 1 think Coolo lovely, what I've seen of it," says Monica, sweetly. Her, 1 the lamp that- has hitherto been lighting the corridor, thinking, doubtless (and very reasonably, loo), that if has done ils dul-y long enough, llicker>t, and goes out. Mill no darkness follows Its defection. Through the far window a pule burst of light rushes, illumining in a cold and ghoslr ly manner the spot on which they -stand. "The. ini'ck-oycd morn, mother of dews," has come, anil night has .slipped away abashed, with covered front. "Oh, we have delayed too long," mys Monica, with a touch of awe engendered by the marvelous and mystic beauty of the hour. "Good-night, good-night!" "Nay, rather a fair good-morrow, my sweet love," says Desmond, straining her to Ills heart. Cn.AVT.HH XXIV. "By the bye," nays old Mr. Desmond, looking ut his nephew across Hie remains of tlio dessert, "you've lic.cn a good deal ut Aghyo- hlllhogof late; why?" It is next evening, and, Monica being at Moyne and inaccessible, Brian Is at Cooio. Mr. Kelly is walking up and down on the graveled walk outside, smoking a cigar. "Jiocauso Miss Beresford was there," says Brian, breaking a grape, languidly from the bunch ho hol-ts in his Ivmd. "What!'' says Mr. Desmond, facing him. "Because Miss Ueresford was there." "What am I to understand by that?" "That she was there, I suppose," says Brian, laughing, "and that I am head over ears in love with her." "How dare you say such n thing as thai, to me?" says the Squire, pushing back his chair and growing a lively purple. "A re you going to tell me next you moan to marry her?" "I certainly do," says Brian; "and," with a glance of good-humored defiance at the Squire, "I'm the happiest man in the world to-day because she last night lold mo she'd have me.." "You shan't do it!" says the Squire, now almost apoplectic. "You shan't!—do you hoar? I'm standing In your poor father's place, sir, and 1 J'orbld you to marry one of that blood. Whall marry Ihe daughter—of —of—" something in his throat mastershlm here,—"the niece of Priscilhv Blake, u woman with ii tonguol Novorl" "My dear Ueorgo, you wouldn't surely have me marry a woman without one?" "I think all women would IKJ better without them; and as for I'riscilht Blake's, I tell you, sir, Xanlippe was an angel to her. I insist on your giving up this idea at once." "1 eeriainly .slui'n't give up Miss Beresford, if that is what you mean?" "Then I'll disinherit you!" roars the Squire. "1 will, 1 swear it! I'll marry myself. I'll do something desperate." "No, you won't," says Brian, laughing again; and, going over to the old man, ho lays his hand upon his shoulders and pushes him gently ba-'k Into his chair. "When you see her you will a'lore her, and she sent her love to you this morning, and this, loo," laying a photograph of Monica before the Squire, who glances at It askance, us though fearful it may bo some serpent waiting to sting him for the second time; but, as he looks, his face clears. "She is not Hko her mother," he says, In a low tone. "I never met such a remorseful old beggar," thinks Desmond, with wonder; but just at Uiis moment a servant enters with a message to the Squire; so the photograph is hastily withdrawn, and the conversation— or rather discussion—comes to an end. "Two of the tenants are asking to see you, sir," say.-; the butler, coiilidunliajly. "What two?" "Donovan, from the Kasl, and Molonoy, from the Bog lload, sir." "Very well; show Molonoy Into the library, and t it Donovan to wait dowu-staU'8 until I send for him." "Yes, sir." "Well, Molonoy, come to pay your rent?" Bays the Squire, cheerfully, entering the library and gazing keenly at the man who Is awaiting him there. Ho smiles apologetic.- ally, and shuflles uneasily from one foot to the other as ho twin (ho S<iuiro's eyes upon him. "No. sir: I can't brluir U, sir. I'd t>e In 3 fl!rre:t<1 o' mj- life will (lie boys to do It." "I don't know who the iceii;l''m-.'nino.ucs- iou you dtsitrrmte as 'the bovs'may be," s:i\sth" Squire, calmly. "Iran only tell >i n that I e-cpeet my rent from you, and Intend In pet it." "That's what I came to spake about, yer honor. Br.t the T/ind League Is a powerful body, an' secret, too; l.iok at the inurther o' Mr. Herbert ami that Knirlish Tiord in Fay- nix Park, and the rewards an' all, an' whftt'i come of it','" "A good deal will come of it, 1 trust," says The Desmond. "In ilu- menu time.! am not to be deterred from doin\; my duty by idle threat.':. I Ih niirht you. Molniiey. were too respectable a man lo mix yourself up with this movement." "I'm only a poor man, sir, but my life Is ns good to me as another's; an'If I pay they'll murther me, an' what'll become o' mo'then? An', besides, I haven't It, sir; 'tl« thruo for me. How can 1 be up lo time, wld the erops so bad this yeai?" "It is as good a year as I have ever known for crops," says Desmond. "I will hnvo no excuses of that sort; cither you pay me or turn out, I am quito determined on thtl point." "Yo'ro a hard man," says Moloney, with an evil glance. "I expected you to say nothing else. All the kindness of years Is forgotten because of one denial. How often have 1 let you olT your rent entirely dining Ihese twenty years we have been landlord and tenant to- polherl There, go! I have other business lo attend to, But on Monday, remember." "Ye won't see mo Unit day or any other," says the fellow, Insolently, sticking his hat on his head with a defiant gesture. "Very good. That Is your own lookout You know the consequences of your non-arrival. Denis," to the footman, "show this man out, and send Donovan here." "Yes, sir." "Well, Donovan, what Is It?" says Desmond, a few minutes later, as the library door again opens to admit,tlio other mntcon- teiil. He Is ust'.ut, thick-set man, With fierce eyes and a lowering brow, lie bos mercifully escaped, however, the ItypocrltlO- al meanness of tin 1 face that, has justgono. There 1-iu boldness, a roeklcj.