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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1896-4-3, Page 2VICAR'S GOVERNESSP "Alncli more,' lie says, in an rode• iscriblible tonin. Then with an effort, '"Would you have thrown 1118 over had ii Veen p0,r?" "I shouldn't have consented toinarry you, I think," says Miss Broughton, quite calmly.. "Ate I said Before; to be candid is your forte, exellums he, with extreme ;'bitterness,. "I wonder even if .you loved et man to'dietraotion (1 x111 not talking of myself, you ketone—thee is quite evi- dent, is it not?} would you reject him if he was not sufficiently—bun pu1•til" "I don't think I could Ism cum one to dish:W.10n," replies she, quite sitrl- ply, 11 seems the 'very easiest anstter to this question, 'I believe you speak the vete bon - est truth when you say that," says Do- rian, drawing 1118 breath qulekly. "You are indeed terribly honese You don't even shrink from telling Lhe mum you I Lave elected to marry that he is no more to yeti than any other man might lie who wvas equally possessed 01 t.:lth Y —11 desirable—iaore 1" He turns from her, and, going to the window, stares out blindly upon the: .dying daylight, and the gardens stretch- ed beneath, where dying flowers seem breathing of, and suggesting, lumber ithough ts. He is unutterably wretched. All 'through his short courtship he had en- tertained doubts of her affection ; but now, to bave her so openly, so care- lessly, declare her indifference is almost more than he can bear. "We forgive so long as we love." To Dorian, though his love is greater than that of most, eorgiveness now seems difficult. Yet canhe resign her ? She has so woven herself into his very heart -strings -- this cold, cruel, lovely child—that he cannot tear her out without a still fur- ther surrender of himself to death, To Eve without her—co get tbrough end- less days and interminable nights with- out hope of seeing her, with no certain knowledge that the morrow will, bring illm sure tidings of her—seems impos- sible. He sighs; and then, even as he sighs, five slim cool little fingers steal within his. I have made you angry,"says the plaintive voice, full of contrition. A shapely yellow head pushes itself under .one a1 his arms, that is upraised, and a lovely sorrowful pleading face looks .up into his. Flow can any one be an- ,gry with a face like that? "No, not angry," he says. And in- deed the auger has gone from his feta, —her very touch has banished it,—and only a great and lasting sadness has replaced it. Perhaps, for the first :time, at this moment she grasps some faint idea of the intensity of his love for her. Tier eyes fill with tear;. I think—ic will be better for you to give me up," she says, in a down- hearted way, lowering herlids over her tell-tale orbs, that are like the sum- mer sea now that they shine through their unwonted moisture. "Tears are trembling in her blue eyes, Like drops that linger on the violet," and Dorian, with a sudden passionate movement, takes her in his arms and presses her head down upon his breast. "Do you suppose I can give you up now," he says, vehemently, ' wben 1 have set nay wbole heart upon your? It is 100 late t0 suggest such 0. course. That you do not love me is my misfor- tune, not your fault. Surely it is mss - cry enough to know that,—to feel that I am nothing to you,—without telling 'me that you wish so soon to be released from your promise?" "I don't wish 1t," she says, earnestly shaking her head. No indeed! It was only for your sake i spoke Per- haps by and by you will regret having married some one who does not love you altogether. Because I know I could not sit contentedly for hours with my hand in any one's. And there are ,o. great many things I would not do for Geta.. And if you were to die--" Tilers 1 that will do," he says, with iiudden passion, "Do you know how you hurt, 1 wonder? Are you utterly .Heartless?" Fier eyes darken as be speaks, and, releasing herself from bis embrace,— which, In truth, has somewhat slack- ,ened,—she moves back from hien. She is puzzled, frightened; her cheeks lose -their soft color, and— "'With that the water in her Cie 'Arose, that she ne might it steppe; And, es men sena the dew be droppe 'The laves and the floures eke, Bight so upon her white eheke 'The wofull salt teres felle." "I don't want to bort you," she says, with a sob; "and i know I am not heartless." There is a faint tinge of in- di•gnation in her tone. Of course you are not. It was a rather brutal thing my saying so. Dar- ling, whatever else may render me un- happy, I can at all events find comfort in the thought that you never loved any other man." But