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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1893-6-30, Page 2HIS HEIRESS; O13, LOVE TS ALWAYS THE SAME, • Like her? Well, I hardly know—And you?" " I detest her," coldly. " Now that I think it over, that scarcely surprises me. nave grown so need to her myself in all these years, you sec, that 1 have forgotten to analyze my feeling with regard to her, Yet it seems natural enough to me that one, a stranger to her, might fail to see her in e. rosy light. She is a very angel to that haploes old skeleton upstairs who, you must acknowledge, is not exactly attraotive either in appearance or man- ners," " That makes her devotion all the more remarkable." " Ae I think I told you before, the in. timacy between them began abnoet im- mediately after poor Arthur's tragic death, About thee time, too, the old lady became a victim to certain nervous attacks, brought on, they said, by the shook ahe sustained on hearing of her grandson's death. To me," Saye Lady Anne, thoughtfully, "it is always a matter of wonder how she manage, to still hold her wornout threads of life free of breakage, nnsiderino what an additional pressure these attacks must make upon it.. It is seven years since poor Arthur died— therefore for seven years eha has suffered frau them. I never saw her in one, but I have been given to understand they are vetydistreesing to witness, Yet madame has been faithful to that trial of friendship ; she has carefully attended her all these years." " Seven years ! A long time, says Muriel, absently. 'You have been a widow all that time ? I wonder you have never married." " 5o do I," returns Lady Anne, frankly, " But don't despair about me yet. I dare say I shall marry Primrose before I die. I am fond of that little man, and if the fact that he asks me regularly once a month to share his life means anything, I should say he is fond of me too. Yes, I really believe he loves me, and for myself alone you will be pleased to understand : I have really no money worth speaking about, and he has considerably more than is good for him, or that he quite knows what to do with. And yet I don't know," she goes on. " When I remember the past, and how good poor Arthur always was to me, I feel as if I should never marry again." "Poor Primrose—it is sad that a shadow should be the means of depriving him of his desire," says Muriel. "If, in time, you do bring yourself to accept him, I shall regard him as one of the few fortunate ones of the earth." "I drop you a courtesy," returns Lady Anne. But to return to our subject. I don't want you to encourage any erroneoua views about madame. She is of inestimable value to that old woman above, and her place would be difficult to fill. Think what responsibility she lifts from your shoulders. You would scarcely leave the miserable old creature entirely to the care of servants, and madame is such an excellent go-be- tween. If I were yon I think Ishould look upon her in the light of a special provi- dence." "What of her husband? She had one?" asks Lady Brankemere, "Beyond any dispute. He was a re- spectable old—Russian, I think it was— with nothing to be said for or against him. An amiable nonenity. He lived; he died ! That is all. There was nothing in be- tween." "He really did die?" "Oh, dear, yea; and rather early in the proceedings, 1 believe. She is a bona -fide widow, there can be no doubt of that. If you want to get her out of the house, Muriel, why not speak 'to Branksmere about it? I should think the dowager's discomfort and objections might be squat, ed. And yet I would have you consider before taking so important a step," con- tinues Lady Anne. "Madame_�yyarlele ek is not an ordinary wept he,'end she alone, I am t d.r1 manage the dowager rrgeease direful attacks e seized hold -iehavher• A new face at such times infuriates the poor old woman, and iu fact no one ex- oept madame and Branksmere himself dare approach her when she is suffering from one. I would have yon think what a world of trouble you are aocumulating for your- self if you decide on discarding Thekla. She is, beyond everything, a woman of char. aoter." "I can quits believe that," "She has proved it. For tenlong years she has been true to her trust." "Do you honestly think," asks Muriel, suddenly, "that she has wasted all those years through love of Lady Branksmere?" Anne Branksmere lays down her peooil. "Aa far and as honestly as I am judge, yes", she says. A nd, at all events, of this one thing be sure: if she at any time enter. tained a teadreese for Branksmere, he never entertained one for herI " Think of to• night ! Think of to -night," she cries, gayly, "And dismiss from you all distasteful fan. cies; they are fatal to one's digestion and ruinous to one's uomplexinn," CHAPTER XXIII. Slowly it 00n1eal now rising, now