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Home My WebLink AboutThe Exeter Times, 1893-7-27, Page 6POWDiR )11" f r jam qt.(t7 A. roti+, 1010 "Zati `"" PIG€ST, STRONGEST, BEST,. o. Alum. Ammonia Lime Contains n Phosphates, or any Igluriant LEGAL. H.DICKSON,Barrister, Soli- atter oli- ieatteruotSupreme Court, Notary bl Co nye ye neer. 0a rem issionor, e Money to Goan. omcein anson'a8took, Exeter,. hT, COLLINS • Barrister, Solicitor, Conveyancer, Etc. HbETER, - ONT. OPFIQE t Over ()Weirs Bank. ELLIOT & ELLIOT, Barristers, Solicitors Notaries Public Solicitors, , Conveyancers &c, &o. KR -Money to Loan at Lowest Rates of interest. OFFICE, . MAIN - STREET, EXETER. 3, r, ',tLLIO'r. FREDERICK ris.uvr. DENTAL. Fr F. L, D. S, D, D, 3. Grainate of Royal Goliega of Dental Sur- ge gni. and or the Dantat Department of Torun to University, (with honor.;.) Spo:aaliit in bridgework, and gold, and porcelain crewas, Pure Nitrous Oxide Gan and Incol anaethet- es for painless extraet)ons. At human every ;Vedue'ay. Office: Faneon,i Illook. Exeter. mensonew T IR. 0. E. INGRAM, DENTIST. Succe!sor to H. L,Billiugs. Me mbar of the Royal College of Dental Sin peons.) Teeth iusertea with or without Pia"o,in Golder Rubber. A safe An gAieu for the painless oatraotion of teeth. Fina Gold Fillings as Required: Ofilee over the Po't office. .10.11...,.. MEDICAL T W. BYOWNING XI. D., 141. fI LI • P. 8 Graduate Victoria. TSni'pe;••'ty: odic° and residence. nom:Ilion Labe a tory .Exeter . T'')R. B tx'DMAN, coroner for tis 0.-onaty of Huron. Matte, opp..site fea"atflug Brea, store, Exeter. DIPS. ROLLINSSsAMOS. Separate Odices- Residence same as former, ly. Andrew at. O it eat Spa lleman a building. Main at; D: Rollins same as formerly, north door. ree, Anaoa same betiding, south door, 3. A. ROLLINS, M. D., T. A. AMOS, M, D, Exeter, Ont - AUCTIONEERS. T HARDY, LICENSED ACJO- 1 d • tieneor for the County of Huron, Charges moderate. Exeter P. O. VI BOSSEIN.BERRY, General Li. • ceased Auctioneer Sales c in allparts. Satisfactiouguaranteed conducted moderate. Re usalI P 0, O u t. •1ENRY EILBER LicensedAnc- and Middlesex for o Sales Countiesnof d at mod- erate rates. °Tice, at Post -office, Cred- ton Ont. VETERINARY. Tennent & Tennent EXETER. ONT. Grednatesof the Ontario Vecerivary Oat lege. "OFFICE: One error Soutb OfToetn Hall, MONEY TO LOAN. ONEI TO LOAN AT 6 AND percent, 525,000 Private Funds. Best Loaning Companies represeuted. L.H DICKSON Baxristei re�rMIIII INSI71OANCE HE WATERLOOMUTUAL FIRE INS:URANOECO., Established! x>.r1.g63, HEAD,IOFF.'GE' ` WATERLOO, ONT. Thi Company has been over Twenty-eigh years in successful operttlon in Wasters Ontario, and continues to insure against loss or datlatgo by, Fire. Buildings, Merchandise 'Manufactories and all other descriptions of insurable property. Intending insurers have the option of insuring on the Premiere Noteor Cash System: During the past ten years this company has issued 57,0911 Policies, covering property to the amount of S40,872038; and paid in losses alone +5700,752.00. Assets, 3176.100.00, consisting of Cash in Bank government Deposit and the unasses- sod Premium Notes on hand and in force J.IW\VALorx, M.D.. President; '0 M. TA'rtoa Secretary ; J.. E. lfRcxtas, Inspector CIIA9 SNELL. Agent for Exeter and vicinity The Molsons Bank (01HARTEREDBY.'PA RLTAMENT, 1855) Paid up Capital 30,000,000 nes Fund 7,100,00 Headomce,Montreal, WOLFERSTAIN Tl1'n 4 A v>T F : - NER.tt xnt MnvaaEx, e advanced to good farmeraon the' Money frown note with one or more endorser at 7 per cent. Per annum. Exeter Branch, Open everylawful day, from l0 a. m. to3 pf SATI.T .DAYS, 10 a.ui. to 1p., Current re.r,a of interest allowed on depcgi N. DYER HURDON, ub-Manau'er, NOT 1NISLLY', BllT TOO WELL. CHAPTER XIII., " I have loved," she said. " Man is weak—God is dread." The ehild can just riot alone now, and 'lisp his mother's name in that sweet baby language whish is earth's most exquisite music to a mother's ears. He is a lovely little fellow, with big, starry eyes, and soft gold hair, and winning coaxing ways,whiob did as they would with all womeukind,who had auything to do with him., Lauraine kneels there for a moment nutter the realoak trees,and holds hint Clasped g P to her heart. We will take him home, nurse," she says, looking up at the stately personage who is hisguardian, and who adores him with all her soul. "You