I did," says Miss Broughton, still decidedly tearful: you must al- ways remember that. There watts One; and' she is plainly Ln the: mood for confessions—"l shall never love you or any one as I loved him." What are you going to fell me now?" says Dorian, desperately. He had believed his cup quite full, and only now discovers his mistake. Is there a still heavier amount of misery in store for him? Is the worst to be told me yet?" he says, with the calmness of 'despair, being quite too far gone for vehemence of any description. "Why did you keep it from me until now?" "I didn't keep anything," cries she: "I told you long ago—at least, 1--" "What is the name ? he demands, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know ie. Nothing you ,can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than f 11113." "I think you are taking it very unrea- sonably," says Miss Broughton, with •quivering lips. if 1 cannot bring my :self to love anybody as well as peer Palm, I can't help it—and it isn't my fault—and you are very unkind t0 0110 —and--" "Good gracious! what a fright. all :about nothing 1 says Mr.L'ransoombe, with a sigh of intense relief. I don't mind your poor father, you know,— I rather admire your faithfulness there, —but I thought—er—itdorsn't in the ?.east matter what I thoughe," hastily: "e veraone has silly fan cies at ro es." Ho kisses her lids warmly, t [erly until he heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charm- ing childish face. I am sure of thie, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me bettor than any ]riving man." "Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a. curious tone, that might be ;suggrs- tive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. 'But, there how bad yeti aro to me at times! Deet' Dorian," ---layinlg one hand, wilt. ie paLllniie pies - 1'e tu, nn lits olfeek,—"do not be 08088 to pie again." "My arteetest1--my best beloved!" says elr, Branselplbt, instantly, draw- ing hie breath a little (weekly,, and straining her to his beast. CHAPTER XXVI, "The wisdom of this world is idiotism, —booker. "If thou deeirest to be borne with: thou must bear also with others."- afenepis, it takes some time to produce an- other governess salted to the Red - Mends' wants, A.1 length, however, the desired treasure is p00a1•ed, and for- warded, ' with care, ' to the vicarage. On inspection, she Temente to be a large, gaunt, high ohcok-boned daugb- ter of Caledonia, with a broad 8100111,. a broader foot, and uncomfortably red heir. Slie comes armed with Lestimon- ials of the most severely coliipliment- 07 description, and with a pronouns ed Olpinlon that "salary 1s not so much en object as 11, comfortable Homo. Media contrast to Georgie can scal'ce- 1y be imagined, The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and ¢o about the house, after her arrival,whis- ppering In muffled tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each tither. Dire dismay relents in their bosoms; while the unconscious Setae un- locks ben trunks, and shakes out her gowns, and shows plainly, by her be- havior that she has come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a pro- longed siege. To tea she descends with n solemn step and slow, that Amy designates as a "tthud," But yet at this first tea she gains a victory. Arthur, the second boy, who has been wicked enough to iaatthomeetos schoolanho no recruit himself and lie the terror of his family, is at this time kept rather on short commons by his mother because of his late illness. This means bread and butter without jam,— a meaning the lively Arthur rather re- sents. Seeing which, the Caledonian, opening her lips almost for the first time, gives it as her opinion that jam, Luken moderately, is wholesome. She goes even further, and insinuates it may assist digestion, which so im- pressesMrs. Redmond that Arthur forthwith finds himself at liberty to "tuck into" (his awn expression) the raspberry jam without let or hind - mince. This marvelous behaviour on the part of the bony Soot tells greatly in her favor, so far as the children go. They tell each other later on that she can't be altogether an unpleasant sort, Alas - ter Arthur being specially loud in her Praise. He even goes so far as to in- sinuate that Miss Broughton would never have said as much; but this base innuendo is sneered down by the faith- ful children who have loved and lost her. Nevertheless, they accept their fate; and after a week or two, the new- comer gains immense ground, and is finally pronounced by her pupils to bo (as she herself 0001(1 probably express it) "no' that bad." Thus, Miss McGreg- or becomes