falling, `Gi*npliftiug itself into a sharp eoream 1 lI ngs through the gray dawn; a low Watling at elm first, and then an unearthly Robbing as of a spirit bound ; and always a grythat °lingo and pierces to one's very soul, ltduriel, shocked, terrified, quite benumbed With rho horror of a first superstition, earl Scarcely breathe. The housekeeper's tale of thee dead and gone Lsdy Branksmere irecure to her with appalling olearneas. • -Unable to bear it, Muriel rouses herself, mud, pale and haggard with heartfelt dis- xnay, makes a rush for her own room. Be.toro the can reach it the weird, half•stilied Round breaks forth again, and almost at the atenc instant Branksmere, only partly drained and looking white and worried, gtepe from his own room into the corri• dor. Muriel runs to him 1 For the first time In all their knowledge of each other she is -unfeignedly glad bo see him. She lays her band upon his arm, and seems absolutely to cling to him in the agony of her nervous terror. What is it ?" she gasps. " What has 'happened. Speak, Branksmere, speak." It is a fresh attack," replies he, hast• fly. " She--the—the dowager, is growing worse, 1 fear. The fits are severer, more frequent. Do nob delay me. He iifte her hand 'from his arm, and would have hurried past her but for the glimpse he gets of her, faoe. Where have you been all this time?" Ito ,asks. "W'hy, you are still dressed! DORM in that oold room ?" "Yee—yea. But never mind that. 'What is the matter with her ? What an awful cry. Is she in pain—in grief ? Yet it, did not sound like pain — like—like onaduose rather 1" "A fit I" replies he, shortly. " Forget it as soon as you can ; it need not oonoern you. Go to bed at once ; this is no hour for you to be up. I believed you asleep tong ago," " You are sure it is the dowa- ger 7" she asks him, faintly, A change had passed over his countenance as her question fell from her lips. " Who else should it be 7" he demands, "what absurd ideas are you getting into your head now? Get some sleep, I tell you ; the day is dawning." " You are shiver- ing," he says, " That absurd practice of yours of sending your maid to bed at twelve, whether you are present or absent, leaves you without a fire." It is now three. I don't suppose there is a spark left," ho growls, impatiently. "No matter Flow unhappy one !nay be, it is a betiee to kill. ono'e self. Go into my room for a While. There is a good fire there, and., warmyourself for a moment or two." "I aim not so cold as you think. I shall," with a little scornful glance, "probably live through tate night. I am tired only ; worn out. I want to go to bed." "I would advise you to look at my Inc a bit, nevertheless." ` No thank you," "What hat an obstinate woman you are," erica he, suddenly, " You would, I believe tether freeze to death than accept a comfort at my hands. Be reasonable—go to my room. I swear to you," bitterly, " I shall loot intrude upon you there. I shall pleb - ably not see it again for hours." Following upon his words comes again khat awful ory that strikes them both dumb. It bremblee—rushes through the gallery with a faint horrible clearness, and then dies away. "Go, go," cries Muriel, in a choked tone. O Why do you delay? No. I will not go to your room. Let this decision of mine end the discussion." As you will," returned he, striding away from her into the darkness beyond, Muriel tired and saddened, goes to her own woom, but has scarcely locked the door Owgenakapok sounds apo izIIwan. +pen 1" says her husband's voice, init. tably. What is it you want ?" asks she, won- denig. Not to come in, certainly," he rejoins, "Here—open quickly., I tell you—and take this from me. It is burning my fingers," Muriel tinge wide the door to find him atauding on the threshold with a huge burning log held between a tongs in one hand, anda coal -box full of red hot cinders in the other. " What a thing for you to do 1" cries Muriel shocked. • I wish—" "Let me get rid of it," interrupts he, un- graciously. He brushes past her and de. • Poche hie cargo in the grate. " There. erhaps that will keep you from the cense- gnomes of your folly, he says, brusquely --" your staying in a fireless room till ertorniag was Brown almost into day." Alt at once his faoe changes, and a °rim. eon flask dyes ie. The calm light dies from alis eyes, and a hot suspicion takes its place. Wore you alone?" he asks in a terrible tone. "Quite alone," she answers, very gently. "Spare me any more insults for this one night at least," she entreats feebly. "I am BO tired." He earns aside from her abruptly, and, leaving the room, continues his way to the 'dowagers apartments. Tho sun is well abroad before Muriel 'wakes. It is, indeed, close on noon when -she descends to the morning -room, only to Cud it deserted by all but LadyAnne Branks. :mere. " Is your headache