*, delennined diii'iii'i ahoiii Ibis m in, lluil stamps him 09 a leailiiur spirit, inuoiig men olevll minds. "I've (••nil'. 1 hereto --pake lo ye to-night, MlMhcr !>csmoin!. us 111,111 In 111:111," Ixt says, \\illi a somewhul nwiiyxi rlnu air. To bo continued. The H«»rt of It. There is no law more imperative than thin: work inevitably iiiaiiifesla tlio worker. The work of n thoughtful man will bo thoughtful, and (he work of u nlmllow man will bo shallow; the work of a silly woman will bo silly work, mid the work of conceited people bhuj.in forth their conceit, whether they wish it or not. We c n n put no moro truth or bounty into our work than wo have in us to put. Wo must first possess tlio truth in our own hearts before we can speak or act it out. Wo imiy ppi-HC8s u truth actually from our own experience, or by the force of a, strong imagination. Killicr way it must bo clearly ouis before wo can successfully show it, to other*. Our words will be heartless mid our actions lifeless if they nre merely words and actions. They must bo more: they must bo the irrepressible outcome of truth—the truth which underlies all good work. To begin to create good work from the outoido is wanted time itnd fruitless labor. We inusl, start from the centre; wo must put- (ho thought in the middle and work it toward the outside. If nobility is there, noble deeds will spring forth. If singleness of purpose, iielionH will bo direct and sincere. If knowledge is there, words will be wise. If: love and humility abide there, tlie.v will shine, with a light which can iirver bo concealed, If truth bo at the t'Pnlre, it can show only truth. There is no go'liny iiround this law or away from it. Tim loudest rattling of words cannot, conceal their emptiness—if they are empty; the showiest action cannot long cover t.lin meanness of the motive —if the motive is moan. 1£ there is nothing underneath, the void will surely bo discovered. If falsehood, the falsehood will Bure'y proclaim itself. Those who must (ilwiiyN Innnblo loust their hidden IhoiU'htH come to light, and their concealed life bo revealed, live in constant fear of this law. To whoever, with a quiet courage, UC(H and Bpeaks directly from the heart of tilings it has no terrors. We may first, need light to find the truth, and then strength to secure it; but when it is once ours, and we simply work from thn heart of it, what is there to fear? —Harper's Bazar. KOVAM£CONOMY. ScrviinlH' Klnh I'ttrqiilHlicH at Court* of (ipuln niul AuHlilu. Queen C'liriutianu of Spain is OOMIH- leiuly carrying out, to the inienso disgust of her household, tlie reform which the late duke of AosU when king attempted to introduce, BUVM tlie New York Recorder —reforms ,y which the viands and wines coming fr Jin the royal table are retained insteau of becomii.g tlm ponjuibites of servants, as WHS formerly the case. Wine, fruit, bon-bons, j utitr.v, and any diwhes left, as well an fl-iwern and wax candles used for the sovereign's table, were never ul- lowcd to appe.ir iigiiin; the renult of this nyntein being, of course, an appalling amount of waste. At the Au.stru.in court the custom of "perquisites" JH still in full force, and if diflicult fur anybody who bus not seen with hix own eyes how things go there to rouli/o what the servants' "perquisites" really mean. Some of them nre entitled to claim all the bottles of wine which have been uncorked but, not emptied; others, those which have b^eri brought up from the cellar, but left untouched; while the wiue that remains in the glares, uftor the guests have ri^en from dinner, is robot- lied carefully and sold by the for in on. The court servants make open trafliu of the imperial leaving, and thekeeperw of small notels and msluarauts buy from them fowl, fish and fl '«h, not to mention many danltien, and (.'specially wines and liquors. Many liiditw belonging to the second-class soc'Oty in Viennu come to the basement of the liofburg and buy grand old vint- igen at a low price, and to get the finest •igars for their husband* at a cost fur below what they would have to pay for ths oueapent Ilavanas. Candles are nUo sold in great quantities oy the servantB. The empress used to have i poaitiv i horror of gas and oloctrio light, ind until very lately used absolutely to rvrbiii the u. k e of anything but purest VCA$ o light up the paliiiM. It used to ba very (.musing to Bee ih« servants to whom the mlf-burned candles belonged by right, 'iiakew, rush to blow them out the moment he lust guest had walked out of the 'OOIUS. The whirf utrik? at Swaunah, G-.I., ig /raiiuully attending: to ail benches of colored labor. Dimness is at (t ataud.- still.