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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1895-9-6, Page 6;.. CAIN' THRO' THE RYE BY HELEN B. MAT114118, (CONPINITED.) "1)0 you. know thee I thought you woula never come back, that you wore dead, or that SOMQ QUO had COMQ betWOQII US, anti eveu nowI c annot believe that you aro here —you ought to have written, darling Did you not geeee what a sulsoreble time IP would be to me? I am going to scold you for it by and by sir; but I sball have plenty of time for that! Ana I WM; Wit:ked enough to tioubt you, Paul—as though I might not have known better ! I had all sorts.. a quoor.fanoies. But I will never be afraid again, Paul—nover again. I COLIJA OVOR lot you go away from me and be quite sure you would come baok sae - 0 ly." How silent Paul isl because he is so happy, I suppose: toed how cialekly lie is breathing, tie though he had been running hard! "And you have cense back to me on Chrielmasanorning," I say, dreamily, "to giVe inc the Whiten, 1331)140* merriest Christmas. Do you know I asked George Tempest to wish me a merry Christmas just now, and he turned away. I suppnse he is very tired, as you must be, darling," I lift my head to look at his face, but he pressee my head back in Its place, stroking my face with his Itand with a passionate tenderness that fills to overflowing my hungry heart. "How quiet you are I" I say ; " but I do not want to hear you talk—its quite enough for me to know that I have you so near me, What can come between. us now that we are together?" He draws my hand across his lips. How hot they arel how they quiver! The church -bells ring out sweet and cheerful across the fields ; the peal rises and fails gayly. Can any sound be sweeter than Christmas -bells when one is happy? "Paul," I say in a whisper'"did you see that wicked paper? mght have known you would not believe it." "It is oold here," he says; and I lift my head suddenly and look into his face. Is this my Paul—gaunt and worn, and pale as death, with deep, burning eyes? He looks like a man just risen from a bed of illness. "You have been ill!" I cry. "That was why you stayed so long away and never wrote!" "No," he says, slowly, "not ill. We can not teak here. Let us go to the old place." • But as we go I look at him again and . again, ancl see plainly enough that he is ill. I should scarcely know him again for the man who went away from me a fort- night ago. As we cross the field I slip and stumble on the uneven, snow covered ground, and hold out my hands to Paul to help nee, but he does not seem to heed ; he walks forward, alone. In our snow -parlor I sit down on the old log of wood; but he does not—he stretches himself out at my feet and lays his head against nes- shoulder. His face is hidden; he does not move or stir, or speak. Is he only weary, or in actual bodily pain? I have so inueli to tell him, he has so much to tell Inc' I think that if I were not so perfectly happy in merely knowing that be is with me I should bo piqued, and a little angry. I never noticed until to -day that Paul' hair is streaked with gray— I always thought it was raven black; and it is full early for the color to change. He is but little past thirty, I pull the short , locks out between.my fingers, and he shiv- ers under my touch. Yes, he is ill, and it is madness for him to be out herein the cold. "Paul!" I say, stooping over him, "you must not stay out here; come with me to the ho.Lse." He _lifts his eyes to my face painfully giddy; then his head falls heavily back and he clasps his arms tighter about me. "Can you. not wait a little while?" he says, and his voice is strange and harsh. " Yes, I can wait," 'say, gently, looking out at the wide stretching sweep of white, just as I looked at it a few days ago, when I came hither alone; only then my heart was heavy as lead, and now it beats under the head of my lover. I fold my arms about his neck, close and warm: it is sueli a new delight to me to know that he is all my own. If he had been given back to me from the dead I tould not look at him with greater wonder and thankfulness. And yet it is altogther unaccountable. But though Paul has been with me all this time he has not kissed me once; no, nor seemed to think of such a thing! It never happened so before. "Hark at the hells I" I say, as they ring out, now loud, now clear, across the fields. "I wonder will they sing as sweetly as that when you and I are wed, Paul? And I actually dreamed that you were married to somebody else dear; was ever anything more foolish and:senseless!" He lifts his head, suddenly rises and stands before me. The minute -bell has al- most done ringing as he begins to speak; it ceases, and. with the last stroke every joy and good bope the world contains has died out to me for eves