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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1892-9-22, Page 3COLONEL MAULREVER. ND so Maulrever is back drawled young Standieh of the Guards to a brother officer aa they stood watching the circle of dances in Ledy Forteseue's ball- room. " Yea ; queer thing, wasn't it, his disappearing like that? Thought that marriage didn't suit his book. Family and everyone put up rough you know. Couldn't stand her. Pretty girl, too, Jolt bad style—awfully bad style. 2fLISt a second-rate actress, with a good yoke, ; no great genius or anything. But he simply went wild about her. Remember when he used to go every night to the Folly to see her. Only some trumpery little busi- ness elle had too." " He hadn't the best reputation in the world," said Jack Standish thoughtfully. "Bat yet at the bottom he was an awfully good fellow. We used to see a lot of him at Ore time, and Cora looks upon him to this day as a sort of Admiral Crichton." Your cousin knows him ?" "Oh, yes; but they haven't met for years. She was only a child when he went • "And now rhe's the beauty of the nation ?" "Who owns that enviable nomencla- ture ?" asked a pleasant voice near the young men. Jack started. "Ab, Maulrever, is it you? We were speaking of my cousin. You remember Cora, I suppose ?" " Yes," he said briefly. "Has fashion enthroned her me its presiding goddees ?" " It seems so. Ah, the dance is over. You can judge whether the diebum is de- served. Shall I introduce you ?" *Certainly not. I will trust to her memory. I suppose I have not grown out of her recognition, though, upon my emit, she has !" He looked at the beautiful' girl who stood / tke a young Queen among her coma tiers sse the end of the room. His eyes, dark P4 night, but with a softened gleam in 'doer sombre depths, rested half ten- dert) half regretfully, on her face. His thoneut a wandered from the brilliant scene around him to a child running wild steno the sunny Devon lanes, with a heart as light and a soul as clear as her eyes. "The beauty of the season." The title haunted him like a refrain that one hears long after the song has ceased. He moved along, and in and out of the maze of silk and lace and hie& coats and trailing satins that filled the ball -room. Many eyes followed the stately figure with its easy grace of movement and soldierly bearing. Jack Standish turned abruptly to his com- panion. " Whet was the originof that sobriquet?" be ast ed with some curiosity. " What—Mephisto ? Well, I hardly know. He WAS supposed to be very bad." "Bub was there nothing there—nothing more than an ordinary reputation for bad - nese and luck ?" "Not that I ever heard of. I was only a youngster at the time, you nee. He looks a regular fire-eater, doean't he ?" "By Jove --yes. But a splendid fellow all the sama I don't wonder at the women spoiling hien. How they must have gone on about his marriage 1" "They did." "I wonder what Corawill think of him !" muttered Jack. "Bat he's quite an old fogy to her. Reminds one of the fellow in ' that thiug of the laureate's. I played with her when a child." "Which dicliet prevent his falling in love with her as a woms,n." "Falling in love," said Jack, uneasily. " Oh, no fear of that Cora's not sentimen- tal, arid Maulrever's married—at least we never heard of his wife's death." "Besides, somebody else 'played with her as a child," laughed his companion, "Eh, Jack r "On, I'm very fond of Cora, and our people want us to hit it off; and I suppose we shall—some day. But there's plenty of time to think of that." They passed on to seek respective part- ners, and at the same moment Cora Tre- sillian turned from the group surrounding ler, and found herself face to face with Col. klatilrever. No need to ask if she remembered—no need for formal question or reply. Fan, flowers, programme, all fluttered unheeded to the ground—her eager hands went out in eager greeting, and into her eyes came such a light of gladness and of welcome as might have flettered a man far leers vain than Stuart Maulrever. He looked in unconcealed wonder at the girl. It was not so mneh her beauty that atrnek him as the bright, happy sunny look 'that told of the innocent, girlish soul, unsoiled and unspotted by the world that had crowned her its queen. A fair young queen, indeed, and one whose life was only a rose path, its thorns still hidden under leaves and blossoms. Looking at Cora Treeilliazi's face it was impossible to associate it with any thought that u as not fair, and pure, and hopeful as herself. a Now it was perfectly radiant. "le it really—really—you ?" sbe cried. "To think we should meet like ehis—in a London ballwoom—and