can't carry him, my lady, and it is tote far for him to walk," she says. "Oh, yes. Lady Etwynde and I will carryhim between us," answers Lauraine. "Darling, how strong and big he gets ! There, take mother's hand, Isn't he de- lighted, Lady Etwynde, to come with us ?" " He seems so, x, smiles her friend. "Farewell to philosophy now, Lauraine. King Baby puts everything else into the background." " It is wonderful, is it not ?" says Laur- aine, with something of the old bright smile. " I wonder how I could ever have lived without him, He seems to hold all my heart iu these two wee hands of his." "I have wondered," says Lady Etwynde dreamily, "it seems an odd thing to say, perhaps, but I have often wondered at wom- en who are mothers 'going wrong,' as peo- ple express ie. I could underatand a wife, bad as it is; but to forsake your children, your own flesh and blood, for the sake of a man's love—well, it must be a cert of deli- rious frenzy, I suppose, And do you know it is not always flighty women—careless women—who astonish us by a faux pas. It is sometimes the quietest and most unlike- ly,,, "Yes," answered Lauraine, very quietly; "these cases are so totally different to the lookers-on. They only see the result, not, what leads up to it." " It is difflc,iit to know what to think," says Lady Etwynde. " I have known pee - pie marry for love, for money, for rack, for onnvenience, for obedence's sake, for duty's sake, and yet I don't know of one single really happy marriage. The lovers have got sink of each other in a yetr, the moneyed pair are miserable, the others in- different, unfaithful, erratic, as the ease may be. Is it any wonder, Lauraine, that I give the business a wide berth ?" " You are fortunate to be able to please yourself, says Lauraine, bitterly ; " it is not every woman who can do that," " No, I suppose not," says her friend, thoughtfully. " And then it's a case of " what can't be cured must be endured.' Is. baby too heavy for you ? Let me carry him now!" " 1 wonder what makes him shiver so ? says Lauraine, anxiously. " I don't think nurse ought to have brought him,ont sue a cold afternoon." "And we haven't„t<shawl or wrep of any description, says Lady Etwynde. "Yee, lie does look cold, There, I'Il turn his face away from the wind. We shall soon be home. Why, how troubled you look, my dear. 'When you have a nursery full of little plagues, you won't fidget about one so touch." But, despite her cheery words, she hur- ries an as fast as her feet eau carry her. The little fellow shivers constantly during that passage through the avenue, and glad indeed is she when the ruddy blaze of lights and fire gleams from the great dark old mansion. "He will soon be warm now," she says, cheerfully, when they reach the house. Lauraine and herself take off his hat and coat, and sit down with him before the great blazing fire in the hall, and chafe his little cold hands and feet until he crows and laughs, and seems to have quite recov- ered himself again. The two women sit there and have tea brought to them, and administer` some to baby, who appreciates it immensely. They play games with Mm, and sing nursery rhymes, and, in fact, have an hour of the simplest, and perhaps also the purest en- joyment that women can have. Then nurse comes, and he is carried off to bed, flashed rosy, boisterous, his pretty laughter echo- ing down the wide oak staircase, his eyes beaming starlike down on his mother's face so long as ever she remains in sight. When he is fairly gone the two friends ensconce themselves comfortably before the great fireplace. A footman enters with, the post -bag, and hands it to his mistress. Lauraine unlocks it, and takes out its contents. She hands two or three letters to Lady Etwynde, and glances carelessly at her own. One, she sees, is from her husband, the other—a sudden wave of colour crimsons her face. Only too well she knows those bold, •clear characters. " Why does he write to me ?" she thinks passionately. " Can't he even try and let me forget ?" Lady Etwynde is absorbed in her own correspondence. Lauraine hastily tears open the envelope and takes out two sheets closely covered. The letter begins without any preamble, or formal mode of address "Perhaps I ought not to write to you. You gave me no permission to do so before you left town ; but, all the same, I feel I must. It is only a week since you went