governess at the vicarage, vice Georgie Broughton promoted. To be married at once, without any unnecessary delay, is Dorian's desire; and when, with some hesitation, he broaches the subject to Georgie, to his surprise and great content he finds her quite willing to agree to anything be may propose, She speaks no word of reluctance, appears quite satisfied with any arrangement he or Clarissa may think proper, makes no shrinking pro- test against the undue haste. She be- trays no shyness, yet no unseemly de- sire for haste. It seems to her a mat- ter of perfect indifference. She is go- ing to be married, sooner or later, as the case may be. Then why not the sooner? This is, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. She roams all day among the flowers and in the pleasure -grounds, singing, laughing, talking gayly to any one she may meet at Gowran, where, since 1VIiss McGregor's advent, she has. been, When at length it is finally set- tled that the marriage is to take place next month, she seems rather pleased than otherwise, and is openly delight- ed at the prospect held out to her by Dorian of so soon seeing, with her own eyes, ail the foreign lands anct roman- tic scenes her fancy jigs so often de- picted. Just now, even as the tiny clock in- side the room is chiming four, Dorian le Standing outside the low French window of 14liss Peyton's morning -room and, leaning half m, half out of it, is conversing with her, alone. Georgie, for the time being, is lost to sight,— happy, somewhere, no doubt, in the warm sunshine she loves so well. "Clarissa," he is saying, in a some- evha1 Halting fashion,— he is color- ing hotly, and is looking as uncomfort- able. as a man can look, which is say- ing a good deal,—"look here." n ignominious break -down. "I'm looking," says Clarissa, some- what unkindly; "and I don't see much. Well, Lis this, you know. You won't think it queer of me, will you?" "1 won't; I Promise that. Though I haven't the faintest idea whether I shall or not." "When she is getting her things,— her trousseau, -1 want her to have every earthly thing she can possibly fancy," he says at last desperately. 'Can't you manage that for me? Do; and make any use you like .of this." Ile flings a check -book into her lap through tbe open window as he speaks. "She shall have everything she wants," says Clarissa; "but e don't think"—taking up the book—"we shall require this." Nevertheless, keep it' You must want it; and don't mention me in the matter at all. And—look here again— what do you think she would Pike us a wedding present'?' Of course he had given her long ago the orthodox engagement ring, the lock- et, the bracelet, and so forth. "Why don't you ask her? says Illlss Pey ton. Because the other day she said she adored surprises. And I am sure she doesn't care about being asked what slue likes." You have your mother's diamonds." "Oh, of course"—airily—"all my moth- er's things will be hers; that goes with- out. telling; but I hate ole. rubbish. I want to give her something from my- self to wear on her marriage morning. Don't you. see? or is it that yen grow imbecile in your old age, my good Clar- issa?" No; it only means that you are grow- ing extravagant i nyour dotage, my good Dorian. Well, mention something, ' that ma Y object to R." Ismeralds, then?" "No papa has set his heart ongiving ber those." "Rubies'?" Oh nothing red; they would not suit her." "Opals?" 108 unlucky, e w d or r she would heun away from you," "Pearls? But of course,"--gniekly; "why did not think of them rem?"i "Why, ndeedl they will be charm- ing. By the bye Dorian, Leve you gold Lord Sartoris of your engagement'?' Dorian's brow darkens. • 2Russ.'j5 POST. "111o. lie lasts been 1roan Monatee you. know, either 1n Paris or the Libyan desert, en somewhere. lie only turned. up again two days ago, Seen hull since?" "lie watt here, but I was oat. Bane yon seep him?" Well yes,—at a disteno0," "Doling, there is eertelnly something wrong between you and Lo'd Sartoris. I have 110111011 it for souao tume.:1 dent ask you what it is bet I entreat you to break through this coldness and be friends with, bine agent," She steeps toe ward. and looks earnestly into his face, Cie laughs a little. "I'm L1'01110nci0us friemis watt liim, realty;" ho says,' if yepm would. only try to believe it. 1 flunk him ne end of a good fellow, if elightly impossible at bines. Whon he re001085 from the at- tack of insanity that is at present ren- dering 111m very obnoxious I shell be delighted to letby-goner be by -enema, But until then—" • mrnL?" You will tell hen of your engage- Porhaps; if occasion offers," "No. not Perla ps, Go to -day, ` this