and ever—and. this is my whiteem eery Christmas morning I Not a sound breaks the silence as wo look in each other's deathly faces; then his mouth opens and a terrible curse breaks from his lip; and wanders out over tho desolate, stirlese land; and nay heart be- gins to move again, and sluggish Iife to creep into iny body, His words do not shock me—do not oven soe.m strange to me. I listen to them as idly as I used to hearken to the frozen brook yonder when it ran its stunmer course between the green ban ks. "And wily then dicl you come back?" I asked and my voice is much the same as usual, only maybe a little slower. "Why are you not with Your wile!" "My wife!" The words leave his lips as though be cast te feel: stain of lepresy from him. "Why dici yea let me go without a weed of warning?" he &les, with clinched heeds "Did you knew all the time that we had ATtell a bitter enemy? Did you know that for years I have been spied on, dogged, followed, and that here, in yoor very home, lived one of that woman's spies to report our every word and act?" "I knew we had an enemy," I say, sit- ting with stiftly4olded. hands and eyes thal novel -11M themselves from the blank, blinding carpet of my. reeler, "but X thrmght she hail no power to harm us:" "And that has undone us," he eries, with a despair and fury in his voice) that snakes Je sound like nothi ng human. "If you had only warned me that morning be- fore nen you—" He stops. "God for giro inc for blaming you whet my ovvn mad folly hag brought us to this. • And Lo think," he cries, erniting his brow with his clinched hand, "that, 1 have lost yott to get thee vile—thing! After peeling with yen the day I sot out for ROMS, I walked ece lo distance; and then, reproaching my - melt fot having allowed you to return home alone, X eetraced foOtsteps. Turning tlie bond of the meadow, I sew you in Ck Jrge Tempest's armayour head against his shoulder; and, acting Under I don't anew what impulse, instead, of walaing boldly forward, I turned. sharply, and. in another moment was out of sight, I re- turned to Tbe Towers, jose °might my train, ana at Marseilles sat down to write to you. My first hot anger had passed by them your parting WOrd,S of love anti sor- row had Como batik to me with tbe steams of their own beantiful truth upon them; and, though I could not understand the situation in which .1 found you, X felt sure you ooald explain it. And though I did not like it—what man would?—I was not at that time actively jealous of him or doubtful of you; that was to come after. In my letter 1 aekecl you. how it was you came to be Noah 111311, end whether you had been 111 or misereble when I saw him holding you. I reached Rome safely, and on the day after my arrival I looked for the letter that you had promised to post to Me the day I left Silverbridge; but there was none—no, nor on the next day, or the next. Can you wonder that by degrees there grew up in my heart a terrible fear, a sickening doubt: with my absence had your love grown so faint and lifeless? And if I could have hurried back I should have clone so: no word of mine should over seek to determine your wandering allegiance, Only I could. not suppose such a thing poss- ible—you had seemed so honest, so true; your love -words were so freshly in nay oars, But sometimes I remembered that so others had. sounded spoken to other men by women who had betre,yecl theist." ' Anci did you never receive a letter from me?" I asked, slowly, remembering the dainty knot of flowers that I had gathered so carefully and kissed so tenderly. reoeived one," he says, "later. 'Meanwhile I was detained by business beyond the time 1 had fixed to return to Silverbridge; and on the 21st a letter and a newspaper were brought to me. The former was in your handvsritiug, and your seal -with your name Nell' on it, looked see in the face so naturally and sweetly, that my doubts forsook me on the spot, and I kissed it like a fool, child. I opened the letter, and out fell a tiny withered nosegay of flowers, that seemed to have been plucked snany days and had little scent; and for your sweet sake, I kis'sed them, too, Nell, many times. Then 1 read. your first love -letter. I took it in my hand so carefully, remembering that it had toothed yours, and started as I read the first words—' Dear Mr. Vashora With all your wilful ways I could not underqtand that. Well, it was a simple e istle enough. It was only to say that, after mature con- sideration, you had come to the conclusion that you would be happier as George Tem- pest's evite than as mine, and that you had already married him, and were going abroad immediately with him and his father. You sent a newspaper to corro- borate your statement; you asked forgive- 1 riess from rne for any disappointment you might cause me: and you