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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1893-7-14, Page 2THE ,BRUSSELS POST, iTTiLY 14, 1893 HIS HEIRESS ; LOVE IS ALWAYS TIiB SAME, 'CHAPTER XXVIII,—(CornietiED,force as he reoognlzos 11115 foot, and closes Her angora are still in a listless fashion I Itis awn fingers firmly over the beautiful ? tlfug the calm water of the fountain. I slender ones that Dome to him of their own alum takoepoeseasion of them, and forol- accord. ydraws them.from the water. MurielI Then in 9. moment it all passes away—her ems surprised by his notion, but not in. agit Must ti no me anisdareau hto havdeadle theme. old friend ?" she asks, with an attempt et light. nese that is only a miserable failure. " My beloved 1 That you should have to endure all this 1" murmurs Staines. And then in a moment, as it wore, his arms are round her, and he has pressed her bowed head down upon hie breast, She lies there passively. At this time, it seems to her as if there was nothing at'all that mat. tered. What are honor, loyalty, faith ? Words—all words ! Nothing remains but the knowledge that all the world ie at lib- erty now to leer at her, and point the finger of scorn at her—the despised wife, Good heavens 1 Can such things be for her Muriel Daryl? All at once arevulsion seizes upon her ; she drags herself out of his arms and stende back from him. Of what had she been thinking —she? A terror has fallen upon her, strange, vivid, horrible; a looking into herself that has changed and darkened her face, and made her look like an incarnate fear ! Whither is she drifting? "Muriel, you shall not feel it like this," cries Staines. "Hear me 1" "Nay, sir ; be satisfied 1" breathes she, heavily. "Am I not degraded enough? At your bidding all was forgotten. I do not Bee how I am to look any one of them in the face again." "Let us not talk nonsense," says Staines, with a sudden roughness. "The question now is, how can I help you? I have noth- ing to offer—nothing save my devotion." "I want nothing from you," cries she, passionately. "That least of all. Did the whole world combine, do you think it could avenge such a oaee as mine? And you, of all others, how dare you offer me help I You, to whom I have shown—" Further words refuse to pass her lips, "No no help from you to me is possible," she says, presently. "Be sure of that. I will accept nothing at your hands. Oh, that f could trample out of sight all that troubles mei" she acres, her fingers plucking convulsively at the soft laces that lie upon her bosom. As she so stands, beautiful in her grief and her cruel self-contempt, a soft, low laugh rings through the shrubbery upon her left, dtnately so. Let my hand go," the stye, haughtily. "In one moment. Carefully, yet with s obedient haste, he dries the hand he olds. Perhaps the impatience that thrills trough it is not altogether displeasing to loci as he lifts hie eyes and intently Beans ae lowered lids and silent face before him. ,sad face, pabhetio in its studied oolduesas vat hides as if with a mask the working, 1 its owner's heart, She comes back to the present with a harp aigh as Staines lays her hand now dry pen her lap. "Don't put it in again," he says, quietly. It is still early in the year, and the water chilly. You may patch cold." "I never catch oold"—absently—" as au may remember." "Rememher 1" he repeats, " When shall forget, I wonder ? What is there in all he sweet days we passed together that I to not refnember? do not misunderstand me. ler not for an inebant imagine that I regret ane single hour. Memory ie now the only ;Duet that life has left me. The memory of prieelese past ?" "Let the past lie," returns she, coldly. What have we to do with it? It is gone, bent. No effort, however violent, can bring t within our grasp again." "1 have at least one solace in my deeola• loo," says Staines. "And that is the rnawledge that I suffer alone. It is, it :hall be, a lasting comfort for me to know .stat you are as free from regrets as I am reershadowed by them." "Shadows are movable things," with a Mot shrug of her shoulders. "It seems to ins that at times you can emerge from loam with a very tolerable success." " Ay, but they always follow me. In ;ealfty there is no escape from them. ant be happy in the thought that they do tot trouble you—that those old days are by fon remembered 85 a foolish passing dream.' Would you have me believe you un- aeappy ;" . demands she scornfully. I would have you believe nothing Ifsnleasing to you. Mold your belief am tording to your fancy." "I have none. I ha"e lost all beliefs," lectern she. "But don't waste time over Nun. speech- You look as though you had remething to say. Say it.' " You are wrong. I never felt more tongue-tied in my life. I could tell you lathing that is not already old and weary