after all these 7 out. If • "le is weally—me," Maulrever said, laughing. "How well you remember me!" "Have you seen Jack? How long have you been at home? Why didn't you come to see us ?" she went on rapidly. "What a string of questions 1 Am I to answer them all at once—here 2" His glance seemed to recall her to the exigencies of the OeMI012. People were looking at her and at him; her flowers lay at her feet unheeded. He stooped and pioked them up, and gave them to her. "May I have a dance ? " he said quietly. "With pleasure," she said. "The next -- it belonge to Jack, but cousins don't count." Jack appeared to think they did, as he saw her walk off on the arm of Stuart Maulever. "This is our waltz, Cora," he said reproachfully. "1 can'b dance it," she said, coaxingly. "Don't be cross, Jack. You shall have two to -morrow night inster.d. 1 want to talk to Col. Mardreven Think of the ages since I have gem him." Jack could only succumb, but he felt picqued at being thrown over so 000liy. He telt still more annoyed presently when he panted a group of men, and heard one say to the other " Mephisto at his old game again It's to be hoped he won't go in for the beauty. Shots no end too good for him !" If he does go it for her," laughed an - ether, "We may ES well throw up the 13Pmg°4; * * * * Meanwhile Maulrever and hie compenices ekirMd the crowd of dancers and took their way to a email room leading out of the ball - Teem, ; It was quite deserted nove-or000l, dimly- lit little chamber, with melts scattered here and there, and tall plants and ferns every- where about. Cora took the chair he offered her and *eked closely,at him as he seated himself beside her, 4 How changed you are I" she *aide abruptly. " Changed 1 In whet way ?" His eyes did not reach the frank girlish gaze. "In many ways," ehe said softly. " it is so long race I saw you," ehe went on, as eho opened her fan and waved it slowly to and fro. "1 remember so welt the hurt time—the day you came to bid me good- bye. We wero in the garden—" She broke off abruptly ; something, a sigh, a movement of his, had seemed to warn her against pureeing the subject. Cora was posseesod of quick sympathies and intelligence, as well as rare lovelinees. She changed the convereation. "What a wild tomboy I used to be! What lecturee you used to give me for torn frocks and dirty hands! Do you remember ?" " Perfeotly ; but it seems imponsible to think that 1 !Medd ever have had the pre- sumption to lecture you ; or that the belle of the season could over have been guilty of—" "The torn /lecke, etc.," she interrupted, "Ib is true, though, `however much your memory may try to flatter you into any other belief. And so you have really come back from India it last 1 I am so glad—so very glad. ' PP Why ?" he asked, laughing. "The days of my self-appointed guardianship are over My little wild rose is transformed into a hot -house blossom." "Nob a bit of it," she said decidedly. "She is just the same; but you—" "Aye I there's the rub,' he answered bitterly : " I am—nob. My dear child, it is no use saying we will remain the same; we never can. The years bring changes to ourselves, to others, try as we may to pre- vent their doing so. It is the law of nature and of human lives—nothing ever remains unchanged for long." "1 feel just the some," she answered quietly. The white feather of the fan fluttered close to her check, touching its faint rose flush. He looked up and sighed. "You are to he envied then," he said gravely. " Will the world leave you that teeling long, I wonder 2" " I do not trouble myself about the world," she said petulantly. "it is pleas- ure to be admired, and have plenty of fun and pleasure and amusement ; pleasant for a time, Apres—" " Apres ?" he questioned, as she left the sentence unfinished after meeting his eyes. "There are so many other things,' she said, the color wavering fitfully in her delicate cheeks. "Ono cannot be blind— one must see the sin and the sorrow and the suffering. It seems to me sometimes as though I were heartless to enjoy life as I do, to feel so happy, to have so many to minis- ter to my whims and fancies." "My dear child, cried her companion in mock astonishment, "has not your first season taught you that the supreme essence of happiness is selfiebness 2 Trust me, the dark days will come sce n enough. Don't anticipate them by fancied sorrows or senti- mental regrets." "You misjudge me I" she said indig- nantly. "1 am not given to morbid or sentimental fancies. What I said I meant. I thought you at least would know me better— Her voice broke. The fan fluttered quickly ; the sweet red lips were tremu- lous with emotion. Maulrever noted the signs