signed yourself • 'Helen Tempest.' " "Have you it here?" I ask; and he takes it out of his pocket -book and hands it to SRO, and I sit looking at it much as a ; man may look at the knife that has stab- ; bed his nearest and dearest to the heart. ! The writing on the eneylope is nune, that : on the sheet inside is not; but the forgery is so excel ent that, were this letter a copy ; of one I had ever written, I should pro- nounce it to be my own. I give it back to ; him without a word. "The sight of your handwriting," he , goes on, "had so routed the jealous demon that had for the past ten days tormented ; me, that the letter itself came upon me like a rude, violent shock. Then I grew angry, and thought how unlike you it was to play me such a trick, and (knowing my weakness about Tempest) how unworthy of you! The joke seemed to me to be the worst possible taste. I pushed. your letter and the flowers aside, and mechanically opened the paper—not that I expected to find there the announcement you bade me look for, but because I thought some curi- ous similarity of name to yours and Tem- pest's had suggested the sorry jest. And I found no less than the actual announce- ment of your marriage. I was still star- ing at it, incapable of any reasonable thought, when Mills knocked at the door, and. asked for orders about something or other. As he was going out of the room, I asked him if he had heard any Silver - bridge news since he came away. He hesi- tated for a moment, then took from his pocket a letter which ne laid on the table, then went away without a word. Like all the other servants, he knew pretty well how matters lay between you and. me. • The letter was addressed. to him, and the inclosure was from a housemaid (appar- ently) living in your house. She said that you were married to young Mr. Tempest, . to everybody's surprise, that people said it was like a stolen marriage, even though Mrs.Adair went to church to see you made man and wife, and Mr. Skipworth read the serivee. Nell, I had treated your letter as a bad joke, I had doubted. the newspaper, ; for I knew mistakes sometimes occur, bat ' this third piece of evidence I could not and did not doubt; none but a madman . would. Tho gross improbability of the whole thing; the unlikelihood that you , should be in so indecent a hurry to marry another man the moment my back was ; turned; the straneeness of your mother's abetting your eask act by her presence, ; when shu had. countenanced your engage- I ment to ince your father's absence, and the tacit disobedience displayed to hien by the marriage in his absence—all these unnatural eircumstancee I reconized clear- ly enough, but they vanished before the ono great tact that you were married; how or why, or where, mat- tered little enough, you we. e Tempest's wife," "And then?" I ask, lifting my dull eyes to his bleachett wild face. "And then 1 event tnad—as utterly mad for the time being as any wreteh in Bed- lam; as drunk \via; grief as any senseless beast on the pavement; as incapable as either of amounting for or guiding my ac- tion. Well, I wandered about all that day; at night I found myself back again in my rooms; and., as I sat there, my despair at losing you gave way to a fierce fury—that you shonld have dared to so trick apd shame me; you, who had known of the disappointment 1 hacl found in my first love; you, to stab 3ne ce3 surely to the heart, who knew how entirely my wbole life and belief in all things rested. on the trust I had in your honesty and faithful- ness. In elutt hour my love for you seem - ea to pass away even more utterly than it had done for Silvia, When. I found out het falsehood, for, be her sin what it might, sho had been true to me, while pm had deli,berately left me without a pang, with. ont it eare, "As X Sat there, out of the darkness stub donly came clinging arms,and stole rouod my neck, drawing niy burning head dowb to a soft embrace; a tender voice, gentle as a mother's whispered Words of comfort In my ear. I did not know Whether X Was actually Mad or dreaming, Had an angel dropped from heaven to tend me, or was my unitnoWn consoler some earthly crea- ture'like myself, who could care for so heart bare, desolate a man as I? And some tooth of the bend, somb tone in the Whis- • pering voice, by and by informed Me that this Woman, who could ley aside all pride end thought of self, to come to nie homy hour of ageley, Was Sibela tie whom. I had dealt out swat bitter mercy, and who, it now appealed, had loved me through it all, ay 1 trom the first day to the last, while you, whom X had, laved a hundredfold more than I ever did bole had cast nee from you as unhesitatingly, as cooly, as a withered flower or a soiled 'glove, I did not question how she knew my story. I asked no reasons for her coming; and she • gave none. She had only fled to me in sny misery, reckoning, oaring nothing for name or reputation—so I thought then— good God,1 • "The night wore on; her love, her ten- derness, her clinging beauty, her great lave worked on nte like a charm. I have told you that in that hour I hated you for your falseness; well, in that hour I loved that woman for her truth, Hati the not through good and evil report clung to me? Did not her own sin show white as snow • beside your black, barefaced desertion? And as - member that I was mad, child—utterly mad! My higher, better nature was dead within me. All reasonable, thinking power had gone out of nue and so—God knows the rest 1—the inadclening wiles of the wo- man, the rage that filled my heart against yoa—and the morning found us st aiding together before a priest, and, later on, at the British embassy, man and wife. Even then elm madness had not passed. I did not know what I had done. did not know what X had married. The darkness still lay upon my eyes. She was to me simply a woman who had been faithful; you a woman who had betrayed me. My thought never went any further than that. I did not love her, and did not hate her; I simply had no feelleg for her whatever. "We went to Florence immediately. Tempest was at that moment in the town, if we hadknown it. With the usual fatali- ty where one's lives are concerned, there had been no less than three break -downs on the road, and he had arrived too late. Afterward I found that, half an hour after we set out, he had reached my door, but no message had been loft, and he had. no clew to our whereabouts, so he had a long search before he found us. At that time I never thought. It did not moor to me strange that Sylvia should be in there alone and. unattended, I never asked my- self or hor how she knew of your marriage, or how she could dare to marry me know- ing what effect the news had upon me. I felt something like a man under the influ- ence of an opiate that has not made him Perfectly unconscious—everything passes around him in a dream, but he knowsthat by and by he will awake, and see things as they really are. 1 On the morning after we reached Flor- ence, my senses °eine bath to nee; for the first times I saw face to face this thing I ;had done; knew that, married though you were, I loved you madly as ever; knew that the woman I had inade my wife was less to me than ono sound of your voice, one touch of your hand. And strangely enough, you had not seemed lost to me when I knew your° be the wife of another men. as now that I found myself the bus- band 1 . 1 walkod out of the house in the still bright, early morning, and the first man I met was your hus- band, George Tempest. There must have been nitirder my eyes as I looked at him, for he salti at once, 'It is all a mistake.' "L don't know what happened after that. In that hour we had set out for England. You know the rest." Yes, I know the rest, as I look upon the face that is now no more than a shadow. The features are there, but where aro the life, the glow, the spirit, that filled it in bravely a fortnight ago—only a fortnight ago I And we stand looking, looking into each other's haggard countenances. and. dare not put out so mochas the tips of our fingers to each other—'twixt him and nee a great gulf lies. I wonder if 1 shall al- ways be this dumb, senseless stone—will the spirit ever wake in me and cry, and wend me? "If I had to choose between dying now this minute and. living over again the last hour, I would choose to die," he says, slowly. "I have suffered enough, God knows, since you and I stood here together, but never half of what I did when I heard your footsteps coming over the snow, and dared not turn to face you and then when you clasped your arm round. my neck, and ran on in your loving welcome—when I think of the future. of how I shall never watch for your coming, never see you step- ping aoross the rye to meet me; never. in summer or • seed-tinee, or winter or har- vest, listen to your steps and the sound of your gentle voice—we shall miss each other's morning kiss, child—at eventide we shall hold out our despairing arms to each other—the days will be empty and dreary—we shall call upon each other across the silence that gives back no answer." His words enter my ears, but do not stir my heart; by and by they will come back to me, perhaps. I shall have plenty of time after he is gone to muse over and be sorry oxTy ber them—yes, all the rest of ray li "Wo need not have quarreled about the books—need we?" I ask, with a faint emile. "I shall never have a chance of throwing any 3nore at you." "Don't, he says, sharply. "ion were right, child, when you. used to say we were too happy." "Paul," I say, shivering, "when do you go back to your wife?" "Go back to her?" he says, frowning. "Did. I