The Gazette, 1893-08-03, Page 7Zit
CHAPTERXIIL know. ns Best: • ,But with Tett ano:: me -this
will "never be. We have stood heart to
" I have loved." she said. heart in our childish days, and known to
"Man is weak—Goa is dread." the _fall -each :other's faults, weaknesses,,
The child can just run alone now, and ca abilities:' _liow often you used tolecture
lisp his mother's name in that sweet baby me on my selfishness, my headstrong will,
language which is earth's most exquisite my impulsiveness. Ah me ! how often that
music a mother's ears. He is a lovely sweet little child -face of yours looks back
little fellow, with big, starry eyes, and soft at me from the mists of _the past. I have
gold hair, and winning coaxing ways,whieh. only to close my eyes and.I see you, oh, so
did as they would with all womeukind,who 'plainly, in your- simple cotton frock, and
had anything to do with him with your great eyes .upraised to mine. I
Lauraine kneels there for a moment under cau even feel the touch or your little hand on
the great oak trees, and holds him clasped my arm; and your voice—will ever awoman's
to her heart, voice on the face of God's; earth thrill my
" We will take him home, nurse,"she soul and calm my wild heart as yours has
says, looking up at the stately personage done and does. Oh the pity of it all; the
who is his guardian, and who adores him pity of it
with all her soul: ` " My pen is running away with me, my
"Yon can't carry him, my lady, and it thoughts are no longer under my control
is too far for him to walk," she says. As I sit alone here, I hear a band in the
" Oh, yes. Lady Etwynde and I will street below playing a sad waltz air, an air
that we danced to once,this season that is
over. How it brings you back to me. I can
see the colour of the dress you wore. I feel
the scents of the flowers in your breast; you
are -floating by my side and your heart beats
close to mine. Ah ± the music ceases : you
are gone ? I am looking outon the evening
sky ; purple and .gold and amethyst, the
clouds bordered with a fringe of fire as the
sun just sinks away. Perhaps you
are. looking on the same sky ; perhaps your
thoughts—. But no, I will not dare to say
that. It is so hard, Lorry, oh, so hard to
think that we are not now as we were. Do
you think Ihavegrown sentimental ? I, who
was always so rough - and .wild " anis im
petuous, and laughed to scorn the milk -and -
water of poetry? No. I think -you will
know what it is that is inme, and why I
feel like this : as the thoughts flow into my
mind, my hand traces them just as in those
past happy days. I can put into wordsfor
you, and you alone, the strange feelings and
wild imaginings that no other human being
ever suspects me of possessing. This is a
long letter. Perhaps you will smile at it.
I should not wonder ; but, in any case,
don't visit its folly on the writer, who is
now and always—Yours only,
"KEITH."
In the reddened glow of the fire -blaze
Lauraine reads these words. Her eyes
grow dark and misty; a strange soft trouble
takes possession of her heart.
" He is quite right," she thinks. ":We
two stand to each other in quite a different
light to what we do toanyoneelse. It wasso
natural once to speak to each other Iike this;
but, though I thought I knew .Keith, 1 am
afraid I did not. I etever gave him credit
for such depth of feeling. I• thought after
that day, .he would forget me And, after
all--'
A heavy sigh breaks from her lips. She
folds the letter together, and puts it in her
pocket. Her, husband's lies on the table,
unopened.
"Sir Francis is a good correspondent,"
remarks Lady Etwynde. "Is he enjoying
his cruise?"
" Sir Francis !" . murmurs . Lauraine,
vaguely. "I—I have not read his letter
"And we �haven't.a shawl or wrap of any Yet: I beg your pardon !" exclaims Lady
desdoes oo says Lady Etwynde. Yes, Etwynde, hastily, and colouring with em
he does look cold. There, I'll torn his face barrassment. It has not occurred to her
away from the wind. Weleshall soon be that- longs; ,hold, .manly scrawl could, be
home. Why, how troubled you look, my from anyone bute-Sir _ Francis: Lauraine
dear. When you have a nursery- full of
takes up the other letter now. No closely
little plagues, you won't fidgetabout one covered sheets here. Rather a different mis•
, so much.
carry him between us," answers Lauraine.
" Darling, how strong and big he gets !
There, take mother's hand. Isn't he de-
lighted, Lady Etwynde, to come with us ?"
" He seems so," smiles her friend.
" Farewell to philosophy now, Lauraine.
King Baby puts everything else into the
background."
" It is wonderful, is it not ?" says Laur-
aine, with something of the old bright
smile. "I wonder how I could ever have
lived without him. He seems to hold all
my heart in these two wee hands of his."
•`I have wondered," says Lady Etwynde
dreamily, "it seems an odd thing to say,
perhaps, but I have often wondered at wom-
en who are mothers `going wrong,' as peo-
ple express it. I could understand a wife,
bad as it is; but to forsake your children,
your own flesh and blood, for the sake of a
man's love—well, it must be a sort of deli-
rious frenzy, I suppose. And do you know
it is not always flighty women—careless
women—who astonish us by a faux pas. It
is sometimes the quietest and most unlike-
ly."
"Yes;" answered Lauraine, very quietly;
"these cases are so totally different to the
lookers-on. They only see the result, not
what leads up to it."
" It is difficult to know what to think,"
says Lady Etwynde. " I have known peo-
ple marry for love, for money, for rank,
for convenience, for obedence's sake, for
•duty's sake, and yet I don't know of one
single really happy marriage. The lovers
have got sick of each other in a year, the
moneyed pair are miserable, the others in•
different, unfaithful, erratic, as the case
may be. Is it any wonder,' Lauraine,.that
I give the business a wide berth ?"
" You are fortunate to be able to please
yourself, says Lauraine, bitterly ; " it is
not every woman who can do that."