anything better?" sake she rising to greet her. " Ah, you de book ill I How foolish to struggle down- tStaire 50 early with this momentous ball `before you this evening, at which every one *a bound. to look her best lest the country • 'eweais Come, let me establish you upon this loango ear the window ; burn your eyes -hie • hi front - light so, and fie still, whilst! finish, i t.t6hing." Muriel accedes to her request, and oinks bath in a delicious old arm -chair and alosea leer eyes against the light. "Aune, ' she sage, presently, " what of Gila woman, this Madame von Thirsk ?" " Well, what ?" teaks Lady Anne, mildly. " You should know a good deal of her, Toll ane what you know," " Thera is 00 little to tell," she says, .She is, to begin with, a Hungarian of good birth, with 0considerable fortune. Some time ago she boom; acquainted with the dowager, Brow, 1 hardly know, but she seems to have struck up alastingfriendship With her ; became enamored with her oltarme, no doubt, and has been devoted to iron ever sine°, " V'la tout." "iVith just the rest left out," returns Model, deliberately, "Yon will notspeak, then ? You like this woman 7" "Do ttot.mistake rne. I would speak, believe me, were there anything toss , he. oansa I happen to like you better,' says Lady Anne, But, I assure you, there is 'nothing, or if there ie, I am ignorant of it, 1 CHAPTER XXIV Although Muriel will not permit herself to receive as gospel all Lady Anne has said, still her last words assuredly carry with then- the germs of oomforb. In spite of herself she is solaced by them. Now Muriel feels softened, saddened. Perhaps after all she had too lustily judged madame, Anne has dwelt upon her good points, has shown them out, and assured her of them. Anne l whose judgment is always calm, and strong, and sure. Through the house there is running the news of the dowager's last selzure, and of how madame sat up with her all the past night careless of fatigue, The truth of this struggle is manifested in madame's faoe, as Monet sees it presently. Passing through the hall with a slow and wearied step she chances to enter the library, where Muriel, too, has wandered, and, nob seeing Lady Branksmere, entice into an arm-eltair and gazes absently at the Ire, Her Isco is white, her eyes heavy, her whole air stricken with a grief Rho seems so anxious to oonceal, that Muriel who has issued impulsively from her unmeant hiding -piano in the window, feels she dare not allude to it, Before she can reach her, however, or make her pees. ono known, Branksmere caters the room. Madame raises her head, and for the Rrab time seeing Muriel, starts a little. Instantly she Rings from her the air of dejection bhab had been hanging round her, and taking up a box of bonbons lying on the table at her elbow, seems to lose herself in a pleasant a preoiation of Them. 13ranksmore makes !tie wife o, cold salutation, "You are in lees pain, 1 hope?" Ito deka, politely. " They told mo your head was very bad." "It was. It is now free of the throb. bine. gohtg up•to madame, holds out her hand. "You, too, had a bad night, I fear?" she WEE BRUSSELS POST. says, "I hope you have in part recovered from. your fatigue;. that you are fueling better i" "I am tooling well, thank you," with slow and marked astoniahmenb in voioe and manner, whilst altogether refusing to see or accept the proffered hand, "\Vill you not take my hand?" asks Lady Branksmere, haughtily. " Do yon, then, wish me to mope it?" "Nuturaldy," turning very pale, "00 1 should not be standing as I now am," ibia- demo laughs: "Alt 1 that is supremely good of you— very sweet I" she murmurs. She turns back deliberately to her bonboue, as though the dainty snow.white hand of her hostess le un• seen by her. "It is war then between us ?" Rake Muriel, in a low, torso. "It is well ! Peace would have been impossible, I thank you for the chance you have offered me of learning our true positions with regard to eaoh other." "You must acknowledge then that I am at least good natured," says madame, "I have saved you a scene. Now—without any trouble—you know I Try some of those sweetmeats, they are altogether desirable 1" "`So good ; so sweet 1 Quite like me I" replies Lady Branksmere contemptuously, "Alt 1 Yes ?" questions madame, "Well —perhaps so. Now and then one does find them—hollow !" "What! the sweetmeats ?" asks Branks• mere, who has now come up to them again it' the delusive belief that they are °batter- ing to each other on friendly terms. " They are empty at times, ell? Nothing in them 1" Madame rises to her feet and sweeps past him out of the room. Muriel, too, hes sprung from her chair ; but he Is hardly prepared for the hurricane her face por• trays. " You meant that ?" she says, her bosom panting. "You ass "b that woman in her ineolenoe I" "Insolence 1 In madame 1 I do not