hear you aright?" "Yes. Of course you will go back to her—you are bound to." "Am I?" he asks, between his teeth. "I think not." "Shascould not Setae you to marry her," I say, steadily; "you did it of your oven free-will. What reason would you give to the world for casting lier off?" "What reason?" he asks, with a deep, steady blaze in his oyes. "She is no wife of mine, and it shall be my business to prove that she is not I" "She loves you." "Loves me!" he cries, with a fierce scorn in his voice. "She would have shown her love better by stabbing me to the heart! And you would send me beck to her?" "Yes, I would send you back" "Ay he saye, below his breath, "I will go back to kill her I" "Will you? Was Paul Vasher born to be it murderer?" " Yes," he says, doggedly, "even that!" "No, you will not. That weak, sinful Woman has no power to plunge your soul into guilt. She has ruined your life, but she can do no 1110r0. Shameful though she is, she is yoors. Yoo took her not for a day or a Week, but for better for worse. You must bear the burden of the rash act you committed; remember that any dis- credit you lay upon her will recoil upon yourself; for she is, M the eyes of the World, your wife and the bearer of your na'nl'Ien't'lle sight of God she is not I Did you ever love me?" he asks, bitterly, "After an, 1 do hot thinkyou can know' what love Moneta to Wish to• semi 'Reba& to that woman, Do you think that if you had been cheated into nsarryIng another eseee–seseee-auteaserses.eas....easaree man, and yea come to 1114 I would sena you back to him? I maid bola you—keep you—bind youin my arms SQ safely that no one shoul4 wrest you from me—ney love, suy darling!" He covers up his face, he trembles he it strong man's Agony, and Still, still I oan look at him and feel. absos lately nothing. "As you will not take up your burden and bear it like a snan " I say—and at my words he lifts his lioaciL" I must talso it up end boar it for you, I will never live to have people pointing ab 1110 and, saying; That is the girl Paul Weller loves, and who levee him—the married man!' It is on ber account that he does not live with his wife.' Do you think that I mild bear t? If you will not go beak to her, I will leave Silvorbridge and go far away, where the prying 3anger of scandal cannot roach me." "And why should you? Who will. know the story 9", "Everyone. Do you think she will keep silenee?" There can be no possible reproach to you In it, '' "N me if you are with her, 3nuch if you aro metre She who is known to stand, be- tween husband and wife receives but scant enemy frien the world." "Ask mo something loss hard, "he says, and the veins in his forehead stand out like cords, "Even for you 1 cannot do this. Sot me some task that body ancl soul do not utterly forbid. I am not mad, Nell; but I know my own strength, and I could not do it. What do you think I am made of,that I could see her fill your place, bear your name, stand by my side usurping your rights—elle! Do you thina I could over let my eyes rest on her false face wiee- out yours rising up before me? ever hear her called Mrs, Vesber without longing to strike t� earth the man that said it? ever endure to so much as touch her band, when I was wearying, aching after you— you think I could do all this and live? Sooner or later I should break down— "Paul," I say, and my voice is so hush- ed that lean scarcely hear it, "do you not see that there is no safety for either you or me if you aro not by the side of year wife? For the sate of all the love you bore me, in recompense for all the misery you have brought mo, I ask this one mercy of you! Live with her as a stranger if you will; but, in the eyes of the world, be man and wife." A shamed streak of red comes into my cheek as 1 speak; then I bow my head and wait, and a terrible doubt crosses my inind as to whether I QM acting for go Id or evil in demanding this supreme expiation of a life. The silence is so long and unbroken that time seems to stand still; and when he speaks his voice seems to come from a long way off. I lift my eyes and look at him, and in his there is the beaten, broken look that never comes into a man's face • until the last hope is gone—the last stake 1 lost. "You have conquered," he says. "I will do it for your sate. Could any man do more? You mast give me a little while to ; got used. to the idea, a little while to get rid of some of my prejudices" the laughs I harshly), "then she shall be offered it place In my house as the mistress of it, to be treated by me as any other stranger with- in my gates, if she •refuses, she ean live alone." A sick, jealous pain, the first that hae begun to stir my dull heart, awakes as I look at him. What if he grows to love her again? Is she not fair as the day? and de men remember forever? And