news to you. That I have loved, and that E dolove, that I shall love you and you only —femme and ever 1" `She sits quite mute, with her eyes down - Met, and her fingers tightly laced, lying in iter lap. "It is an unintereating tale, is it not?" ose tinues he quietly. All an the one sMing. I can make my torture a little cceeer now and then by a careful remind- ing of myself that the woman for whom I vo"r1 bus's bartered every hope I possess deliberately—of her own free will—sever- Xi between us every tie." "" For whom you would have bartered aur Why did you never protest so much es that inthose old days you are so fond of recalling?" inquires she. "I thought I had protested more. I be- lieved my soul as open to your gaze as I ,madly dreamed yours was to mine. I saw ma necessity for words. I was mistaken upon both, points. My failure was my own tacit, but it is none the lees bitter for that." " If, indeed, you feel as you now pretend, gait should never boos Dome to this house," Om:tares she, with slow distinctness. "E know that now, but then- How weld I tell—how be sure how it was with me until I saw you again 2" He is speaking with extreme agitation; at this moment indeed, he is sinoere enough and the wom• ort before him, standing gazing at him teach head e eeb in all her cold, imperious beauty, seems to him the one de eirable thing on earth. ',It seems to me," he goer on, vehement- ty, "as 'though I should come; as though with my own eyes I must see you, if only thea again." ..And—?" Her tone is stern, "Wow I lieoie," returns he, "my love atiLL lives—nay, has grown a thousandfold tee its rain strength. I have learned that time holds no hope for me. That I am as 'nolo of life as a man may well be 1" " Why do you stay here if you are so un - appy?" cries she. ' Why don't you go 2" .he rises and stretches out her hand with a nick impulsive meaning. "Go I beseech ,• ,u,"she exclaims, feverishly. "Igen not 1 Some power chains me to the spot. It is a fear, undefined as yet, in it 10 too strong for me—it holds me me." , 4" A mere, morbid fancy," returns she. You should despise such vague warnings." Not when they point toward you 1" he pales perceptibly, and would have akeh, but he prevents her answer and aeries on deliberately. "If I could manage to forget, I might, adored, make my escape; but that 0 impos- iftle. Nor would I care for such oblivion, or 1 I would not forget, The very voyage that wrecked my happiness will always be dearest memory I have." '" It is folly—madness," cries she. "You bould go." "Are those your orders 2" demands he, dly. "Do not enforce them. And ere is another thing, hoc, can I go, end nave you here alone, surrounded by those ho•= -at least—bear you no good will 2" "Give voice to whatever is in your Inc?,' she commands him. "Are you troid to put your insinuation into plate orris? The worst enemies, they tell us, m those of one's household—who is 10 you mold bid me distrust? Speak 1—Branke eli:ce? His grandmother ?—or perhaps—" -Ire draws her breath sharply,—"Madame Thirsk 1" " You give me my opportunity," exclaims e, eagerly. "Madame von Think 1 Do ee trust her. I know but little, I have ice right to judge, but—do not, I implore du, pion faith in that woman." "I fenced you were madame': friend," . he Gaye. " Did I not nee you talking to ter, just now? 10 appeared to me that you tet/ very amicable relations with her. I as wrong 2" dhow can X say whether you are right rr Wrong? It ie only some hidden instinob a6 bide mo Watch her, for your take." 3Ie fureitatee openly. 41.8: would be rid of this accursed doubt," ors says, "tell' mo—you; mhoshould know --tent is it there is—between her and— rankemere 1" Mei fol leans heavy against the fountain --old anewer falls from her lips, It is all rarer then? The disgrace is known 1 In., tfffatotively as it were alto has 'turned to him wrcnpport, Itispidees throb with unusual CHAPTER XXIX. "This retreat of yours is a positive sane• tuary," says Halkett. " It ie very dusky in this corner of the balcony, and there is something soothing in the bhought that every one to dancing in the rooms within, and that one's own body is idly resting." He had adressed Margery Daryl, but there are two or three others lounging in this quiet, forgotten little spot, hemmed in by the tall shrubs in their huge pots. Mrs. Daryl is sitting on the sill of the curtained window ; Curzon Bellew is lean- ing over Margery's chain Peter, and a tall artilleryman called Herrick, are lean- ing against the ivy, and Peter's last pretty partner is amusing herself .with him from the depths of a cushioned lounge. " If a sanctuary, who gave you permis- sion to invade it ? " asks Margery. She has been particularly rightminded up to this rather late hour, and Ourzon's soul has been quieted within him, but now, all suddenly as it seems, she