un- derstand." " You.are inneoenoe itself 1" Her voice sunk almost to a breath. She advanced a step or two nearer to hien, and now twines her hands behind her baok, so that she can, unseen, grasp the rung of the chair nearest her. This gives her a help, a sense of sup. pore; and so standing her beautiful figure looks positively superb ! " Send that woman away," she says, im- periously—"This Madame von Thirsk I I demand this thing ae my right—ae your wife I" " Why should you demand it?" coldly. " Our family has been under heavy obligee tions to her for years." "Are you ander heavy obligations ?" "It is at least impossible I should treat her as you desire." " You refuse, then 7 You, in effect, pro. teat her against me. What is this woman to you 7" ` To me individually, nothing I" "Yet for her sake you insult your wife." "My good child," says Branksmere "you overdo the thing, rather. Believe me, I would willingly insult no one—you least of all 1" "Words ! words !" cries she passionately. "You dare not send her away even if you would. That is the unvarnished truth 1 I am not toad or blind, Branksmere. If you refuse to take a step in this matter, I shall understand that you rank your—mistress higher than your wife." Brankemere starts as though he had been shot ! "How dare you so speak to mel" ho says, in such a terrible voice that Muriel secretly quails beneath it. She throws up her head; and walks toward the door wibli a slow dis- dainfulatep. On the threshold she pauses to glance bank at him. "As you decline to aot, I shall speak to madame herself," she says. She crosses the hall and enters the blue anteroom that experience has taught her madame frequents. "Give me a few minutes," ahoaye. eg+,'pg straight up to thee?1G{„ geartin "After all bhabkeapeeeaa between us of late, some ar• agement is necessary. When do you leave ?" Ask Branksmere," replies madame. " Lord Branksmere ! What has he got to do with your going or staying ?" "Ask him that, too." "This is terrible," she says. " Am I to understand that you will not leave my house? What bond is there between you and Branksmere that should kill within you all sense of decency and womanhood ?" "Alas that I can not answer you," says madame, " that I must again say to you— ask Branksmere 1" CHAPTER XXV. "The question is what did you say to her," exclaims Branksmere, with snpprsas- ed violence. He is gazing darkly at Madame von Thirsk, as though demanding from her an explanation. "Say to her t Why, absolutely nothing!, Of what are you accusing me, Branksmere? Do you not know me yet? I was silent, ominously so, perhaps ; but I confess I was a little taken aback. Ask her --Lady Branksmere—to repeat to you a single re- mark I made voluntarily. It is unlike you to misjudge me, my friend; but the truth itself ever. I tell you 1 wae most scrupu- lously careful to breathe of nothing that might betray you. I said always when ahe questioned me, ' Ask Branksmere P No more,no less 1 From first to last during the distressing interview—and I confess it has disheartened me—I said nothing else." "But—" ' " You will not believe mo then 7 Ask her I desire you." "lb is not that, I do believe you, but such a little thing es that to—to—" "Make her lose her temper? Alt 1 you forget that a sore heart makes one petit - lane." Why should her heart be sad above its fellows 1" asks he. " There are reasons, ties cher. 1 am your friend always, as I say, and I must speak. 1 ask you frankly, Branksmere, were you her heart's first choice? Alt 1 there I not another word then. Many a woman loves well a eeoond time, and you may yet be blessed ; but a present—To re. turn to our subject. I tell you 1 have been faithful bo you all through, and I said to her ' Ask Brankemere' only because I thought it was the best tiring to say under the aircumstemeee," "It is difficult to know what is the best thing," returns he, gloomily, "There I agree with you, but ab the moment be sure I WAS wisp. I am atfiret rather too impulsive, acid if I had attempt• ed an explanation dire might have been the resulte, 1 should probably have said just the little word tem much, and our se. ogee would have bon imperiled," "Our seoret, as you call it, is carrying me rather too far, says Branksmere, "Something must be done to lessen the pros. sure; some explanation offered. "i am almost sure I do net grasp your moaninv, Itis impossible," exclaims nut; dame, growing deadly pato. "You will net tell me bhab, after all these years, you are about toenitghteuatother—aetraager7" "Partially. 