I am send- ing him back to her. There is a little bit- ter bilence, and then Paul kneels down 111 the snow and looks into ray face; but I do not look at him : my heart is waking from its torpor, and I dare not. Yesterday he was my lover, to -day he is Silvia's hus- band. Not en one moment can I pass from the familiar friendship to the new, unnatural position we hold toward each other. "You have fixed my lot, child; what is to be your own?" "I shall live.'' "Will ever any one fill my place?" "Never." • "No one Blasi more than another?" "No 311811." "I was always a selfish brute," he says, • slowly; "I am selfish still, and I tell you ',would rather see you lying in your coffin with violets in yonr pale hands than know you to be another man's wife. And that is my love for you, Nell. I would have you love me to the very last beat of hour heart. I would have the last thought of your sweet soul, the last call from your lips; as your name will be on mine when I die, sweetheart; as I shall ley% you to the day of my death—and after. And when we meet as NST shall moo, in another world, where there are no marriages, will you come to my side with lips as pure and • untouched as they have ever 13cen, save to me? as ort mine no touch of living woman shall rest between now and then—so help me, God a ' "I will come to yort,"I say, simply. The calm that lay on me, heavy as the snow on the once throbbing earth at my feet has broken un now, and a wild fever of agony posesses me—a breathless longing to touch his hand, to speak ono word of love and comfort to him—and I may not, dare not, though We are young. loving, to- gether, though not a yard of spacedies be- tween us. We aro separated, not for a week or a peat. but forever. Since he lift- ed• his head from my shoulder when the bells were ringing, there has been space between us—Death himself could not see us further from each other, I must get away soon—soon, or I shall break down utterly. I stand up. "Good -by," I ay, in a whisper; "I am going now." "So soon?" he says, and his voice is al- most as faint as mine; "shall we not be apart all the rest of our lives?" "Will talking give us back our murder- ed happiness, Paul? will talking about our beautiful yesterday quicken our dead to -morrow? Wo can never be any more to each other than we are now; we pan never be any less. Let me go now while I have the strength." "Strength 1" he repeats, hoarsely, as he peers into my facie; "and I have brought. you to this, my poor broken little white flower. It is my mad, senseless sin that has driven the colot from your cheeks, the gladness from gout sweet (wee! Noll, Noll! I cannot lot you go; yeti are my real wife, not that other—my life, my lily!" "Should I be your lily, then?" I ask, tremblingly. But he who has been so chary- of touching me sumo he hies to el me his evil tidings' 0011108 closer; would. fold his arms aboutine. "Back I" I cry, springing aside; "what! would you be the foulest traitor on God's earth?'' 'To her 1' ' he cries, with a fierce gestUre of loathing. "To reel" "To you," he mottere, then an athen gray replitces the fire of it moment ago; his hands fall to his side, and. so, with a baud's breadth eetween us, We steed look- ing on each other's wild faces, then— (TO BE CONTeletTED.) A BERUFFLEO BODICE. ,RoW a Summer Mart eliouad be Stla. When the •accompanying model was ;shown ine,I oould tnink of nothing but the dress of it shepherdess. 'True, it does not look like one in the least, and yet the soft white silk and the stiff bunches of pink mad green flowers suggested the bisque figures which we see from time to time. • The bodies, of this gown lingers charm- ingly in nay memory. We have seen so edeee.--' • a- (..„1 eVeoeseararaee , elle'''ete,abeasalreia.see " esChCaeseeyee t; ; "es se.eeetee(f,:e. all, so . 01.7dr a____ek. ...4.0 ,,•••4' .‘ 44 4 q •,:141\t ql... ft `10 -act wnere MR AND FLOWERS. many waists with ruffles running up and down that it is a relief te leern that a bodice can be made with a circular, in- stead of a long, effect. The yoke is per- fectly plain, ana beneath it five narrow ruffles enuircle the waist Shirred epau- lettes and two roffies over the sleeves broaden •the shoulder effect. The large poll sleeves are finished at the elbow under a band and bow of green ribbon. With a gown of this material, soft Chine, sill:, it is very difficult to get the proper hang of the skirt. since no stiffen- ing should be used. This difficulty is obviated by wearing a stiffened under- skirt, White alpaca adapts itself to this usage very well and thould be stiffened with haircloth about nine inches above the hem MILLINERY. Hats of Straw and Manilla to Wear in the Country. At Mme. Louise Deshayese No. 64 Rue Besse du _ampere, I saw a pretty straw hat for the country, of a cabriolet