wakes into a wicked life, and turns a bewildering bmie on Halkett. "What an unkind speeoh I Have I not flown to you for refuge ? And is this the spirit in which my prayer is received 1 Seeing you not alone, Miss Daryl, or even a deux 1 took the liberty—" " 00, that is nothing. You are always taking that," retorts she. " The question is, what brought you 2" "Need you ask 2" reproachfully, "You know I am always unhappy when—?" " She proves untrue ?" This speech has allusion to Mrs. Amyot. " She always does," says Halkett. " Who should know it so well as you 1" " Who, indeed 2" " Yet you have most cruelly deserted me all tonight ; most wantonly you have flung me amongst • the Philistines. And all the time you have been dreaming here, or in some other fortunate spot, whilst he who would die to—to—" " Yes. Don't let it embarrass you ; I know all the rest," puts in Miss Daryl, kindly. " You should 1 You have served an ap- prenticeship to it. To know 'that all the world is groveling at your feet might make you meroiful instead of cruel." "Perhaps you think you are amusing me?" with asoft disdainful uplifting of her dainty chin. " My natural self-conceit never carried me as far as that," " That is just as well." " I don't think you are in a very pretty temper to -night. A generous mistress uses the lash sparingly to her slaves." " Her favorite slaves, perhaps, Besides, who told you I ever was in a pretty temper 2" " No one. I think myself, so far as I am concerned, you never are." " The lady of your heart is always good• tempered, of course 1" There is another in• nttendo in this remark ; Mrs. Amyot at times being a little impetuous, to say the least of it. " No. Have I not just this moment told you she never le—to me ?" " The object of your affeeblons—" she begins, saucily. Oh, Miee Daryl 1 ' The objeot 1' For my sake, 0 not for your own, refrain 1 I really can not sit silent and hoar you oall yourself names." Wilhelmina in the background here so far forgets her self•impoeed mission as to bursb out laughing. Margery follows suit, and presently Mr. Halkett joins in also. Now where does the joke come in 2" demands he, mournfully, " That is what We all want to know," says Curzon. " All ? I don't," says Margery. " No 1 You are happy then in not being a pray to the ttnsatisflel curiosity that is consuming me." " I am so far a prey to curiosity that I am dying to know what you mean," says Margery. " I should think my meaning has always been perfectly clear to you, returns he, "By the bye, this ie our dance, I believe." " Is it? I—I don't think I watt to donee," returns she, " Dont you? I wonder then why you come here 2" ear bIr, Bellow. " The bud - nese of a hall is dancing ; one Mc sib and doze at home." " Thero are otter things beaidoe dano• mg" 'True 1 'There is flirting," soya be, bit. tcrly. Tormny'i?atilyn rune lightly up the steps to their left and preoipitates himself among them. " What are you all doing here in the dark 2" asks he. "All in dumps, eh ?" with a glance at Margery and Bellow, " Been to the gardens? They are looking lovely. Try 'cin and take my advice. they'd kill your blotto in is hurry." " Did they cure yours, Tommy ? Was that why yon sought them?" demands Mnr'gery, No, my Boar, I leave the vapors to euoh thinly minded little girls as yourself. I defy any man, woman, or ohild to afoot my nerves. To deviled oysters along that proud boast helongs. But the gardens are awful- ly well got up. Lamps everywhere, and stars and things. The committee oughb to be congratulated on its arrangements. They ought to be presented with a Bible or something." "Not good enough," soya Mies Daryl. "According to your account they have managed even the heavens admirably. I don'b see what oould repay them." " Will you come and look at them 2" asks Curzon, meaning the gardens, not the committee. "I1 is a charming night, quite sultry." "Cold,1 should have thought," replies she. "Pouf 1" exclaims Mr. Paulyn, lightly. " I like to hear you beginning to be care. Ful of your health. You aren't more deli- cate than Muriel, are you? and she has been enjoying the midnight breeze with Staines for the last hour.' Tommy says this quite gayly, being ignorant of any rea- son why she should not so enjoy herself. "Come," Bellew says, earnestly. This time without a word she rises, and moves lisbleesly down the stops into the scented darkness beyond. ",What a fellow your cousin is to talk," he ear ; "I quite thought by whathe said that Lady Brooks - mere was somewhere out here ; didn't you, eh ?" "I know Tommy, and the wildness of his surmising8, better than you do," returns she, evasively. How foolish she was to plaoe any dependence upon any words of Tommy's 1 With the restoration of her peace of mind returns also her sense of aggravation. And it 0 at this very mom- ent that Bellew