of agitation with a feeling of genuine surpriee. His hand touched the small gloved fingers and etayed the movement of the snowy feathers that they held. Pardon me," he said gently; "I did not mean to offend you The world is a bad school for faith." "In men or women 2" she asked, quickly. "Ah, do not answer. I know what you will say—but I am not of your world, Cot Maulrever. You might judge nee differently, if only tor the sake of the child you were so good to in peen gone by; the child who has never forgoeten—you— " And whom I can never forget." The words very low, but she heard them, and looked up with such gladness as might well have repaid a memory more faithful than his own. They were both silent. Something in his own youth came back to hie memory; some remembrance of higher, purer, better things. To hint Cora was nob the beauty of the season," but only a lovely, wayward child, with all the future unmapped before her careless feet—a child who had pelted him with rose blossoms in the sunny Devon lanes—a child who looked at him now with a woman's soul dawning in the wistful, tender eyes. And how could he guess he Was the hero of her life? CHAPTER II. Cora Tresillian at in the pretty morning room of their town house lazily sipping her ohocolste and chatting to her mother of the last night's balL She was a spoiled obild. Her parents had never crossed wish or whim of here in their lives. It said much for Cora's sweet nature and sterling good sense tbat neither flattery nor love nor indulgence had in any way marred her perfect temper, or that honeety of thought and speech that were so char- acteristic of "the beauty." This morning she seemed a little more thoughtful than usual. Her ' description of the partners of the previous night lacked the good-humored mimicry with which she generally reproduced them for her mother's benefit. Mrs. Tresillian was extremely delicate, and the duties of a chaperon were too arduous for her. She had therefore given her daughter into the care of Lady Fort. memo, at whose house Cora had been the night before. It was her greatest delight, however, to hear of the admiration her child excited. Not that Cora was vain of that admiration. She took it as lightly and as graciously as a young Queen takes the homage of her subjects, and, though she did an infinite deal of mischief in her way, it was not intentionel mischief. She was too frank and gay—she enjoyed life too thoroughly for any serious thought of the future to trouble her "And you wish to know why Col. Maulrever went away ?" said her mother in answer to the eager question that fol. I wed the girl's description of that meeting otie previous night. "Yes, mother, tell me all about it. He is so changed—he looks so unhappy. Young as I was, I remember hearing about some mistake or folly—something that has spoiled his life—" " It was simply this," she replied. "He made a foolish marriage. The girl was a dancer, or actor, or something ot the sort. Her father had been a private in Maulre- ver's regiment, and was shot in some hair - brained exploit that Mitedrever had led. He promised the man to look after his child, And when he came hal+ to Englatid he found she had gone on the atage. fell in loveith her and mart ied her. They were not happy, I believe, and no one would receive the girl, of course. What they quarrelled about, I don't know, only he went suddenly off to India again." " Anol—ehe 2" Cora's voice was Very low and troubled as she pat the question. "She rernainedbellind, I suppose, I never could hear anything definite, and I did not like to (petition Maulrever." "But now," persisted Cora impatiently —" where is she bow? Is she thee or What ?" "1 cannot tell, mydear," said her ?nether, somewhat surprised at the petulant tone." Perhaps Jack would know. Ask him when he comes to take you for your ride'.11" • " e looked unharetea" Cora said dreamily. "1 wonder if he cared for her • very much? I wonder if—she—oared for him ?" "How this story interests you, Cora I" exclaimed her mother. "But then you were always fond of Stuart Maulrever— even as a child. Bat, my dear, he must, be quite old now. Let me ace." Old 1" interruped C9re impatiently. "He isn't a bit old. He is worth a hundred of the young fops I see every day. He at lead looks a man." "Not a good man my dear," said her mother gently. "Not a man to trust in or love." She looked after the girl wistfully as she walked off to prepare for her ride. 1 hope —I do hope they won't meet often," she murmured, 44 If Cora should take a fancy to him of all people in the world—it would be terlible. And then there is Jack." Cora meantime cantering down the Row on her pretty cheetnutt with Jack