or capeline shape, trimmed with puffings of moussline de soie and white ribbon. Another was of white straw with tufts of black and white feathers, aigrettes and caohe-peigne of varied colored roses. At Leon's I called to see what there was new in the way of bats for the sea- side or for travelling. The canotier is very much worn. It is made very simple, trimmed either with bows of taffetas and an upright feather, or without orna- ment, and covered with pique or white al PaelasO Ianoticed some very lignt hats of manilla straw,with borders turned up be- hind and trimmed with rosettes and very shnply with ribbons. At Mme, Jeanne Laurent's, No. 45, Avenue de l'Opera., I saw a few pretty hats, one of wbich, for the country, has a high crown and broad brim,all of quill- ed mousseline de solo and pink satin bows mounted on metal. Very light and Pl.e.Stuart's, No. 26 Avenue de saw a hat of olack straw. lin- levde°ArwyPteishrtiahinim' white straw, of the Pamela pat- tern, very gracefully adorned with black feathers and white satin ribbons covered wiAthnoltaicieer. W85 of Italian straw covered with pleated mousseline de soie, white feaCtrbeeproenasreb neapainkaileenee'd and their reign Is over. Among the tissues and, stuffs which ate most worn thls stnnmer inust be mentioned muslin embroidered with tambour work, with printed or embroid- ered flowers and zephyrs with woven stripes, between which are embroidered spots, which are of a thicker consistency than the muslins, and can be worn with out lining. Leven batiste and linen batiste, either plain or with a slight 1113 - pression on the light ground, are also much worn. Natural ecra ]awn, em- broidered in the HU glish style, esther shade on shade 01 white on ecru, is also much In favor. It is the same with royal lawn linen or silk, which are both light and brilliant. I do not mention pique, mohair or alpaca, which are already out of fashion. Moreover, pique is far from being satisfactory in wear. The stuff is stiff and crackling, and soon loses its freshness. It is only pretty when it is new, and when bodices or drosses have een cleaned they generally lose their shPae Oxford, with large pleats, which washes ne'd flowered weDilr,esens alienes beixaceeklle nttuldleressae mauve taffetas ribbon, skirt of black tulle, which cannot lose its pleats, over a transparent of black taffetas, with ribbon forming gullies diininishing toward the waist. Bodice of pleated tulle with ribbon like the 'skirt. Balloon sleeves unleleh renen batiste, plain skirt oi nveprrleetsarsat eni Ind pbatire t of white taffetas, with pointed flounoe. Chelnisette of batiste, with trimming of black Chantilly lace anclDross oitefpiembarionwidery. Dhite grease faille, round, bell-shaped skirt. Chemisette of cream satin, pleated and covered with guipure, round girdle in Pompadour taffroots. Dof pink moire satin. Skirt plain, body draped with pink mousseline de sole and trintmect with yellow late. reefed and Therefore Cheap. It is significant that summer hotel cir- culars and "booklets"are not asmunoroue as they were. Proprietors and managers have about reached the conclusion that they axe it waste of money, and after all, adver. tising by means of newspapers is most ad. vantag, ous and prolitable,and, frone every point of Viewethe cheapest in the end. Little Sister—"This book says the old monks used. to wear hair shirts. wonder what that Was for 7" Little Brother—"Guess that was so they wouldn't go to sleep in olmrch." HEROISM OF A LUMBERMAN. cowering a wounded Commie Fort/ Miloti Thrum:II Void and snow. •A young man, Henry Brault, a resident of Peterboro, Ont., recently performed an, act of heroism, actuated by friendship, which is worthy of record among the her- oic deeds of heroic men of any age, says The Des Moines Leader, The lefancheeter Melon says that Brault and another young, man, John Jamieson, were at work in the wild Madawaska region for the Se. An- thony Lumber Company. Jamieson met with a severe accident which rendered him delirious, and Brault started with him for civilizetion, where surgical treat- ment °meld be had. They had traveled on foot but a few hundred yards when Jam- ieson's strength gave out and he became • • helpless. Brault, determioed to save his. companion if in his power, shouldered the invalid and started on his long, cold tramp of some 40 reales to the nearest railroad. Without a moment's sleep, and bearing besides his human burden, a package of provisions, Brault continued his journey for four days and nights, through cold and snow, until finally, almost as helpless from exhaustion and fatigue as his friend iS was from illness, he had the supreme satisfaction of reaching the end of his - 'journey and placing Jamieson where he as able to be properly treated. Such a feat of endurance seems almost