very evening, and toll flim of it, "ble 1 cant, really, you know," says Mr. Brauseombe who always finds a rlifftculty in refusing any one any- thing, 'lou must,"—with dcaision; "be sure- ly deserves so much at your halide." "But how few of us get our deserts!" says Dorian, still plainly unimpressed. "Well, then, I think you shoulpd'speak of it openly to him—if only for Georgia's sake." For liar sake?" He oolors again, and bites his lip. "11 you really think 1 owe it to her, of course T shall do it, however distasteful the task may be; though 1 cannot see how it will benefit her:' "He is your uncle; you will wish your own family to reeel7e her?" I dare say you aro right,' says Branscombe, with a shrug. People always are when they suggest to you an unpleasant course." "What is unpleasant now? Flow oan there be anything to distress any ,one on such a heavenly day as this?" cries tree soft petulant vette he loves so well, calling to them across a flower -bed near. Springing over it, she Domes up to the window, and, leaning her elbows on the sill close to him, laughs gayly up into his face. The Vicar's Governess. 'There shall be nothing to distress you, at all events, my 'amber witch,'" returns he, gayly, too. "Come, show me once more these gardens you love so well," * * * * s A promise with Dorian is not made of p.eorust; though sorely against his wviL, be goes up to Hythe after din- ner to acquaint his uncle formally of his approaching marriage. The even- ingis calm and full of rest and quiet, a fit ending to the perfect day that has gone before.: "The long day wanes, the broad fields fade; the night— The sweet June night—is like a cur- tain drawn, The dark lanes know no faintest sound. and white The pallid hawthorn lights the smooth- pleached lawn; The scented air drinks from the silent skies • Soft dews, more sweet than softest har- monies." Going through the woods that lie up- on his right, he walks silently onward, impressed by the beauty of the swift - coming night, yet too restless in hind to take in all its charms that are rich enough to satisfy a hungry soul. A soft wind is sighing; beneath its touch the young and tender branches are swaying lightly to and fro; all the "feathery people of mid-air" are preen- ing their downy plumage and mur- muring sleepy bymns ere sinking to their rest. Scarce a sound can be heard, save the distant lowing of cattle, and the drowsy drone of a slumberous bee as it floats idly by. The very sound of Dorian"s footsteps upon the soft grass can be distinctly heard, so deadly is the calm that ushers in the night; when, lol from out some thicket, the nightingale.— "Who is silent all day long; But when pale eve unseals her clear throat, looses • Her twilight music on the dreaming boughs Until they awaken"— bursts into song. High and clear and exquisite rise the notes one above the other, each vying in beauteous har- mony with the last, until one's very heart aches for love and admiration of their sweetness. Dorian, though oppressed with many discordant thoughts still pauses to listen, until silence following upon the [passionate burst of melody, ho draws his breath quickly and goes on to Hythe, and into the dining -room there, where he finis Lord. Sartoris still over his wine. (To Be Continued.). BOOTH TUCKER, Romantic Blistery or tee Yo Cam u1.1<.ain n. ee or the Sal ration Army 1n the united Commissioner Booth -Tucker, who is to succeed Ballington Dooth as head of the Salvation Army in the United States, is one of the great men of the Army, and his career possesses a high degree of ro- mantic interest. He was a judge on the Queen's Bench in India, and was possess- ed of great wealth, when through the work of the army he became converted and decided to make its work his own. His first act was to retire from his high position, his next to give away his fortune—he gave it to the army—and then, assuming the garb of the East Indian of the lowest caste, he begged his daily food from door to door. Going to London, he offered his services to Gen. Booth, asking only that he be re- turned to India, whose necessities he knew so well, For six months he was taken through a course of instruction in the great London training school of the armee and then he was sent as tom= missions"' to Media, accompanied by fif- ty officers—"'Jubilee Piety," they were called. Ile organized the work thor- oughly there and established it as only one of his fine executive powgel:s could do, While in that service he married a daughter of the general, and togeth- er they labored in the field for several years, but at Last his wife's health fail- ed, and they were compelled to return to England, when