chooses to make a rather unfortunate remark. " You look pale," he says, solicitously. " I am sorry I can't look like a dairy- maid to oblige you," she says. "However, if my appearance offends you, I tnust try to correct it." She lifts her hands and ad- ministers to her poor cheeks a very vigor- ous scrub that almost brings the tears to her eyes, "Now, are you satisfied?" she asks, irately, turning to him a wrathful, orimson countenance. "I don't know what you mean. I can't see why you should speak to me like this," says bIr, Bellew. When did I express myself as dissatisfied with your Moe? To me as, you well know, it is the most beautiful face in the world." " There are a certain class of people whom I detest," returns Miss Daryl, un- pleasantly. " You are one of them. Flat- tery is their strong weapon, and I'm sure you've been paying me meaningless compli- ments ever since I wall born." "Born 1" with a rather derisive laugh. " You can remember since then 1" " I have often heard," icily, " that there are few so clever as those who have at com- mand an unlimited ,amount of repartee. Experience has also taught me that bhere are also few so—wearying." " have you nothing to say to me?' asks be, passionately. "Nothing returns," she, calmly. "Doyen know you hove told mo that. all things are at end between tie 2" Well," cries she, pettishly, "it is all your own fault. I won't have people ji - lIugq about after me, and pretending to ook the deepest women w11011 there 18 110 rause for it. There is nothing on earth 50 tiresome as being asked every_moment whether one has a headache, or if one's neuralgia 0 worse, or if some iced water wouldn't do one good !" "And all this," remarks Mr. Bellew "ltae arisen out of my simple declaration thatl thoughb she was looking a little bale 1 "I have been a oross goose, certainly," she confesses with heroic candor; " but never mind. Ws are friends again now aren't we 2" " We are not," he returns. " 00 1 that as you will, of course," stiffly ; " but I thought—" "I am your lover," declares he. " Noth- ing you could do or say would alter that Mot. You can throw in the friend and welcome. But your lover I am, before and above all else. And so I shall remain whether you wed me, or some other man, or if you never marry at all." " Do you know I think it will be that," says she. " I am sure I shall never marry —never 1" "Shall we walk on a tittle further l" asks Bellew. "I really think, Curzon," says Margery gayly, who has gnibe recovered herself "that there is one small thing for which an apology is duo from you to me. What was that little insinuation of yours about flirting, eh 2" You didn't mean it—h'm?"' "Flirting 1" he repeats. "I'm Bare I shouldn't say or mean anything, intention- ally, that would hurt you." "That's all very well," replies she per- sistently. " Bub the thing is, did you mean that? I'm not a flirt, Curzon, am I? And you don't think eo, do you ?" " Of course not," he says hastily, " I must have—have boon a fool when I said that." Only then 2" mischievously. " Then, and now, and always when I am with you," returns he. vehemently. "I thank you for giving me your choicest hours !" eaye she. After all, how could I expeob you to give me of your best, I, who am so bent on being an old maid 2" " You, who are so bent on breaking my heart 8" replies he, gloomily. Mise Daryl laughs—a soft, tuneful laugh that rings through the cool night air. As she looks straight before her, the laughter dies upon her lips. There—there in the moonlight—only a few yards from her, stands Muriel, her face pale, ashen, all the marks of passionate despair upon her beautiful face, and there, too, stands— Staines. "If I bore you,' says Mr. Bellew, "it is most unreasonable of me to inflict my presence on you any longer. Will you come back to the house, or say here whilst I tell Halkett--" " There 1 I knew 0 1" breaks she in. "Anything like your abominable jealousy I have never yet known 1 I am accustomed to it—butycnrrudeness to that very inoffen sive person does call for comment." "How was I rude, may I ask 2" "Do you then deny you were in a raging temper all the time he was—was courteous. ly endeavoring to entertain me ?" "Openly endeavoring to make love to you, you mean," exclaimed Bellew. " Do you think I am blind, or a fool, that I can't see through things ? I bell you, you were encouraging Halkett in a disgraceful halo ion, and that he seemed.only too glad of the encouragement." " I must be a modern Venus," Bays Miss Daryl, "to inspire all the different men you mention at odd times with a due approcia. tion of my charms. To -day it was Mr. Herrick—yesterday Lord Primrose—to- night Mr. Halkett. It would cause them some slight embarrassment, I should say, were they to be openly accused of their crime." " It is not only—" begins he, but she interrupts