'Yea." "Pelt 1 There la no such thing as a partial expleaatiou in smolt e, case, Beanies. mora, paueo, Consider what ft ie you con. template. Have you forgotten how many your revelation will dishonor? There le Lady Anne." "Poor Anne I" replies iso, sadly, "After all, perhaps ?publicity le the elle thing that should eerve Iter," "Ah 1 You are like all other men. You think what you want to think." "1 think only now that something is due to Lady Branksmere, "And fa there nothing duo to ate, after all those long years ? Do you, perhaps, imagine that 1 am happy, that I do not stiffer? that the insults your wife delights in heaping upon oto are unfelt by mo? that I—" " Let me speak for a moment." " Am 1 a cipher?" continues she, disdain. ing to listen. "Is all feeling, think yon, dead within me? I have borne much for you, Branksmere, but even patience has its limit." "If you won'b hear me—" shrugging his ithouldera. "You imagine, it may be, that I stay on here from choice," pries she. " A sorry choice I It is only true that 1 atay on here braving all things, for your sake, to save your honor—the honor of your house I" "There are other reasons, Thekla," Bays Lord Branksmere. "Do you dare to deny me that it is love that chains your feet and keeps you here'?" "You are right,' ahe answers, " Love alone chains me to this spot." "I know it," reburus Branksmere, with a peculiar smile. " It is unfortunate that her suspicion should have been aroused," sayaBranksmere, slowly. "Ifnever occurred to me that it might be so, but you, as a woman, should have known." "What are her suspicions?" coldly. "Paltry ones, I confess—but can you blame her that ahe encourages them? What must she think? What translation of the difficulty presents itself to her 7" "There is your grandmother, the dowager —Lady Branksmere—she should account for everything." "For the whole air of mystery that sur- rounds es? Would it aocounbto you?" "1.1 1 loved you, yes 7" "Love has nothing to do with this," says Brankemere, "It fs a point where duty touches one more than any thing else." " You will telpher then," she says. "You have finally made up your mind to break the most sacred oath a man ever swore?" "I shall not explain everything," in- terrupts he. " You shall be kept out of it; and there are other things. 1 only wish to give her what satisfaction I honorably can. I feel that when one marries a won. an, one owes her fealty, loyalty, all I and that I unhappily must, refuse her the entire confidence that belongs to her of right." "And she? What does she owe you? The same ? Fealty? Loyalty? An entire confidence? It is a very charming concep- tion, but—Well, I hope you are satisfied, Branksmere." "Why do you Beek to torture. me like this?" Dries he. " You are an old—friend, but even such to one may go too far. Say I once loved her ; say my love is dead. Shill, shall I not writhe when her—my—honor is attacked? And who shall say 1 have not been to blame with regard to her? She has had much cause for discontent. I will re. move it in so far ae I am able. "You can make all things olear to her if you will," says madame. 'Do. You have my full permission at least. Whatis the old bond that unites us in comparison with your—wife's happineea?" " No. I shall leave you oub bf it. My. honor is given to you as well as to her. I do not forget 1" returns he, slowly. • " When will you seek to allay aha tars of Lady Branksmere?" age' ,madame. Tonight—no," glancing at his watch. "It is already ton late. This ball will en. bage.her attention, and just now her guests require her. I shall wait. To -morrow—" He peewee, as though musing, forgetful of her presence. To -morrow—" Madame, seeing herself so innocently ignored, steps ou to the balcony. "Adieu, Branksmere," she says court- eously, glancing backward. "Adieu," replies he, With &little frown she moves away out of sight of the window, but a last though recurring to her, the retraces her steps, and once more enters the library. Branksmere is still writing. As she stands she heavy old -gold curtains fall round and hide her, and possessed by the olevor patience that usually character- izes her sheetands quite still, leaning against the shutter, waiting until he shall throw his pen aside. As she so stands she is quite concealed from view. (TO Bit CONTINUED.) Foreigners In France. There are no less than five bills before the French Chamber whose object is to check or prevent the immigration of for• eignera into the country. According to the latest figures there are 480,000 Bel. giana, 230,000 Italians, 100,000 Germans, and 40,000 British and Swiss settled or em- ployed in France. These 900,000 aliens ate likely, moreover, to increase rapidly not only by immigration, but by superior fecundity, the birth-rate among foreigners being far higher that among Frenchmen. Tho foreigners ere exempt from the eon- acription, which causes employers to prefer them as laborers, and they send away large sums of motley, $35,000,000 from Pans alone in a single year, The committee which has the bills in oharge proposes, therefore, to compel every immigrant to take out a permit of residence whioh, it seems to be understood, will be refused when the French laborers complain of com- ppebition, and to pay one franc a year to the funds of the commune he inhabits. The grievance about the conscription is gener- ally oonsidered to be genuine, and to justi• fy a tax ; hue it is pointed out that Italians or Belgians, or even Englishmen, become in the eocond generation Frenchmen. The Riquettis, Napoleons, Gambettaa and Me - Mahone have never been suepeotod of being anything but 1'renoh.