they were made in- ternational fo ei secretaries, still re- talnln0 the guiding hand in Indian af- fairs, however. A GOOD IDEA I ., 1,tae •nl ;ivi"Ir If you could have your elpouq of names which one would you choose? Either Sfnit1 or :Tones, Why such a common one? So my country reltdio05 couldn't find the so easily in the city directory, THE FARM. THE QUIET LIFE. Happy the Meta whose 071811 and care A ,few paternal acres bound, C outent to breath his native air 111 bus own ground, Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread; Wboss flocks supply' him with attire, Whose trees le summer yield him shade, 1n winter, fire, Blest, can unconcernedly find !tams, days and years slide soft away, 111 health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by nigg'ht; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which out cloth please, With meditation, Thus let us live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented -let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie, RULES FOR LAMS FEEDING. "The feeding of lambs is a scleilee. It is by no means yet an excuse science, yet these few things we have learned: Peed lambs of a mutton breed or at least sired by a mutton sire. Feed those that have the best food and op- portunities from the day of their birth. A stunted lamb will never make corn into flesh as he ought. Before you put them in the feed lots, attend the funer- al of every louse and tiok," so says J. E. 'Wing, in American Sheep Breeder, "Begin the feeding on pasture, if you have lambs early enough. Let them eat bran for a fete days, until all will come quickly when called. If you have a choice of foods for the first, let your choice be oats. Begin by giving it very sparingly, merely enough to let each lamb get a taste, and make him eager to get more. increase the amount of grass slowly and regularly. Do not make any sudden changes in the feeding. After thirty days, if all goes web, the lambs may be on 'full feed.' You can tell by their leaving a litele of their grain when fed. Then cut down the amount fed a very little. Aim always to give just what will be cleaned up. As they grow they will eat more. Increase their food accord- ingly. "When you come to put them into the shed after pasture gets short do not after let them have 'their liberty. A yard twice as large as the shed is blg enough, and they should not be al- lowed in that except while they are eat- ing their grain. Feed the grain twice daily, at as near the same time as pos- sible. Do not feed grain early in the morning to fattening lambs. Give them their hay while they are out eating their grain. Have water before them at all times, and see that it is pure enough for your own drinking. "Do not let the hayrack become fill- ed with the lambs leavings. Frequent- ly clean them out and feed to horses. If the hay has not been sailed in the mow, give the lambs their salt by brin- ing the hay. Feed clover or alfalfa hay if you can get it. Lambs, more than any animal, need protein. If you must feed Timothy hay or shredded corn stover, give them wheat bran in self - feeder's. 011 meal is now the cheapest source of protein. It sells for eiG per. ton, and is worth mucb more for food and for manure. 1t may conveniently be mixed with the wheat bran, equal parts by weight. If you have clover or alfalfa hey and corn, 1.1 is not necessary to bother about 'balancing the ration.' Eaeperiment of my own shows that it is every great gain to feed wheat bran when feeding shredded corn stover. "Be gentle with the lambs; they will fatten only while they are happy. Do not let them be awakened while asleep. Do not ask strangers to go in to see them. Do not change their quarters if you. can help it. Do not let their shed become damp or uncomfortable. Let in all the blessed air that you can unless it is very, cold or stormy. Do not try to economtze by feeding a small amount of hay, trying to make it up with gram. That cannot be done. A lamb is, first of all, a hay eater, and all his internal revenue department is adapted tothe use of bulky food. Let them be ninety day's on 'full feed.' Do not clip, un- less you are to keep them until/after April 15. Do not sell them until you have them 'ripe,' Geta reputation for your product. If you are not a careful man, with good observation and regu- Iar habits, you had better use 'self - feeders.' Do not starve them. Do not ll star ege tthmselm dveess to -morrow, u do, t Do not let anything annoy them. Do not let any work come between you and the care of the lambs. Do not expect to make your fortune every year in feed- ing, lambs. Do not fail to make use of their manure; it is worth all