Standish a attendant, caught sight of a tall figure leaning negligently over the railings, and, disregarding Jack's frowns, made straight for it. All her eighteen years she had never been crowed in any fancy—should she be so naw? She laughed the idea to scorn. If it pleased her to talk to Col. Maulrever she would do so, so the chestnut was reined in under the April foliage of the trees, and Stuart Maulrever became the cynosure of all eyes and the object of muohjeelousy and evil -'peaking. "Give a dog a bad name," says the pro- verb. Maulrever had had a bad name for yearn past. It had troubled him very little then—it troubled him less now. Cora was only to him his little pet and plaything of old, the child with her gay spirits and enehantheg ways, who had amused and been petted by him in the beautiful old house by the bright Dart watere, where he had spent most of his leisure time in England. Ho loitered by Cora's side while the sun- shine poured through the softly -stirring boughs, and the tramp of horses' hoofs and the babble of voices and laughter sounded pitasantly in the morning air. The scene bad something of novelty to him after all these years of absent* and hardship and bitter memories. He chatted gaily to the beautiful girl, who looked even more beauti- ful in the morning radiance and in her perfectly -fitting habit than in the satins and laces of the previous night. And she feeling too content for anything to disturb her, talked as gaily as himself. "1 toilet not detain you any longer," he said at last, for he eaw what she did not— the covert sneers and impatient glances of passers-by. "If one is unconventional one must uleveys suffer for it," he thought re- gretfully, for the girl's face clouded over at his words. " Will you come to lunch 2" she asked. " Mamma and papa will be delighted to tee you. Do say yes. It is ,quite time you paid your respects to them. For an instant he hesitated. Her hand lay in his—the sunlight played over her hair, turning its rich, brown tints to gold, and her eyes looked lovelier than ever with ehat soft pleading in their dark blue depths. Stuart Maulrever dropped the hancl he held. That look had vanquished him. " Yee," he said, "I will come." CHAPTER III. After that day Stuart Maulrever and Cora Tresillian were almost always to- gether. They drifted into that frank, careless in- timacy into which people do drift who suit each other and like each other too well to think of consequences. Jack Standish had been right when he said Cora had made a hero of Maulrever in her childish days, and Chet fact in a measure accounted for her predilection in his favor now. "it is refreshing to find some one who can talk sense " she would say if Jack ven- tured to hint Maulrever monopolized alt her attention, and her cousin took him- self and his wounded amour-propre to another shrine. He was very fond of Cora, but he did not relish her total indifference to his by no means small at tree tions. He thought sometimes he would give her aunt a hint, and then again he feared that any remonstrance would only incense her daughter and bring about the very mischief he wished to avoid. He was very un- comfortable altogether, and grew so un ertain in his moods and temper that Cora began to notice the change, and rallied him mischievously on its cause. She never for one moment attributed it ta herself. Her parents had never hinted at their wishes, and Jack himself had always felt sure that when he felt inclined he had only "to ask and to have." Per - bar; thin fear that had come to bine of late had done him good—had aroused Rome torsi:hie feeling on his part in place of that. rereee indifference with which he had looked to the future that was to link his eoUkhre fate to hi& in any oase he was seriously aggrieved, and the change soon made iteelf known to Stuart Maulrever. He had always liked the young fellow, and he knew that Cora had been destined for him. He did not consider Jack worthy of her, but then as he told himself, with a lazy shrug of, his handsome shoulders, he knew no one else who was ; and, after all, if a woman's life was eafe and placid, it was infinitely better for her than if she indulged in romantic fancies. He began to allude to .Cora's future as a thing aesured, and praised Jack's good quali- ties, and she listened to him with a. strange pain at hor heart and wondered sometimes whet be meant. * * * Cora and Col. Maulrever sat together at a morning concert in Park Lane, given by some wealthy dilettante, who culled talent front all known sources to charm a crowd as heedless and as fickle as herself. Cora glanced at the programme which Maulrever had just handed her. "Mrs. Vivian 