—[New York "Ryon- ing Post." William's Mistake. • "Oh,you good-for•nothing wretch I" ex. claimed William's wife, as she reached her hand out of bed and fele for the cradle to see IE the baby was there. " Whash'er matter?" murmured William, as he bathed in his Bleep, "Matter enough I Wake up and go down•sbairsand bring baby up here this minute." "Did bring him up. 13o'sli in the °radle. " "No such thing, You've taken toe much. You wrapped the oat in baby's blankets, and reeked it to sleep in the oradle, you wretch, and baby is down.atairs on the sofa catching cold," The paper stockings recently invented, and worn to Germany, are said to bo a pre. ventive of oxide, In them there is a chem!. oat preparation which absorbs the moisture of the foob, HOUSEHOLD, " As Darby Says to Joan," " Well, new, Mosinee is poWor o' hoatt The sapts 4.1 tinning strong,— I donned in with the boys a bit ?'hero, as 1 eamo along' The no v andtt.ltotivone biowi, think Ifebeltod tisouple in my hat"— As Darby says to Joan. " WM'll have the sal ale out eo grass Come Paas-day,1'll be bound-; Hoar how the °rooters stamp and tow Soon as they smell alto ground 1 It's time to rake the gardin oil: And seta bonfire gain' Plan out Oho bods to suit ye, wife—" As Darby says to Joan, "It looms truth while, a day like this, Jos' to ha' wintered Lhru ; Ifeel the sun clear to my soul, 01d ae l: bo, 1 do. Mebby It would look awk'nrddike To get to ileavon along; 1'd Wins lives stay on a spell"— As Darby says to Joan, "You ain't forgot the old side porch, Back whar therapevine hung? They think folks didn't oourtand klse When me and you was young I Jos' such another likely day The parson made us one"— Ae hitching up his ohalr a bit, As, says to Joan, Summer Furnishings. The most enjoyable part of every summer home is the broad verandah, and for Chia nothing can take the place of rattan furni. ture, as the pieces are so light that a child can move them, and this is a valuable quali- ty in selecting things for these fresh -air parlors, a000rding to Demores'e Magazine. The half•reclining chair is a compromise with the lounge which many people prefer, and it finds great favor with delicate people and invalids. There are also capaoious°my ohairs with adjustable backs which can be raised and lowered at will. Aroomy poolc- et or rack of some sort should be provided for newspapers and magazines, as the frolic wind likes to play with these, and soon creates groat havoc unless there is some plane to keep them. A generous provision of cushions adds much to everyone's comfort; but the dainty materials suitable for indoors are out of place on the veranda. The twill• ed linens which come now in many cetera, are blue or red denim or bite new changeable choice it to be embroidered. Bold,conventionalized patterns that are not very much worked are selected, and the art -linen Rose is used for embroidering. There are many Japanese cotton fabrics whioh are pretty enough to use without em- broidery. A wide ruffle of the stuff doubled makes an effective finish for the edge. Com- fortable head cushions to throw over the tops of chair backs sometimes have a con. veutent pocket in the half of the cushion which falls backward. Somewhat similar cushions tied on the broad arms of easy chairs, with a wide pocket hanging out- ward, make acceptable patch -ells. A great addition to the comfort of the veranda is found in the bamboo screens, or rattan screens—the latter are made to order any desired size, the former can be bought at the Japanese shops—which are fastened between the poste and can be raised or lowered as needed for protection from wind or sun. If neither of these be accessible, heavy awuing.linen is the next choice. Braces are attached to the bottom of the screens, by which they can be ex- tended to admit the air while still protect- ing from the sun, and they are fastened upon rollers so they cap be rolled up en- tirely when necessary. _ -. ' The rattan tea-is-j;les- are most convenient for<nutdudr us'e, the adjustable shelves af- fording so much space when wanted, Keeping Rams in Smmer. A writer in the Rural New Yorker ex- plains her method as follows : After they have been properly salted and smoked, put each in a common muelio sank—I make mine of Sour seeks or cheap brown muslin, and as nearly the shape of the ham as I can roughly block it out, but