the trou- ble of feeding them. Do not hold them a day after they are ripe, unless you want to see some of them die, and hold the others for fun. Do not think that same other fellow has a peculiar 'cinch' on the market. You can get all that they are worth, if you will ship them to a reliable commission man yourself. Do not be content to do as well as you did last year ; do better." BUTTER PACKAGES AND CLOTHS, "We have probably all got to admit that butter -makers generally ere bend- ing every effort to produce the best possible quality in their product. At the same time it is equally patent that they show a little more persistency in seeing how frail and mean a tub they can obtain to pack their butter in, The ash tub is the one by far the most gen- erally used and on which competition has most largely centered on the part of makers trying to see how cheep and mean a one could be produced. That they have succeeded to a greater de- gree than the Mutter -makers have in producing a fine article of butter will have to go without denial," says a writ- er in Produce Review. "in the matter of cloths the same 'cont wise and duller 10011811' polity is generally indulged in nowadays. The cloth now permits the e salt to sift a h 1 the Mee of the butt It fru x011 0 o er. through p is absolutely no protection to the but- ter in keeping the face of the same. clean and from the air. 11; is also im- possible to replace one after it has been removed, "Another yore objectionable practice is becoming more general, and that is the packing of batter 111 the tub before thin hue been well soaked. It is quite common, more especially with ladle laekers. Seeing that these evade go irgely now for expert it would be well for those engaged 131 their p1'adeotlo11 to hear in mind that this serious negle01 result? expensively .to them, lie it re- sults in lowering values, I have bre- gilent1y bad to redeee my bids 1. to d Cents pet'; Patina on goods that were gone en the .sides and bottom, wliioh would not stave been the Case had the tubs been soaked snfficfentiy 1101080 poke ing, 1f ht was possible to know, on the part of button -makers or 11ao1lers, that their product would be sold to the first one looking at It, and the day it arriv- ed in market, and to a buyer not thor- oughly' up ie his business, this matter of poor tubs unsoaked, and an apology of a rag, might not be at their exp0use; but it is free gently the case, theiroods have to be shown -Mame mee and in Many cases held for want of a market, whereby the 000perage is badly brokeli tindthe Butter gone side and top, This results in a loss to them from thole cupidity, - Take my advioe and secure the best packages possible always. Yot1 cannot obtain' them for little or nothing any more than you cab the best butter. Thoroughly soak them before packing. Use the best of cloth—1 prefer Heavy parchment paper every timethat which will keep the salt from sifting through upon the butter and will ad- mit of removal and' hold its original size and shape, 1f you will do this, results will prove the corl'ectnessof my advice, Your goods will always ' be inviting tit periods of speculation or ex- port demand as well as minimizing your possible losses in the event of your commission house being forced to bold for a demand." LIFELESS RIDERS. Rude rimy lards Alter Being 4801 Thromdh the Bowl. A veteran of the British army in In- dia once saW a strange sight on a bat- tle -field. As he tells the story, a spua- dron of cavalry had been held in re- serve under cover of a field battery and an infantry regiment. Tho artil- lery duel had ended. The assault of the enemy in overwhelming numbers had been repulsed by the steadiness of the infantry, \Vhile a clout. of smoke hung over the field the cavalry receiv- ed an order to charge with drawn sabres. The troopers started in close order .for the enemy's line. Midway alley mot a destructive fire from earthworks in front of them, and from the woods on their flank. A young cavalryman, with his sabre drawn, was shot in the heart, while leading in the first file. The horse halted, swerved to the right and turned back, but the rider kept his seat without flinching. The other troopers went on, carried the earth- work by storm, rode at full gallop after the retreating force, and converted de- feat into.rout. The dead trooper, meanwhile, was re- turning with white face and with the blood streaming from his wound. 'Un- der his nerveless band the horse receiv- ed neither check nor leading, and made its 0871 w'ay onward toward the in- fantry, who were now advencing rap- idly. As the smoke lifted, the soldiers saw the solitary rider coming with one hand in a death -grip upon the saddle, while the other still held the sword rigidly clasped. 