him mischievously. " Not only those I have named ? True 1 there is still Mr. Goldie who has also come under your ban. Even that estimable man cannot escape your censure." "To sneer at me, Margery, is not bo con- vince me. I have loved you too long to be callous on this point. If an end to my dreaming has come, I would know 0. "It is my belief that at last you have decided on throwing me over to marry some other man." Which of them 2" demands the. " Mr. Halkett, who is head over ears in love with Mrs, Amyot, or Lord Primrose, who has neither eyes nor ears for anyone save Lady Anne 2" "There are others," Bays he, "There is Herrick ander--" She has changed color perceptibly. "Yes, Herrick," he reiterates in a de- spairing tone. See when I mention his name how you change color." " I suppose I can change color if I choose. Is a blush a sin ?" asks she, CHAPTER XXX. abeotve you from all blame, Yee ; to -mor- row, if you with, you can walk with file," Turning her face from him, aha Tooke listlessly around her, and as her eyes travel from wall to wall she becomes at last aware thab Branksmore is watohiug her front a distant doorway with it burning, immovable gaze. She starts visibly, and is oonsoious of growing nervous and unsettled beneath it. He had been aware that the flowers his wife held wore not those sent to her by him, but he had boon far from imagining whose gifts they were until enlightened in a charm- ingly airy and oasual manner by Mme.von Thirsk somewhsb later on. A very tumult of mixed passions is sway- ing waying him. That she shall gtve him an ex• planation ho 0 determined. But nut now, He has wribten to her, and considering to- night's work she will hardly dare deny him the interview he has demanded on the morrow. In a few short hours he will be face to face with iter, and will get an an- swer to the questions that are clamoring for utterance, (TO BE CONTINUED.) Margery steps back again behind the kindly shelter of the evergreens, and Our- zon follows her rapidly, in her )tasty walk back to the house. Not a word or sigh escapee her, yet he, loving her, knows the agony her heart is enduring, and understands but too well the degradation and horror that are possessing her. "Don't take it so hardly, darling," he Bays, very tenderly. There ie a pause full of doubt, and then Margery turns to him and lays her head upon his breast, and burets into a passion of silent tears. "Oh, Curzon 1" exclaims she, in a bitter tone. "There is a great deal of unhappiness in the world, Margery; but you must not take things to heart as though there were no hope, no remedy. How can we tell what Muriel was enduring just now? One can not altogether etifle one's heartbeats, and if she was bidding an eternal farewell to the first love of her life, we should feel nothing but pity for her." Oh, that I could dare believe you 1" murmurs Margery, sobbingly. " But my heart tnisgives me." Muriel had caught. eight of her sister on her homeward way, and had told herself she never could be devoutly grateful enough that the girl had not chanced to see her at the fountain ae she stood there transfixed with horror of herself, with the first terrible touch of dtspair upon her face. That Mar- gery had Been, and judged blindly but cor- rectly of the miserable truth, did not even reveal itself to her. But even now as she steps again into the brillianb glare of the lamps she looks round nervously for the slender, lithesome figure of the girl, and knows a sense of relief when her eyes fail to meet it. Wilhelmina she greets with a friendly smile, and, hardly pausing to notice her ex• pression moves on to where the lace drap- eries of the windows form a frame for her ; Staines coming to a standstill behind her, looks round him, and in turn meets Mrs. Daryl's rather impressive gaze. " Take Dare 1" she whispers, " you re- member our compact. I will be silent only so long as you give me no cause to speak.:' Elevated by rho sense of triumph that ie still warm within him, he disdains all answer to bhis warning, only saluting her with an almost defiant and certainly troni- oal bow. "As you will," returns she, " but at least remember yr,u are warned 1" Ho laughs insolently. Something in hie manner strikes cold to Wilhelmina. It seems to her at this moment that the other woman is nothing to her, But Margery, she will suffer. The memory of the pretty white faoe that had passed her a few min- utes ago returns to Mrs. Daryl with a viv- idness that is actual pain, She becomes oonsoious that Staines is still ga'LinI; at her with that mocking smile upon hie lips. She falls book once more into the shadow of the window. Staines, moving up to Lady Branksmere's side addresses her eagerly, " At least do me the Juebice to under. Stand I did not mean to offend you," he says, " What is offense?" muses alis. "No