they aro never perfect fits. Then stitch a firm loop made of a scrap of cotton folded and stitch- ed at one end; have your sacks large enough at the open aide so that after the ham is in, you can fold the open edges over well and sew tightly. Now have ready a tub or big bucket of clacked lime that is creamy in thickness and warm enough to penetrate oobton easily; put a wire hook in tate loop on the sack and dip the latter up and down (with the ham in it of course) several times in the lime water until you are sure the pores of cloth are filled with the lime. Hang them up in the air until perfectly dry, then lay or hang away anywhere that is convenient. We use an unoccupied upstairs room. I have kept hams in this way and have had many people—several fine judges—declare they had never eaten such delicious meat. Of course good -neat depends first on salt. ing and smoking, but there is no better way to keep it afterwards than this. If you choose to take the trouble to rip instead of outbing these sacks off, you aan use them several years and thus avoid the trouble of making fresh eaoh year. Spring Vegetables. Rhubarb is one of the earliesb of our springtime vegetables, and its special whole. someness is usually underestimated. Its acid properties act directly upon the liver, an organ quite apt to become torpid, after tate winter regimen, more or less of canned vegetables—or of loss vegebabto diet than in summer menthe, Many people Who thick they need sono "spring medioine" Will find that a goneroua use of rhubarb, spinach, lettuce and early tomatoes will preolude all neoeesity for drugo, writes 'CB. Johnson in the Independent. Rhubarb, stewed, with a little sugar, is very wholesome, and should be often served with meat—as an appetizer—or it makes excellent pies. Two oupe of it, stewed, With a very little water, two oupe of sugar, the yolks of two eggs, three spoonfuls of flour, a little eon and nutmeg, Bake in an under crust only, and frost the top with the whites of the eggs. This makes one good. sized pie. Apples for ple.making have be. oome Insipid and t rt.:car, and the tart of the "pie plant" is especially welcome. Canned rhubarb makes exoeilent pies in midwinter—apleaeing variety among mince, squash and all other seasonable kinds, It is easily put up, with very little sugar. It is the powdered root of a foreign species of rhubarb that is found at the druggist'a and used especially as modioino for children. Spinach is one of the springtime yoga. tables that ehould stand near the top of the list in healthfulness, But it is seldom prop. erly cooked. It should be thoroughly, perfectly freed from sand anddust by litany washings iu oold water, and then put in a close sauoopan and covered closely, without ono drop of water, over a moderato fire, In an )tour or more it will be perfectly docked ; then it should be drained and chopped, and butter and twit added. The old-fashioned way Was to almost drownit in the liquor fromoorned hoof—and thus or u,1», well done and trtsp. JUNE 80, 1808 half its nutriment and medicinal properties were loot, and the other half so disguised that the iusoious leaves aright just as well have been cabbage, or any other sort of "greens," Up Stairs and Down, Comfortable diuing.room chain; the prop. or height should always be 'selected, It is most oommendeble to be a good housekeeper, but don't be a fussy ono. Keep one nook cosy and comfortable for the men folks to drop into at night. An oiled floor is excellent for the kitch- en, because rho grease never shows. The plain whibe oilcloth is to be preferred to the marbleized pattern as it wears better and, for that matter, looks better. She who prepares a meal with but the ono airn—to get through—generally loses all the value of her time and trouble in Boggy, crude and disagreeable dishes. lay the table at which one sows at night spread with a light color, or, if it must have a dark one, a street of white paper may be used over it. A needle can be threaded with much greater ease if held over a white surface. A Brussels oarpeb should never be put in the dining -room, as it holds dust and iedtf- fioult to sweep and keep Olean. Oilcloth makes an excellent covering. It may bo wiped off so that it will look fresh and new, It is always better to have a special closet for keeping the kitchen tins and other utensils needed in cookery. Cooked food should always be kept on shelves by itself, It is a great mistake to mix up matters by devoting a shelf in the grocery closet to cooked food. Old muslin may be fret used as window cloths, then go through the various stages of paint, lamp and stove cloths just as well as not. Instead of this we oftensee tate hearth and grates rubbed with bits of snowy white muslin or cambric, caught up he a hurry, because there is neither system or economy about the house. If