away. How long a week can be ! . I can't make up my mind where to go. I have heaps of invitations, but don't care to ac- cept any of them. IVlrs. Woollffe and her niece are at Scarborough, they go to Trou- ville afterwards. I may join them, Despite eccentricities, they suit me better than English people. How is the " Ladye?' Is she pursuing culture amidst the gloomy grandeur of Northumbrian shores, and does she bore or entertain you? Perhaps it is no use to ask questions, for you have never promised to write. Would you do so, I wonder, if I told you what a great, great pleasure it would be to me.;. and I. think you know some- thing of the emptiness of my life. Do not fancy I am complaining, or that I wish to excite your pity. I only leave itto your- self and your own kind-heartedness. I won't even plead the old boy and girl' claim now. With you, Lauraine, I have always felt more as if speaking to myself in a way—you have so much` comprehension, so much sympathy. You; know there are few people to whom we ever open up our real selves, and most of us go through life really strangers to those who think they know us best. But with you and me this will never be. We have stood heart to heart in our childish days, and known to the full each other's faults, weaknesses, capabilities. How often you used to lecture me on my selfishness, my headstrong will, my impulsiveness. Ah me 1 how often that sweet little child -face of yours looks back at me from the mists of the past. I have only to close my eyes and I see you, oh, so plainly, in your simple cotton frock: and with your great eyes upraised to mine. I can even feel the touch of your little hand on my arm; and your voice—,will ever a woman's. voice on the face of God's esrth'thrill my sold and Calm my wild heart as years has done, end doesOh I the pity of it all; the pity of it " pen is running away with nee, my thoughts are no longer under my cuutrol. As i sit alone te herein the street below playing hear a band g a sad waltz air, an air that we danced to once, this season sun that is a over.o H itt' t w bangs yon back to tits I ean see the colour of the dress you wore, I feel the scents of the flowers in your breast; you are floating by my side and your heartbeats close to mine. Ah ! the magic ceases ; you are gone ? I ata looking oat on the evening skY, purple and g l and amethyst, the clouds bordered with a fringe of fire as the sun just oinks away. Perhaps you are looking on tl.e: same sky ; perhaps your thoughts—, But no, I will not dare to say that. It is so hard, Lorry, oh, so hard to thiuk that we are nob navvies we were. Do you think r Ihare ivn sentimental . I whog 0 1 was always so rough and wild and im- petuous, and laughed to scorn the milk -and - water of poetry? No, I think you will know what it is that is iu me, and why I feel like this ; as the thoughts flaw into my mind, my hand traces them jest as in those past happy days. I can put into wordsfor you, and you alone, the strange feelings and wild imaginings that no other human being ever suspects me of possessing. This is a long letter. .Perhaps you will smile at it. I should not wonder; but, in any ease, don't visit its folly on the writer, who is now and always—Yours only, "Kowa." In the reddened glow of the fire -blaze ,Lauraine reads these words, Her eyes grow dark and misty; a strange soft trouble takes possession of her heart. " He is quite right," she thinks. " We two stand to each other in quite a different light to what we do toanyoneelse. It was so natural once to speak to each other like this; but, though I thought I knew Keith, I ani afraid I did not, I never gave him credit for such depth of feeling. I thought after that day, he would forget me And, after all— A heavy sigh breaks from her lips. She folds the letter together, and iauts it in her pocket. Her husband's lies on the table, unopened. "Sir Francis ie a good correspondent," remarks Lady Etwynde. "Is he enjoying his cruise?" " Sir Preemie I" murmurs Lauraine. vaguely. "I—I have not read Ms letter yet. " I beg your pardon 1" exclaims Lady Etwynde, hastily, and colouring with ern barrassment. It has not occurred to her that long, bold, manly scrawl could, be from anyone but Sir Francis. La rraine takes up the other letter now; No closely covered sheets here. Rather a different min• Sive ; "DEAR. LAIMAINE, "Weather beastly ; everyone out of sorts. Awfully slow, if it wasn't for Le.dy Jean. Hope you and the boy are all right. Ask some people for next month. The Salo - mans will come back with me, —Yours, ""FRANCIS Y rAVA8OUR, "P.S.