one, it seems to me, has power to hurt me, Save myself. Yes, I exonerate you fromall blame." " Ah, to be stn•e of your forgiveness," he murmurs eagotiy. " Be sure then," she says, very gently. " Give me a proof," entreats he, " To- morrow, the others are all going to the tennis affair at Lady Blount'e, Are ypu, too, going 1" "No 1' With a surprised glance ; I have dtoidtd against ib long ago. Tennis bores me. But what has that to do with—" " To assure me of your pardon," intoe rupts he, quickly. "Soy you will Hermit me, too, to on aside the invitation for to•mnrrow, and to accompany you instend in your afternoon walk, That you might in time learn to look aekane° at me ; and alt such fsara mean death l But if the cetnin hours holdout to the solve hope, I shah Surmount my tears, 13elieve me, I shall "No. But I will toll you what 10 is— the deliberate breaking of a man's heart, I have loved you all my life I think—and you have suffered me, only to tell me now you are going to marry Herrick," " I am not going to tell you anything," cried elle, indignantly. " Am I a Mary Baxter, who, 'refused a man before he axed her'? Am I'1". "Did you refuse him ?" " How could 1," evasively, "0 he didn't give me the opportunity?" "You give me your word ho did not propose to you 2' ' Even if be did—if they all did, What is that to you ?" she demands, " You are not my father, or my brother, or my guardian, that you should take me to task —and oertainly you shall never be my hus• hand 1" This terrible speeoh seems to take all heart out of Bellew, He stands, as though stricken into stone, except for the rapid gnawing of his mustache. Will the speak again 2 If afro moves away, what 0 he to do —to follow, to implore, or 1,0 rsstgt oI hope finally ? "If," ahs dolma to hereelf,"he should eland there, mooning, anti 1 tite day breaks I shall not bo the first to speak 1" She has taken up her fan and dotaehed it from the ribbon that holds it, It startles her, when she finds it roughly taken front her careless fingore and flung to a 06115ide5• able distance, HOUSEHOLD. Cradle Song 0 whither away is the isle of dreams, The silent ielo of dreams? It's over the ocean of starlit skies, Away in the west, where daylight dies ; Slumber, sweetheart, and your wondering BYO Shall awake int ho isle of dreams 0. who is there dwells In the Ole of dreams, The distant isle of dreams ? There's Little Boy Blue, with his silent )torn, Andbitedearoid;dame whose skirts were shorn; And you. eweetheart, shall await the dawn In the distant Tele of dream( 0 what will you do in the hie of dreams, The golden isle of dreams ? Whatever you've hoped for, the long day through. In the isle of dreams will all come true! Liston sweetheart, they am calling to you From tete golden isle of dreams I 0, how do you get to tite isle of dreams? The drowsy ls'e of dreams? Ah, that is something we do not know, For you shut your eyes before you go i But see sweetheart, you are sleeping—so Yost have found the isle of dreams! that it 0 just es neoossary to obey a pleas. ant "No" as a Groes ono, and it ie so much easier' for them when they are refused kind- ly. The spirit of oombntivenees is not aroused, and all they have to do is to bear the disappointment whatever it may bo, which Moue is hard enough for their eager little hearts to endure, But if they love you and tenet you, and you give them as ntuoh sympathy over their trouble ae you would for to out finger, for instance, you will be surprised aG the brave way in witch they will resign a forbidden pleasure, " It le any bo mind Aunt Margaret," I horde little girl of twelve Bay not long ago, "011e says ' No' just ae pleasantly ae she nye 'Yes, Ishoot worth while for buoy, preoccupied nothere to thus make it "easy to mind" them, as for as possible? An Ideal Picture. The husband and wife were first attract- ed to each other by that "strong, forceful elements of soul power"—sympathy. Each had passed through peculiar trials, which brought an appreciation and desire for that sympathy which each so freely offered. During the years of suffering, flickering hope had been kept bright by looking on, an ideal picture, and each has found the real. The silken cord- uniting sympathy and love is soon unraveled, and by God- given intuition comes the knowledge that they ars ono. Their home is a temple dedi- cated to Him who 0 the author of. their joys, made the past. Love torighter God ul s o'er all, vin that hone of ideals, but the great human love existing is not dimmed. At the family altar liberal drafts are ma 'e daily upon the great fountain of purity and 1.olineas. Un- der all circumstances do the husband and wife exhibit toward each other that magic sympathy which has ripened into love. They are congenial because they love; their tastes, naturally dissimilar in some particulars, blend and