1" she cried. "Oh, I am so glad she is to sing 1 She has such a beautiful voice, and is such a charming woman too; I was introduced to her a few weeks ago. Now you may expect a treat, critical as you are." "1 euppose she will be very much like other singers," Murmured Maulrever lazily, "and I have heard eo many." And as he spoke he glanced at Cora's face, thinking it looked somewhat more IlelieMe of late. She was dressed all in soft creamy ftulian silk, with trimmings of 1...e, and at her throat nestled a pale yel ow rose. The sweeping feathers of her hat rested on the gold -brown hair, and shaded her face a little as ahe looked at, her programme. Bending thus, she did not see the woman who swept morose the platform and stood facing the critical eyee of the aristocratic crowd, nor did Effie me the eudden pallet thee orept over Stuart Maifirever's bronzed twee hub he heard hie startled exelema. tiros—looked up, and gw,ond understood. Usually so calm an nripreseive, AOW Stimet Maulrever literall ttrembled as the sweet, rich notes of that voice rang over the room, waking in him memories so meet and` bitter'he could have groaned aloud as he beard' Hesat on, forgetful of his companion, ef time,. place, surroundings, The past held him in its ern, and every note Of the clean pathetic voice, was like a throb of ain in hi4breer48t There was intense faience throughout the room. The song was simple enough. Per- haps that was one moon of itscharm—that, and the sweeb, sad face of the singer in her trimple white dress, and with a cluster of white flowers in her hands. Never during that song had Stuart Maul- rever looked at the singer—never had Cora Tresillian looked at him. But she was con- scious to her very heart's oore that he was suffering; that this woman held it in her power to move and touch him as never she had done or could do. A strange, cold, blank feeling orept over her—a room of shame. of pity, of sorrow new to her young, bright life, and from which she shrank, as all young and happy things shrink, in terror and pain. A seLIS0 of paasionate resentment stole over her as the song concluded and the singer left the platform, only to be recalled agam and again. What was the woman to him ? She was not very beautiful, not very young, and yet —and yet—he suffered for her sake. She knew that as she glanced now at the pallor of his face. What a light of anguish burned in the dark eyes that gazed after the retreating figure. The concert went on. When the first part was over there was a movement among the audience. A quarter of an hour's interval for gossip or refreshment. Some strolled into the tea-room, some re- mained in their seats. "Take me into the conservatory over there," she said. "The heat is suffocat- ing." Then she seated herself on a low chair and glanced up at her companion. "1 want to ask you a question," she said quietly. "You may believe me it is not only curiosity that prompts me. Youknow Mrs. Vivian do you not?" "Yea. dr, rather, I know the woman who calls herself so." "It is not her real name? I thought as much," said Cora. She had grown very pale and her eyes had a pained and wistful entreaty in them that startled him as he met their gaze. But his own heart was too troubled to dwell on so vague a fancy. "1-1 wish you would trust me enough to tell," Cora said gently. "We are such old friends; and it has needed no words to tell me you are unhappy." He moved restleesly. "Oh, child --child 1" he said. "Who is there in all this earth who is not—that? I am no Nvoree off than my fellows, and if I am why should you care 2" " I do care," she said quietly. "1 wish to help you." • "No one can do that," he answered. "1 am not the firet man who has made a mistake and lives out his life regretting it." She was silent for a long time and Maul - rover forgot even her presence. Her voice recalled him at last." "1 wish you would find the others and ask them to come home. I have a head- ache," she said. "1 cannot, stand any more music to -day. You will come to night," she added, as he led her away to the carriage. Her voice was. almost entreating; but she did not look at him. "If yon—wish," he answered hesitat- ingly. Then she summoned up courage. Her great soft eyes looked frankly back to bis own. But in them he could read noth- ing. "1 do wish it," she said very softly. As tbe words echoed in his ear, he stood alone in the warm June sunlight. It was past 9 o'clock that evening when Col. Maulrever found himself in the draw- irtgroom of the Tresillians' house in Grosvenor Square. The blinds had notbeen drawn, and a shaded lantp that stood on a stand near one of the wllidovis was its only light. He found Cora there alone. He