a dollar can be saved by making aver an old gown, save it. If this summer's bonnet can be trimmed with last winter's feathers use them but do not save a great lot of accumulated dreas goods, millinery, odds and ends and feeble furniture juet be- cause ten years from now you might have occasion for a solferino button, a gray tip or an antiquated hassock. The favorite Lamp shade just now is the pagoda, which has quite superseded the umbrella form, which used to be so popular. Its picturesque contortions are mucro easier to cover than the flat circle or dome, Pink is a oolor frequently used on account of its clear, becoming light ; but the warm ehadea of amber and maize are also very popular, and where non a great deal of light is needed red is a delightful color for a shade. For The Cooks. The following will be found practical, and easily prepared by any reader. CORN MUFFINS.—One egg, one table- spoonful of sugar, one cup of cornmeal, one cup of flour, two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, one•Italf tablespoonful of butter, one-half teaspoonful of salt, milk to make a ebiff batter. BROWN LOAF CAKE.—One Cupful Of brown sugar, one-half cupful of molasses, one.half cupful of butter, one-half cupful of milk, two eggs, two and one-fourth aupfule of flour, one heaping teaspoonful of cinna- mon, one-half teaspoonful of cloves, ono oven teaspoonful of baking soda, one cupful of seeded and chopped raising. Cream the batter and sugar, add the yolks and spice, add milk and dour alternately, then the molasses and beab hard, add raisins which have been rolled in Sean Bake in a mod- erate oven in deep pan one hour and a quarter. SALLY LUSN.-000 and one-half pints of flour, three eggs, cue and one-half teacups of milk, one heaping tablespoon of butter, one heaping tablespoon of sugar, from three to four tablespoons of hop yeast, a000rding to strength. Beat the yolks of the eggs, the butter and sugar together thoroughly, then add the milk and flour, making a very stiff batter. When all is well beaten, add lastly the beaten whites of eggs and the yeast, and then set to rise. When risen dissolve one half teaspoon of soda in a little hot water, and stir into the butter. Then pour the mixture into tlto buttered cake mold, and set to rise a second time as you would loaf bread or rolls. When risen bake as you would a quick cake of similar size. If it is wanted for breakfast, make it up at night, and eat it to rise as you would do rolls for breakfast. If for tea it is beat made up by nine or ten o'clock in the morning, so as not to hurry the tieing. If your yeast is good and elle recipe carefully followed the Sally Luno should be as light and golden as sake. Noouna SOUr.—Use either beef or mut ton, allowing a quart of water to each pound of meat. Add a little salt, but net enough to season the broth. Remove tho eoum as it rises and set the kettle bask where it will 000k slowly. When parbly done add a carrot or two chopped fine with the same amount of turnips and an onion sliced. Boil until the meat is ragged, then season the whole ; remove the moat, strain the soup, and return to the kettle. To make the noodles : Rub a little butter into a tea. cupful sifted flour, add a pinch of salt and a well -beaten egg, Make into a ball, roll very thin, fold up oloeely and out it into strings like cabbage for slaw, Drop these into the seasoned broth and let it boil ten or fifteen minutes. BUNS. —Use four cupfuls of flour, one gen- erous cupful of warm milk, half a ocpfnl of sugar, one-fourth of a cupful of butter or lard, half a teaspoonful of salt, half a grat- ed nutmeg, hall a yeast cake or half a cup. tut of liquid yeast and two eggs. Dtesolve the bubter in the milk. Beat the eggs sop. araLely. Add all the ingredients to the flour and knead well. The dough should be very soft. Let it rico over night; in the morning — break into pieces about the eine of a largo egg; Work these into rattier flat caked and plane them in a buttered pan. Have tho calces about half an inch apart. Cover the pan and set in a warm place. When the buns have risen to double their original size, which will be in about two hours, than with a sharp knife cub a oroda in the oentro`-of each bun, being careful not to cut too deep, Bake in a moderato oven for 20 minutes, CInA1rus DIMIONos,—Sono people aro very fond of graham cakes sr oracicere, gen- orally galled " graham diamonds," on ac- count of their dhaps. Mrs, owing, the western cooking teacher, says they are made in this manner: Add a teaspoonful each of granulated sugar and salt 00 a quart of gra• ham flour, Pour boiling water upon it until thoroughly scalded. Work into asolt dough and roll 000 until about halfan inch in thielcnese. Then, with a sharp knife out it ihto diamonds or squares, pined in a bak- ing pan and bake in a hob oven Mallen (tour •