harmonize like the colors under the hand of a skilled painter, and love wields the brush. The glamour of charity ever continues to hide the faults and imperfections of each. Given this foundation, may not an ideal home a xist The husband, kind, sympathethic, afieo donate, taking a vital interest in his oom- panion's plans, hopes and aspirations. He is an inspiration to her poetic soul, and her genius has full sway, winning the ecomiums of the world. He is made happier daily by the realization that he is helpful to her. His life is an .exalted one because he is keeping her company. They are truly one. She presides over her household with queenly grace. The house is not . preten- tious, but modest luxuries abound and the evidences of an exquisite taste are numer- ous. The husband has a large place in her heart. She plans to make home still more truly home to him, and she is equally inter- ested in all of his eucceasea and failures. He cannot be despondent when with her, and care and worry are transformed into serenity and peace beneath her finger touch. Life to them means something. It to now more than promise, sweeter then hope, richer than earth's treasures, brighter than the stars. This is life -God given and Hea- ven inspired life. 0108 inn aa.-- To•ntght was a mist Rho, oertainly,"she was mistaken? says, " but as I have already told you, I I am • sura that ohlldren turn bo taught For A Janney. In your traveling bag are not only the little thtnga that you will need on your bgurney, but a sufficient number of your elongings for use, in case your baggage should not arrive in time,saye the Ladies' Horne Journal. There is your brush and comb, of course, a little lamp for curling your bang, your ourling-tongs and a small bottle of alcohol. Then you may have two towels, your own soap in rte box and your sponge in its rubber bag, Your toothbrush is carefully wrapped up, and if you wear buttoned shoes your buttoner is in, but if you wear laced ones you have an extra pair of lens in one something should happen ,' those with which you start out. If you are delicate and in the habit of taking any medicine you will have your medicine bottle with its glass fitted over paper tight over the cork ; then there will be your hand•glass, which, to save space and to keep from breaking, may be wrap• pod in ono of your towels, and there will also be whatever jewelry you may possess put in a ease and very carefully wrapped up • however, if 0 is very valuable you had' better have a chatelaine bag and carry it about your person. And then you have the slippers, either knitted or very soft kid ones, which you will require for night wear. The wise girl knows that nothing is quite so desirable for wear in the sleeping -oar a0 a wrapper of dark colored flannel. 1t may be stated as a positive fact that women who try to make themselves look coquettish in a sleeping -car and wear elaborate negligee or lace -trimmed wrapper, show extremely bad taste. Experience hos taught my girl that a wrapper of soft aflnnel in stripes of blank and blue, made in the simplest fashion ie most useful. When she is ready to go to bed, and the porter arranges her berth for her she goes to the toilet -room, taking with her her shawl -stepped package. She re- moves her shoes and stockings puts on the knitted slippers that she has taken out of her bag, removes any garments which she pleases, and assuming Iter wrapper, which has been folded in her shawl -strap, repairs to her berth. After fastening the buttons of the curtains, she disposes of her clothing as best she can, folding each article smooth- ly and carefully, and placing her money, watch and tiokete in her wrapper pocket. And then she should try to rest—the porter will call her in good season and her ticket will not be asked for during the night. In her shawl -strap, which shows as its outer wrapping a shawl or traveling rug, she may have her own pillow if she desires it. But bhis is not a necessity, as the oars are supplied with linen that is usually fresh and clean. Lt the morning the wise girl will put on her stockings and shoes in bed, leaving the lacing or buttoning of them until later. Then she will assume her other garments and repair to the toilet -room, where she should as expeditiously as possible make herself neat, trim and fresh, that her friends who are to meet, her may not find her 'dusty nor travel -stained. This she sbould do quickly, that she may not be Massed among the' women who are the dread of all considerate women on parlor•ears-the women who take and hold possession of the toilet -room as if it were a fort. The Art of Saying No. I was sitting with a friend once, says a mother who writhe in the Christian at Work, when her twelve•year-old boy sprang into the room, eager and impetuous. "Mother," he shouted, " can I go out swimming this