could not help seeing how white her face was, but he put that down to the headache of the afternoon. "You see I have oome " he said, smiling, as he took her hand ln hie. "Bub I thought I should find you arrayed for the fray. Don't you go to Lady Gresham's ball ? " "No," she said, as she seated herself again on the low chair by the window; "1 don't feel inclined to go out to -night." There was a pauee. He was studying the delicat e face and marvelling a little what was the change it it. Her voice broke &arose his thoughts. "Don't think me impertinent," she said hurriedly. "1 know, I mean, of course, like everyone else—I heard of your mar- riage. Was—was Mrs. Vivian--" "My wife 2" he asked quickly, as she stammered over the words. "Yes." She found her voice again. is): She was—or rather, I should say, she "You—would yon mind telling me why you parted ?" "1 don't like to !peak of it. The story has been Pealed up in my heart for five long years. • If, in all these Team, I have not known one happy hour, I have but my own cursed folly to blame 1" There was a long silence. Then with a heavy sigh he suddenly roused himself. "After all," he mid, "why should I not tell you? I want you to think well of me, ehild, but it is better you should not—far, far better." She said nothing. She was strung up to theutmost pitch of enduranoe. Not noticing her silence, he began his history. The story was nothing very uncommon, had she known more of life. Like most un- equal marriages, there had been much to condone on both sides. He had loved the girl very passionately—very nobly—think- ing naught of sacrifice on his part. But though she loved him with equal ten - demon, she had been jealous, exacting, sus- picious from the first. His friends ignored her; his world would have none of her, and she laid the blame on him. Quite euddenly she left the shelter of his roof, declaring she would go back to her old life on the stage—the life he so disliked and deepisod. He had written to his lawyers, bidding them to make her an allowance, and then, without farewell, they parted, and he returned to India, full of rage and indigna- tion at her conduct. He had never seen or heard of het till, in the Mrs. Vivian concert room, he recog- nized his wife. If he had deemed the old, wild, impas- sioned love a dead and bygone thing, he fully realized his mistake when that fair face met his gaze once more, when the pas- sionate cadence Of that voice thrilled to his soul, wakening the old rapture with the sharpness of a new regret. The world that knew him the world to whom he wee only " Mephato," would have laughed to scorn the idea of his holding one tender or faithful inentory of womanhood; but the world knows tow, if any of us, ae we really ere. 1 Cora listened to ,he whole story without d or aign. APPyOATIONS.0TROROUGHLY, REMOVES DANDRUFF 14-,..."1"etttoolasnen. telatteaht .p.. zo fIlet.Y$N. 1Toronto, Tomalllne rotasswor Asset, 0, P. 0.., seen emeseenerenationenreatteo whoa eoatetteaottoe IS Oarrelloase4e OS or011 4041 a row upidleuttelni 1344 enif OnerenkniirOm004 extessivo dandruff on OUt StOPPOe GUARANTEED rowsratiV2040#44,44 ._ .....,...,, . sneetersteste, "4n4 you—love—her Mill 2" she asked faintly, 01613 WS voice ceased. "1 do; God help me," "Why do you not go to her? Tell You forget," he said proudly. "She left—me." " But if she, too, euffered—if she loved you—if she was longing to forget the past—" Do nob madden me by such fanciee, child! All is over for us two." A sudden flush crossed the girlish face. "Ah," she said softly, and rose from her seat and faced him there in the summer dusk, "bow little you know of—women. You may be too proud to go to her, but—she—she who has suffered eo—who has so much to forgive—she will come to you. "Hush," she mid, "if I have done a rash thing, a foolish thing—forgive me. But you said you were unhappy, that rio one could help you—and I have—tried." "My ohild—my derling " * * * * * * * The door softly opened—a woman's voice murmured brokenly, "Stuart !" They stood and faced each other The woman whom Cora's letter had summoned to the man who had been the hero of her dreams—the husband and wife, who for long years of stra.ogement and misunder- standing had stood apart and suffered in silence and in pi ide. They looked at each other silently and long. The eyes cannot lie, and soul spoke out to soul of sorrows and weariness and remorse. There was no need of words. Not then —as the tears rushed hot and swift to her eyes. Not then, as that great light of love and welcome leaped into his own. Not then, for soe was in his arms and held to his throbbing heart ere her trembling lips could aigh, "Forgive." " The beauty' has