--Wilt write and say what date to expect us." "Husbands don't trouble to write long letters," remarks ,Lauraine, folding up this curt epistle. "Sir Francis is going to bring the Saloman's here next month. I wonder what on earth Lady Jean will do with her- self." "She will organise all sorts of entertain- ments, and turn the place upside down," answers Lady Etwynde. "Are you going to have a large party ?" "I suppose so. I am sorry for it. I: hoped to have a long spell of rest and quiet." "You will ask your mother, I suppose?' " My mother ?" Lanraine starts and looks uncomfortable. " I—I don't know. I haven't thought about it yet." I wonder what is in the back ground," thinks Lady Etwynde to herself. " She and her mother don't get on ; and there is Keith Athelstone. Did she make Lauraine marry Sir Francis? I should have thought the girl had sufficient strength of mind to hold her own against. persuasfou. Still one never knows." Alone in her dressing -room before dinner Lauraine reads again that letter of Keith Athelstone's. "I wonder what I ought to do," she thinks. "Is it dangerous to go on with this? The case looks so different to just 'us two' to what it would to au outsider. And though I might send him away now, we would be sure' to meet again at some period or another. The world is never wide enough to part those who ought to be parted. And the poor fellow is so unhappy. No one understandshim as I do, I know in books whenever there is anything of this sort, any danger, the two people always go into heroi:s, and part nobly, and have fearful sufferings to endure; but then in the third volume everything is sure to come right. If I thought, if I knew there would be a third volume in our lives. . Ah, dear me, when do these things ever come rightin real life ? Never, never, never.'" Wfth a weary sigh that ends these thoughts she locks the letter away. Far enough is she from guessing then what will soon put it and the writer out of her thoughts. Meanwhile the Lady Etwynde is serious- ly disturbed add perplexed. She is too genuinely fond of Lauraine not to perceive that she has some inward trouble weighing on her mind, and yet she does not ask its nature, or even appear to notice it. She knows the girl is pure -minded, loyal, self- controlled ; but so have been other women, who, beneath' a sudden tempting —a fierce, wild incomprehensible ,passion— havefallen from their high estate. And there is that in and about Lauraine that be- trays that she could love very deeply, very; passionately, with that absorption of herself into what she loves that is so • dangeronlit: a trait in any woman's character, To the weak, the placid, the prosaic, the cold, such a nature as this is quite incomprehensible. To the untempted it is so easy to be strong ; to the cold, so easy to be virtuous. The con - goose of self' seems so possible when you have not to count the cost,. To yourself ? ah no, not to yourself, but to one other who is all the world to you, and whose pain and sorrow intensify your own till the agony grows too much for human strength to bear. Lady Etwynde had no personal experience to guide her through this maze: of conclu- sions ; but she had an immense amount of sympathy, and an infinite tenderness, of nature.It pleased her to veil and deny this to the world at large, but it made herr all the more beloved by the chosen fewwhotn she neither could nor would deceive. For Lauraine she had coneeived'a strong liking, not the mere pretty, gushing fancy that stands in lieu of friendship with so many women of the world; but au earnest and appreciative affection that would sorve and stand by her all her life. She had a shrewd suspicion that all was not right with her; some care, some secret trouble, was preying on her mind, she felt assured. Perhaps, in time, she will tell me," she thinks to herself, "I hope she may. I might help her. Brooding over these things with one's self always makes them worse,' What a woman can't talk of i$ bad. for her. It eats bete her heart and life, and absorbs all that is best in both. There is a disdain, a 'n weariness about Lauraine unnatural t ti i one so young. She loves her child, that one can, see ; but apart