afternoon 1 All the fellows are going." The mother quietly shook her head " I'm sorry," said she, " but you cannot o' g The boy did not see me in his absorption, and he straightened himself defiantly. "1 will go." said he. Instantly a look of reproof and oomtnand came into the mother's face and site silently looked her boy in the eyes. Ho softened at once. " I want to go awfully," said he. " I know it," she answered gently, " but your father has decided that you are not a good enough swimmer, to go into rho water without hum, and he cannot go with you this afternoon. Here is bliss B.," his mother added ; " cannot you go and speak to her ?" He gathered himself together and came and shook hands with me politely, but all his bright eager looks had vanished. Ho was plainly bitterly disappointed, He wont end sat down on the piazza for some time in silence. Finally he came in again. "Mother," said he. " 1 don't believe Harry Hotchkiss oan go swimming either. If I can gab hitn, may we go over to Pelham Woods together ?" • "0 yea," answered his mother cordially; "and there aro fresh 000kiee in the cookie., jar. You may take some for both of you," Tom's face grew brighter ; he made a plhnge for hie mother and gave her a hug which tousledbtr Oalr and cruohed het' " nook ruffle entirely. Mother," said he, , just love you," "5o do I you, Tom,"the answered quick- ly, And then Muter Tom dashed out of the room. I have since watched other mothers to 500 What their methods of refusal Were, " No ; you cannot." " No ; and don't you ask me again." " No ; and stop teasing." " No ; mid do go away somewhere," "No; and 17h011 I say no, I 'mean no." These forms of refusal wen common in a number of families. I hoard 'them ropest- ediy, always epolcen in an irrttetod• tone ; and I hoard one mother say, " No ; aha if you ash mo eganl I'll whip yon." How could I show that inothor that the The Hammock as a Crib• I wonder, says a writer in the Nursery Guide, how many ofntysister mothers have discovered what an advantage it ie to pos- seas a hammock. To anyone who is obliged to economize space it may be made into a nice, soft and cool bed at pight, while dur- ing theday you can use it yourself to rest in while Baby is out, or fold it up and pub at away. In order bhat Baby may not fall out, take a long tape or ribbon and tie it across twice or thrice, loosely, and the child is secured. I have used one for eighb m onthe,and have found it very satisfactory dispensing with a bed or crib, which would leave very tittle play space for the baby. I do nob rook my little girl to sleep, but just lay her down, and she is quite oontened Mothers who have accustomed their chil- dren to being rooked to sleep will find Baby willing to submit to being rocked in the hammock, thus giving rest to already too tired arms. One mother to whom I sug- gested it, said to me, " I just sit down in my chair now, tie a ribbon to the side of the hammock, and pull it, rocking Edwin to sloop far more comfortably and coolly than in my arms. He likes it very muolt." At least, it is worth a trial ; hammocks are very Inexpensive. ViotiMe of superstition. If one will take the trouble to go through Use names of most of the bravest people in history, he will find that they nearly all suffered from some superstition or other. Napoleon Bonaparte was simply eaten by superstitions, and so was the Duke of Marl- borough, Literary men have always been notoriously superstitious, from the days of Dr. Johnson, who would go back half a mile if he remembered that he had o mit. tett to touch any one of the tamposte on his daily walk, to Dean Swift, who would never change a garment if he found that , he had to put it on inside out, and Lord Byron, who would get up and leave a din - nor party instantly if anybody spilt the salt. Statesmen have not been exempt from superstition either. Lord Beaconsfield would always take especial.oaro to outer the house with his right foot foremost when he was going to mako a speech. William Pott would return home at once, however important his business, if he mob a 05013E - eyed man on the street, while Sir Robert Poet would always make the eign against the evil eye with hie fingers and thumb under similar oiroumstancsa, • The British Museum oontains many rare and beautiful snuff-boxes of the last con- turYrPlain aitd enamelled, made of Pa ic• math°, horn, silver and gold, simple nein oomplioated, small and largge. Curious mo. tertale were sometime used in the manttfa0r tore of these boxoo, Sotto sixty years age, potato snutf•boxes woro tit common use. They were made of potato pulp, whieh,tnix• ed with some glutinous material, was peen- ed fate' moulds, dried, varnished, and slightly flred; The best quality of potato boxes was made at 'tbi uttsw10k, and lienee they were sometimes lruotvn 00 lirnnswick 001010.