never been the same since Mephisto took her up," said Society. But the beauty," carrying herself bravely through the ordeal before her, oared little for what the woeld said. She only felt thab since her hero owed his recovered happiness to her, she was repaid. •—Temple Bar. RE TEA.CRES (WREN VICTORIA. A Portrait of Iinnshi Abdul Karim, Windsor's Iffindoo Linguist. Since 1888 Queen Victoria has been a diligent student of Hindustani, and that study has been coterminous with the em- ployment of Munshi Abdul Karim as Secretary to the Queen. The Munshi is a native of Agra, and was born in 1863. Previous to coming to England he was for several years in the service of the Nawab of Jawura. He has held his present secre- tarial post since 1888, and is said to have found his position as an instructor of royalty a peculiarly pleaeant one, while the Queen is enthusiaetic over his merits as a teacher. —Lady's Pictorial. Qa.een Victoria's Dolls. At Osborne in a room of her pretty coun- try house, where Queen Victoria had been staying for a few weeks, a wonderful party of dolls is just now assembled. Such funny creatures they are, with wooden heads and hair combed down flat over their eve and then caught up and twisted in a prilelittle knot at the back. They are Dutch dolls, and when the Queen was a little girl she used to play with them and make their clothes. That was long before the days of elegant wax, or china, or composition dolls. For a long time these dolls had been stored away somewhere in Buckingham Palace, but the other day Sir HenryPonsonby faunal them quite accidentally, and now they have come to great honor and glory, and are being photographed and admired and fondled. One of their attractions is that they are dressed in the national costumes of as many different countries as there are dolls in this royal company. All One Swim. , Mother—Why didn't you come home t dinner? Small boy—I was in swimmin'. "Then why didn't you come home for supper 2" " I was in swimmin'." "1 told you not to go in swimmin' twice in one day, because the doctor said it wasn't good for you." "1 didn't. It was all the same swim." Roneymoon Cookery. "And so my little wife cooked this all herself 2 What does she call it 2" " Well, I started it for bread. But after it came out of the oven I concluded I'd better put sauce on it and call it pudding." "Beautiful woman—beautiful figure— waisb of a wasp," said the old bachelor, noting the handsome wife of a fellow towns- man. "Yes," put in her husband, who from the cannon that were captured from the Turks by the Roumanians at Plevna in 1o8v7e7r.heard the praise, "yea, and the stings too." The Roumanian crown is made of metal Little Boy—Mayn't I be a preacher when I grow up? Mother—Of course, von may, my pet, if you want to. Little Boy—Yee, I do. I s'Pose I've got to go to church all my life anyhow, an,it's a good deal harder to sit still than to walk around and holler." Jack Ascot—Just one kiss—I'll not ask for another! Mamie Mascot—Oh, I'll not let you spoil your future in that fashion— ask some other way 1 Officer McGobb—I Vought I give you two hours to leave town? Dismal Dawson— Yes, so you did ; but I don't like fer to start on a Friday. See "1 wish I were dead." "Oh, Jim, don't say such things 1" "Bub I am des- perate." "Well, say you wish you were in Toronto." "But I am not that deeper - ate." In deploring the decadence of oonverea- tion in London drawing-rooins Henry Labouchere asks "But What can be expected of a generation whose thine national infatuations during the past twelve years have been the fifteen puzzle, Tie -worts -boom -de -ay ' and --the game of golf." Russia contains the finest wood floors. One in the Czar's summer palace is of small equates of ebony inlaid with mothenof- Petril.China the tallow tree is need to mak mantles. •Reeteres Fading halite erIgkeil coleasktt Slope felling of beta' Keeps the Scalp Gleam •••;,,,' Makes hair soft and Pliable Promotes Growth. • CAM irrLE OVER PILLS. Sick Headache and rel eve all the troubles inct, dent to a bilious state 0 the system, such d Dizziness, prausea. Drowsines ,s Distress and eating, Pam W in the Side, Sm. hile their most remarkable succens has been shown in curing 1 K Headache, yet CARTER'S LMLE LIVES Pima are equally valuable in Constipation, cuthig and preventing this annoying complaint, ry e they, also correct all disorders of the stomse stimulate the liver and regulate the bewail. Even if they only cured Ache they would be almost priceless to those who suffer from this distressing complaint; - but fortunately their goodness does not end here, and those who once try them will Bid these little pills valuable in so many ways that . they will not be willing to do without them. But after all sick head Is the bane of so many lives that here is where we roake our great boast. Our pills cure it while others do not. CARTEIVS LITTLE LIVER P/LLS are very small and very easy to take. One or two pills make a dose. They are strictly vegetable and. do not gripe or purge, but by their gentle action please all who use them. In vials at 26 cents; five for $1. Sold everywhere, or sent by mail. OUTER 21EM0I1E CO., New Ye*. hall Pill. Small Don. Small Things lliseftd to Know. For creaking shoes, oil them at the sides of the soles. For chilblains, apply tincture of iodine with a camel's hair brush. Prepared chalk and powdered orris root makes a nice tooth powder. Wash the hair in hot water and borax and let it get thoroughly dry. For eyes that itch, try bathing them in a weak solution of weak salt water. The plainest food, like potatoes, vege- tables and cereals is the most fattening. Another mouth wash is warm water in which a little listerine has been dropped. When through ironing wash the irons thoroughly and. keep them in a dry place. Brushing the teeth with the finest pul- verized willow charcoal will make them white. —Good Housekeeping. „ The maids of honor in attendance upon Queen Victoria receive an annual allowance of $2,500, but it is claimed that nearly the entire amount is spent in dressmakers' bills, for the plainness of attire favored by the Queen herself does not extend to those ladies in waiting, about whose frills and furbelows Her Majesty is exceedingly fastidious, and it is one of the unwritten but mandatory, regulations of the court that the same dress shall not appear more than twice in the royal presence. When one remembers that the attendance is almost daily required, the expenses of this much -coveted service can beimagined. The restraint of court life is severe, but the duties of a maid of honor are not arduous, for the present Queen is a far less exacting and fractious mistress than was Queen Charlotte, under whose disci- pline the talented Fannie Burneysuffered i so greatly as finally to break down n health Not only cotton gowns but. those of lightweight wool and slIk have the gathered skirt. The gathers spread the train more gracefully than pleats. Short skirts for street wear are hoped for in the autumn. In the meantime, when wearing a trained dress where it must be lifted, women should give just a little attention to the manner of lifting the train. Notwith- standing all the ridicule bestowed upon them, women as a rule continue to merit the fun made of them by carrying the train in suoh a clumsy fashion as might be ex- pected of a plowboy. Rules for train -lift- ing are as plentiful as complexion recipes and about as helpful. If a woman has not the artistic instinct for draping, there is only one injunction that it is worth while to offer, that is : For pity's sake, dear woman, when you lift your train don't clutch every other garment you have on beneath it,. Take hold of the train itself and hold it lightly. This much you can do, even if you must leave undone some of the effective handling that comes by instinct to your neighbor. The deaf mute has this advantage: When he has no:other person to converse with he can still talk with his fingers. Little Girl (in henapark)—Those butter- flies is awful mea.. Mamma—Why so? Little Girl—Quick as I goes to chase em they flies off the walk onto the gran, 'cause they knows I mustn't go there. In musical circles it is bad form to be- come enthusiastic about any composition pretty enoungh to become enthusiastic about. SEHLOh'S CONSIJCIPTWN CURE. This GREAT COUGH CURE, this suc- cessful CONSUMPTION CURE, is without a parallel in the history of medicine. All druggists are authorized to sell it on a pos- itive guarantee, a test that no other cure can successfully stand. If you have a Cough, Sore Throat, or Bronchitis, use it, for it will cure you. If your child has the Croup, or Whooping Cough, use it promptly, and relief is sure. If you dread that insidious disease CONSUMPTION, don't fail to use it, it will cure yon or cost nothing. Ask your Drug. gist for SHILOH'S CLTRE, Price 10 ego so cts. and $x.00. NERVE xnitviezpix8 soM1 Eel/ OE, lietety that Mae the ivorat cat& of . . Nervoua DobilitS4 Lost vigor and BEANsreatoms tho V>eakeess. of bony or need cetteee by oteework, Or Itia ellere tit ex. COBPS of south. tVltis Remedy tb tolutely cures the Most obatInate datias %thou all other ;my:di:14M haVe failed Goan to rollova. 'Lola by drag: ids at 6I nee latakago, els.for $.5, or Sent by inalVii recalla of pricy by adarossinITITZJAM10$ rttltATOI acitTifrottki, eicit. write. foenininIstet. Sold