and aside from him she seems to nave no life, no interest; Apathy, indifference, despair ; those are not things that should be about her yet; but I know they. are. And why?" The dinner -bell sounds, and puts an end to her reflections, and she goes down the great oak staircase in her floating, artistic draperies, and despite her beauty and her picturesquenessactually has the bad taste to murmur, " W hat a comfort there are no men here 1" X CHAPTER IV $ "ARMS EMPTY OF HER 018.013» S1IE LIFTS." The storm that threatened at sunset ful- fils its prediction as night draws on. Laur- aine, lying awake in her bed, hears the howling of the wind, the fierce rush and sweep of the rain, the far-off roar of angry waves that dash against the dreary iron- bound cliffs. Once, suddenly, amid the noise of the elements, she fancies she hears a strange sound from the adjoining room, the room that she has turned into a night nursery, that herchildmay be as near her as possible, She sits up and listens ; but all is still. Again she lies down, but a restless, troubl- ed feeling is on her, Sleep seems impossi- ble. She rises and puts on a loose white dressing -robe, and, softly opening the door of communication, steps into the nursery. A uight-light is burning dimly, the fire in the grate throws a fitful blaze around. She moves swiftly to the little lace -curtain- ed cot, and bends over the child. What is it ;she hears that blanches her face with terror, that atrikes cold and chill to leer heart? Her arms are round the little figure ; a ory arouses the sleeping woman in her bed beside the little cot. She springs up and. sees her mistress, and in an instant is by her side. Too well she knows the meaning of that hoarse, strange sound. The cold and cruel wind has done its work. In another oto - went the household is aroused. The still- ness of the night is all one tumult of voices and feet. Lady Etwynde, startled by the noise, goes straight to Lauraine's room, and finds it untenanted; but there in the nurse- ry, with a face white withdospeir, a vague, pitiful terror in the eyes that turn from the little figure in her arms to the pitying faces aelyend, sits the poor yoang mother. The struggles for breath, the hoarse, horrible cry that once heard is never for- gotten, tell Lady Etwynde their own tale. Someone has taken a horse and gone fora doctor. The usual remedies of hot hath and steam have been applied, They can only wait, wait in that agony of suspense which is the cruellest fluttering of life. Weep- ing, frightened, the little crowd fill the room. The another alone is dry-eyed and calm. Her voice from time to time wakes the silence with all the fond and tender words the baby ears have gtown familiar with. Sometimes a quiver of agony passes over her face as she sees the terrible sutl'ering, as the lovely star -like eyes gaze up at her in a wondering, itnploring way, seeming to beseech help and ease from one who loves him so. The night wears on. The leaden -footed laouis drag their way wearily towards the. dawn. Slowly the wind dies away in sob- bing sighs ; slowly the silver streak of coming day paints all the black and lower- ing clouds that roll stormily aside. And then at last the doctor Domes, and the little figure is taken from its mother's arms. Another hour goes on to join the rank of those so weighted with agony snd fear. And with it goes on suspense ; with it flickers the little life in those cruel spasms of pain ; flickers more and more faintly, watched with hope that only fades into despair. The dawn breaks, the brightness of the new day burets upon a waking world that welcomes it with Iife. But the brightness of the golden sun shines upon a baby face, that leans white and still and painless no v upon its mother's breast, and something that is not the chillness of the morning strikes to his heart, stilling its throbs, stifling its agony of dread. Her child is hers no longer ! With gentle touch with pitying words, her friend strives to draw her from that room. In vain. She kneels beside the litt'e cot where the tiny figure lies so still, so calm now ; her tearless oyes riveted on the lovely little face ; eyes so wild, so passionate, so en- treating, that none dare meet their gaze. " Ile is only asleep; he has not—left me," she cries ;' and weeping, they stand aside and know not what to dog,; Then Lady Etwynde bade them all go out, and