1t was a sight never to be forgotten— the galloping horse with the dead cav- alryman still mounted and looking grim and fierce. It was not until the rider had gone fifty yards from the spot where he had been killed that he rolled off the horse. 4 similar story is told of Captain Nolan, who delivered the fatal, blunder- ing order for the charge of the famous Light Brigade. He was seen on the field of Balaclava, riding from the hills where the staff officers were drawn up to the quarter where the brigade was stationed. The charge began, and what was left of the brigade returned in broken groups. At last Captain Nolan was seen gal- loping rapidly toward the centre of the field. He was firmly seated, straight as an arrow, and riding well. Sudden- ly the horse swerved, and the rider toppled over. The officers who were nearest rush- ed forward, but when they Titled him from the ground they found bun life- less, Like the Indian sabreman be bad been shot and instantly killed, but his horse had carried him safely across the field, out of the reach. of the pursuing Cossacks. BICYCLE FIRE ENGINE. Bgse•iteel, !hemp alol Water -Pipe .111pa- r,dns nil Combined In a Danble-Tan- demm Wheel. A bicycle fire engine was one of the novel exhibits at n recent bicycle ex- hibition in Paris. Naturally it attract- ed considerable attention. The ma chine is made up of two tandem safeties, braced together, with a slight alteration in front to make the wheel single -steer- ing. In the space between the two frames in the front part a hose -reel is mounted. In the centre there is a dou- ble-acting rotative pump, and at the back are two pipes to be fitted to any source of water supply. The machines thus equipped do not weigh over 144 pounds, and it is claimed that our ex- pert bicycle riders can drive one of them to 0 fire in less time than it would take horse -propelled engines to get to it. The operating work of tbe bicycle fire engine is very. simple. When a fire is reached each rifler has his part to per- form, Two of the riders make the wa- ter -pipe connection. The third man runs out the hose, while the fourth man raises the back wheels from the ground by means of the support:, wvllich is ele- vated out of the way, while the machine is being ridden. The pump is brought into position for action by the raising of the wheels from the ground. It is alaiuled that with experienced men water can be played. on the fire within three or four minutes after tbe arrival of the cycle fire engine. At a recent trial in !?anis—four men pedal- ling—a Menem of water 0vas thrown nearly 100 feet in 8 horizontal direction and '10 feet in a vertical one The bicycle engine has the advantage of being able to start at once upon the sounding of an alarm. Your good riders could propel a bi- cycle fire engine over almost any de- 50r1pLton of road end in all conditions Of weather much taster than a harsa could go. Full oft have letters caused the writ- ers to curse the day they even in- dtters.—Butler. Bank -tellers disinfect dirty looking notes by sprinkling camphor, to the re- ceptacles where the money 1s kept, WAS A ARTLESS ROM. REIVI'ARKABLE CAREER Cr LABEIIRM. AN ESCAPED CONVICT, mem After eletim'1'1ngthe enmity ot'44n ne eon. Ile 040 Aulroe1rtrilctl !len 00'vtijtll And 14.11(!1311 115(91 nese le131minenceIn the Army Thence llecog1a31lon eendellel-au thine 118,3'0, Among the convicts of the 13agne fit Rocllefort, France, in the time at tllo First Empire, was one na5Od Labour, a Man of remarkdblo courage and welt lrfol'm, Oae day it• 07115 (115807010(1 that lieedlied slipped Ills olialns, flung away his cannon hall and helped him- self to "French leave," The guns of Itocbefoa't thundered after ll to no purpose, for ho hada good start and' gob, away safely into Spain. In the 'character au gentleman teas- eling for pleasure ' Labenl' became' 110 quainted with the family of the Count Pontis de Sainte, Helene, Tho acquaint-' anc0 ripened into intimacy, and the pleasant French gentleman, who had'so Much to say upon every subject, was ere long rarely absent from. the Count's chateau, Soon, however, sorrow fell up - 011 the hospitable Spaniard. One by one, mysteriously and as if they were Pursued by !relentless fate, every mem- ber of the Pontis family disappeared. Death, sudden and lingering, nameless diseases and horrible acoideats, cut' them off, the pleasant French gentle- man always at the side of the sufferers. soothing the dying witb rare drugs, and generally at hand in time to see, but not to prevent each catastrophe. Is it possible that any ray of light