incredible, and only a seasoned woodman, inured to hardship, could have accomplished it; and among those capable of it it is rare to find so striking an example of disinterested ,friendship, even when a human life is at stake. Whatever tris station in life may be, young Brault deserves to rank among nature's noblemen. Diplomat of the Household. "Did you hear about Mrs. De Billings?" asked the wife significe,ntlyas the husband settled himself comfortably in his arm- chair. "No. What about her?" he asked sus- piciously. "Well, there's a little gossip going around the neighborhood that may mean something. You know how fond of gayety she is?" "Oh, yes." "And how Mr. De Billings hates soci- ety?" "Well, I heard him say last night that he was tired of that sort of thing." . "I don't blame him." "And that he proposed to stop it." "He ought to." "Infect, his exact words were that he proposed to lead her a merry dance." "It's time he did." "Do you really mean that?" she asked anxiously. "Of course I do, I—" Then lm stopped and looked at his wife sharply. "Look here, Jane," he sited. "What are you driving at?" "Well, he ended by explaining that he meant he would take her to the charity ball, and if you really think that It's time—" "I'll take you," he interrupted quickly. "You've earned it, but I want it distinctly understood that I will never listen to neighborhood gossip again." e.se Ten he settled back in his chair and re growled all the rest of the evening. • Secrets of Their Lives. Every man's life, no matter how hum- ble, wou el furnish an interesting book if cleverly written. You can't always tell by a glance at a man what hie past has been. There is a humble carpenter in town who was the prize orator at an East- ern college. Not far from the home of the writer of this there lives an ugly, decrepit old woman who was considered in her youth the handsomest girl in Kentucky. Poems were written about her, men went crazy over her, and duels were fought by j'eaeous admirers. Yet she married a worthless man who got drunk and abused her. The intensely religious life followed by another man in town is the result of remorse over having caused the death of a comrade a great many years ago. A wo- man who was once presented at court in England is not admitted to the hest society in Atthison. A highly respectable citizen sends 81,000 a year away to the conscience fund at 'Washington. Young people are interesting for what they are, but the older folks are more interesting for what they have been, if they could be iuduced to tell the story.—Atchison Globe. The Sweet chile. A sweet child sat at a table near me io restaurant not long ago. He was a, child of the Lord. Fauntleroe type, and its mother's back hair had that hopeless, tired -of -life look that only the possession of that sort of offspring MR give. The sweet child was frank in his comments on everything he saw: ma!" said 3m, pointing to a man whose ears were so • arranged that they could freekle on the under side, "get on to them ears." "Mai, Georgie," remonstrated the moth- er. visibly embarrassed, "the gentleman will hetet you." "Hull!" said Georgie, "if he couldn't with them ears he ought to be ashamed." And only the strident voice of a waiter somewbere in the distance broke the sil- ence. • Old Bibles. The east Bible printed in America was in 1663. it was translated by John Eliot into the Algonkin language, for the In- dians. The following facts relating to the present value of this and other old Bibles will prove ineeresting. At the sale of the Brinley library in New York, Meath, 1879, an Eliot New Testament of 1601 brougee 2700. At the same sale a Bible oe 1663 sok, for 21,000. At an auction in 1884,1 Bible or 1685 brought $950, The Bement copy of the Eliot Testament of 1661 sold in London in 1820 for less than a donate The same copy at a sale in New York in 1890, brottglit 8610. The total number of Indian Testa- ments and Bibles of this period novv known to exist is 125. The first Bible printed in America in a European tongue is "The Saur Bible," This Wits printed in Ger- men, by Ceristian Saila who came to this country in 1724. Tlio Menial's Xtetort,, The Eskimo housewife was shouting up the back stairs. "Mary," sleo cried; "Ws time you were getting breakfast," The hired girl enbrted petneently. "You make nee weary," she'exclaimed, "calling nie before February every morn- ing." Such is life in 80: degrees 85 minutes north latitude. NVO 11.11'S Advance in dap All. • Twenty- years ago the persons of, the Emperor and Empress of Japan were sacred; they were seen by no 000 5010 'high court officials, and even to these the En e peror's face must be veiled. The Em' press now visits the tree hospital of 'nok.o and talks or gives presents to the patients as freely as in any western land. 31 1