knelt down by Lauraine's side. The tears dimmed her eyes, her gentle heart was wrung atthe sightof this mute, blank suffer- ing. uffer- ing"Dear,, do try and realize it," she whis- pered tenderly. " It is hard, terribly hard, I knsw. But for him, doubtless, itis best." "Best 1" Lauraine rose to her feet, and looked blankly. around. The bath, the blankets, the paraphernalia of that brief illness; the sunlight streaming in through the window ; the little figure so still, so strangely still,all struck on her with a dull, hopeless pain, as of something missing gone out of her life, Thena low moan broke from her lips. "Oh, God I let me die too ?" That awful day of pain and grief rolls on. To. Lady Etwynde it seems the most terrible she has ever known. Lauraine has passed from one fit of unconsciousness into another. They watch and tend her in ever-increasing fear: lady Etwynde has telegraphed ,to London for a physician, and also to Mrs. Douglas and Sir Francis, though she fears the latter will not receive her message` without considerable delay, owing to the. uncertainty of his movements. In the darkened house they all move with hushed steps ; and in one room, where noise and merriment had been so rife but yester- day, there is something lying white and still, with flowers piled high upon its snowy covering. Something from whose angelic beauty all trace of earth has passed, some- thing in whose presence all grief is stilled, and tears forget to flow. Again and again does Lady Etwyndo steal into Haat room and gaze on the exquisite face on which death has ;left no shadow of dread, no trace of pain, It seems as if only the mystery of sleep hart sealed the marble tide, and left that strange, soft ttaneo-like calm upon the once restless bod, ',thye little sinless soul must be happy now, she thinks ; but, oh 1 the agony that is left, the awful sense of loss, loneliness, despair, through which that robbed and paralysed motherhood muse wade . the deep waters ere comfort is reached . . when every sight and sound will bring back the memory of loss, when every child's voice Will strike sharp as a knife to the aching heart that holds, the echo of but oue. Alas, alas'! for the desolation of this sad young life, that, clinging but to one joy amidst all the .storms and sorrows and weariness around, , se ea it snatched suddenlyfrom its hold, and iooks out on a future lack' and desolate as a starless night, where all is shrouded road from sight and touch, and every landmark obliterated. Another day comes to replace the wretch- edness of this. Lauraine rises white and calm from her bed, and still dry-eyed and tearless, takes up life with its new burden of sorrow. Arrangements, orders, all de- er olve e-volve upon her. No word has came from Sir Francis, but a telegram announces that her mother will be there that night. Lady Etwynde watches her io'the deepest distress. This cold, strange, tearless grief is worse than the most frantic sorrow. It seems to chill all sympathies, to harden her es it were, froin all offers of consolation When Mrs, Douglas arrives itis just the same. Her reception of her mother is al- most cold, and, pleading fatigue as an ex- masa, she retires to her own rooms leaving Lady Ewtynde to do the entertaining, Mrs. Douglas, wlto dislikes Lady Etwynde, grumbles openly at her daughter's strange behavior. " So odd, so cold, so unfeeling, as if I could not sympathise with her loss -I, who have lost two children of my own, And to shut herself apart from everyone like that, it is positively unnatural. It has been an awful to her,"says Lady Etwynde gravely. " Of course, of course ; but then such a baby and she is young, she will have plenty more. But I never knew any one so changed as Lauraine since she married. She is not a bit like the same girl. "Marraige does change people, you know," answers Lady Etwynde, looking calmly back at Mrs. Douglas's petulant face- "And I never thought Lauarino was happy," • "Rapp 1" echoes Mrs. Douglas, scorn- fully. " What in heaven's name does she want? She has everything that could satisfy a woman, I am sure, and it was quite a•—a love -match," "Indeed 1" says Lady Etwynde, arching her delicate eyebrow& " On whose aide?" Mrs. Douglas passel& by this question loftily, She is of a cold nature, and utterly different to me. I am sure if she had had to bear all the troubles and worries I have