broke in upon the last Pontis, 55 'lie lay ON HIS DEATHBED slowly following the rest of his brave kindred, the Frenchman mixing draughts and preparing potions as be learned from the fast -failing patient all particulars necessary for conveyancing and.managing his estate? Did one glance of triumph from those cruel eyes ever hint the fateful tragedy to the dying man? Labeur never confess- ed this.. All he told was that as soon as the Spaniard was dead he possessed himself of the jewels, plate and money left, of the title deeds of the estate and the patent of nobility. Fully armed with these for the groat contest of life, ho entered. the Spanish army as star Lieutenant Count Pontis de Sainte Hel- ene. Soon thereafter he distinguished him- self gallantly at Monte Video and was made Lieutenant Colonel. But he could not wholly subdue his ancient propensi- ties and became entangled in a misap- propriation of funds, for which he was arrested. Twice he managed to escape. On the second occasion he put himself at the head of a bravo ,band of French prisoners of wear, seized a Spanish brig and passed into France, and by virtue of his courage and his name was made Chef -d' Escadron on therand staff of themonths Duke do Dalmatia, the brave and virtuous Marshal Soule. In a few IIle IVAS PROMOTED to Clief de Battalllon of the One Hun- dredth Regiment of the line, and his fortune seemed secure. Al Toulouse and Waterloo he greatly, signalized himself, received many wounds and performed remarkable feats of gallantry. He was rewarded with the cross of the Legion of Honor, which in those days had spec- ial significance. In 1815 the Duke de .Berri made bin successively Chevalier de Saint Louis, Chef de Bataillon and Lieutenant Colonel of the troops of the Seine, and now he was thought to be upon the high road to still greater hon- ors. But it fell out that he was not. Re was in the Place Vendome ono day, as- sisting at the head of his troops in the painful ceremony of a military degrade alien. In full uniform, he was glistening with stars and crosses, antls'ay with many -colored orders, ennui....lied by the hest and noblest of the land, and stand- ing there as their equal. In a moment alt became dark, when a rude voice at his elbow called "Labeler!" The Count turned and confronted a dirty, haggard, low-browed ruffian, whose features he only too well remembered. Years ago, within the HATED WALLS OF ROCHEFORT, that disgusting, ruffian had been his chained companion, manacled with him limb to limb. A11 the Count could do was to put on a bold front, order the man to be thrust back, affect indiffer- ence,ignorance, disdain: He saw no bet- ter way. 1301 his chain mate one of Laheur's inferiors, was not to be so easily put off. In hearing of then all he denounced the Lieutenant Colonel as an escaped convict and gave his real name and history. General Despinois ordered the arrest of his officer, and four gendarmes seized hien in front of his troops. IIe obtained permission to go to his hotel for change of rainent. There he seized a brace of pistols, pre- sented them at his guards, and,white they stood stupefied and thunderstruck, be rushed from the hotel and they sawn him no more. Almost a year elapsed before he was caught, and meanwhile his course had been traced backward through a wond- erful labyrinth of crime. no was tried for murder and forgery, as well as an escaped convict, and condemned to the galleys for life, But for tint chance re- cognition in the Place Vendome Labelle the convict might have died Count Pon- tis de Sainte Iielene, and, possibly,Mar- echal de France, with many lesser hon- ors thick upon him. B0\VER FOR SPEED. Few people realize the immense pow- er that is required to propel a vessel of any kind when a speed above 20 knots is required. Take, for instance, the British torpedo boat chasers, which are mere racing machines, even from a navel point of view. The most perfect specimens of vessels of this class, which have attained 30 knobs speed, carry GO tons of coal, which is full one-quarter of their entire seagoing displacement. They burn 31-2 tons of coal per hour, to attain the 3 knots over 27, which is the highest speed of ordinary torpedo boats, it was necessary t0 increase the fuel expenditure fully5 [ 0 per aunt. WORKING ' FOR POSTERITY. I don't !.o , se whq, an rid man like you should fare the city for (lettingen said the lawyer. What do you expect to get out of i111 Nothing for myself, replied the old mate; but in the regular course of Court proceedings it may!be possible to get a vordioi: in time to do my grand- children some good. Iv "I Ile W Be An Wi Ile Th. Th He Thu AtI el' "Ye You