put up with during my, life she might talk of unhappiness. Lauraine's unhappi- ness must be something like a crumpled rose -loaf, I imagine." Lady Etwynde only looks quietly at her for a moment. " I don't think you quite understand her," she says " There may be natures that cannot find happiness in posi- tion, society, and—diamonds, Of course it is very odd. that they should not do so, some sense of faculty must be wanting; but all the same they do exist now and then." " I hope she is not going to begin one of her lectures on culture," thinks Mrs, Doug- las in inward perturbation. Aloud she says: " It is very awkward, Sir Francis not being here. And yatching about, like he is doing, perhaps he won't get the news for ever se long. Who has made all the arrangements?" " Lauraine," answered Lady Etwynde. " But how odd, how cold. Why does she not have someone—tile clergyman or the doctor ?" r, f don't think it is out of a mother's province to ant as Lauraine is cloingy" answered Lady Etwynde, composedly. " My only regret is that she is so calm, so self-controlled. If she could only cry 1" " Ah I" murmurs Mrs. Douglas, plaintive. 1y. "I told you she was so cold and hard. Even as a child she seldom cried." " Tears are no sign of deep feeling," sgys Lady Etwynde, sternly; "far otherwise. Some of the shallowest and most selfish people I have known, can cry for the least thing. Lauraine's grief is very terrible to me, because she will not give ibnatural out- let. I know what the child was to her." Mrs. Douglas looks at the fire, and is silent• she feels irritated, annoyed with Laur- aine. Annoyed because she lets peoplesee her unhappiness in the life chosen for her ; annoyed because of her coldness and indiffer- ence towards herself. They have never had much in common ; but since her marriage, since the suppression of that letter from Keith Athelstone, Lauraine has never been the same to her mother. ",So ridiculous not to make the best of her position," she thinks, impatiently. " What on earth is the use of pretending to be a martyr ? Perhaps now that she has lost the child she will thinkmore of the father. The father ! He is at that moment stretched on a pile of cushions on the deck of his yacht, the blue, rippling waters turned to sliver in the moonrays, and his eyes gazing up at the liquid, brimming orbs of the Lady Jean. •" Tirecl--with you . he murmurs. That could never be !" And his wife stands broken hearted by the side of their little dead child I (To BE cowrI:iUED). A Girl's Six Months' Trance. A remarkable ease of catalepsy, of which a young woman of, about 19 years of age is the subject, is reported in the Freeman's journal. In . a lonely glen in the County Cavan a widow named Mrs, AnneKavanagh and her only daughter live. They ars of the very poorest degree, and their abode is a miserable: cabin. The daughter can hard- ly be said to live, for since last New Year's Day she has been lying speechless and lethargic, like one more dead, than alive. Thegirlis described as being consumptive, although previous to the 1st of January she was in good health, a well-built and hand. some young woman. Two of her brothers died of conaumption. Her present sejzure, d' it is, stated, was `usherein by prolonged hysterical fits, accompanied by delusions. On New Year's Day. she stiffened into a trance, which, withslight "variations, has lasted up to the present. Though rigid, speechless, and (save far the respiration) motionless and corpse -like, .she was able in the earlier weeks to stir a finger or twitch her eyelids when spoken to. Then the lethargy deepened into a state of absolute immobility lasting six weeks, during which not a morsel of food passed her lips. During the earlier and later remissions of the stupor ithas been found possible to give her some little' nourishment in a liquid form. A monstrosity is carefully guarded .on the farm of W.H. Reynolds, at Gannon, Texas. It is a pig with head and sage like' those of an elephant, a nose like the trunk of the beast just named, and a single eye where the mouth ought to be, Food Digestion Corn. kr x!o l are all intimately connected practically inseparable, Though the fact is often ignored, it iii' nevertheless true that a good complexion is an impossibility without good digestion, which is 1 I it g' h 1 turn depends' on good food. 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