" No, I suppose not," says her friend,
thoughtfully. " And then it's a case of
' what can't be cured must be endured.' Is
baby too heavy for you ? Let me carry him
" I wonder what makes him shiver so ?
says Lauraine, anxiously. " I don't think
nurse ought to have brought him out such
a cold afternoon."
But, despite her cheery words, she hur- s`Ve ; g `
' ries on as fast as her , feet can carryher. DEAR LAURAINE,
The little fellow shivers constantly dringg "Weather Beastly ; everyone out of sorts.
that passage through the avenue, and glad Awfully slow,.if it wagn_t for Lady Jean.
indeed. is she when the ruddy blaze of lights Hope .you and the boy are all. right. Ask
and fire gleams from the great dark old some people for next month. The Salo-
mans will come back- with me.—Yours,_
manHo will soon be warni now," she says, « "FRAircls YA4ASOIIR.
cheerfully, when they reach the house. P.S.--Wi11 write and say what date to
-Lauraine and herself take off his hat and expect us.
_coat and sit down with him before the "Husbands don't trouble to write long
great blazing fire in the hall, and chafe his letters," remarks Lauraine, folding up this
little cold hands and feet until he crows cuct epistle. "Sir Francis is going to suing
the Saloman's here next month. I wonder
what on earth Lady Jean will do with her-
self."
"She will organise all sorts of entertain-
ments, and turn the place upside down,"
answers Lady Etwynde. "Are you going
to have a large party ?"
suppose so. I am sorry for it. I
hoped to have a long spell of rest and
quiet."
"You will ask your mother, I suppose?'
" My mother ?" Lauraine starts and looks
uncomfortable. " I—I don't know. I
haven't thought about it yet
"I wonder what is in the back ground,"
-ensconce themselves comfortably before thinks Lady Etwynde to herself. " She
the great fireplace. - • and her mother dont _get on ; and there is
- A laetritan enters with the post -bag, and Keith Athelatone. Did -she make Lauraine
hands it to his mistress. Lauraine unlocks inarry Sir Francis? I should have thought
it, and takes out its contents.- She -hands the girl had sufficient strength of mind to
two or three letters to Lady Etwynde, and hold her ownagainst persuasion. Still one
glances carelessly at her own. One, she never knows."
sees, is from her husband, the other—a Alone in her dressing -room before dinner-
sadden
innersudden wave of colour crimsons her face.
Only too well she knows those bold, -clear
:characters. " Why does he write to me ?"
the thinks passionately. - " Caif't he even
try and let me forget ?"
Lady Etwynde is absorbed -tin her own
and laughs, and seems to have quite recov-
ered himself again.
The two women sit there and have tea
brought to them, and administer some to
baby, who appreciates it immensely. They
play games with him, and sing nursery
rhymes, and, in fact, have an hour of the
simplest, and perhaps also the purest en-
joyment that women can have. Then nurse
comes, and he is carried off to bed, flushed
rosy, boisterous, his prettylaughter echo-
ing down the wide oak staircase, his eyes
beaming star -like down on his mother's
faee so long as ever she remains in sight.
When he is fairly gone the two friends
Lauraine reads again that "letter of. Keith
Athelstone's.
"I wonder what. I ought to do," she
thinks. " Is it dangerous tis go on with
this? The case looks so different to just
'us two' to what it would to an outsider.
correspondence. Lauraine hastily tears And though Imight send him away now,
open the envelope and takes out two sheets we would be sure- to meet again at some
closely covered. -The letter begins without Perfod or another. The world is never
any preamble, or formal mode of address . i wiae enough to part those who ought
Perhaps I, ought not to write to you.
You gave me no permission to do so before
you I'eft`town ; brit, all the same, I feel I
rhust Itis only'a week since you went
:away. Howlong a week can be !- I can't
Make nu my mind whereto go. I have
Of invitations, but don't mare to ac -
any of them. Mrs. Woollffe and her
ece are at Scarborough, they go to Trou-
L1e_afterwariis. I may join them.: Despite
eeatriciiies they,._suit ane ;better than
laglieh people. How is the Ladye ?' Is
e pirating culture amidst the -:gloomy
deur of Northumbrian shores, and does
or entertain you ? -Perhaps it is no
ask `questions, for . you have never;
ed _ to write. Would you do
wonder, if I told -you what a
great pleasure it would be
and °I -think: -you knowroute-
-theemptinessof my life -Do not
a y a coinplaaniag or that I swish to 'on hermind,: and vetehe-:does not ask- its
to he parted. • And the • poor fellpw
is so unhappy. NO one understands huh- as
I do. ` I -know in books wleensver"there'is
anything of this sort, any; danger, the: two
people always go into heroies, and part
`nobly, and have fearful sufferings to endure;
but then in the third volume everything is
sure to come right.— If I thonghc, if I knew
there would be a third volume in our lives.
•
Ah, dear ,me, when do these things
ever: come: right in real°life ? Never, never,
never."
With a weary nigh- . that ends < these
thoughts she;loeke the letter away:
Far enough°is she from guessing then
what will Boon put it and the writer out of
her thoughts. --
Meanwhile the Lady.Etwynde is serious-
dioturbed and perplexed. She iia: too
ggen'ainely-fond of Lauraine not to• ►erceive
that she has some inward trouble weighing
�- Or_ even a ar to notice.- it.She.
�cl.._- �nrLttlg 'I , leave it ta',your - natii��.; 4 PEe r . -_�: - -
nits ;' yanr own kiat heartedness I _known the i'is >pure=minded,; to al,
-even - leak thew old . y ai d _ gi.`l' : controlled , but so have been other
With.you,La uraiue, I havewomen who,; beneath a euddvn-tempting
t More as if speaking to myself in —OefiereseefeMer ineathprehensiblepassion—
muel prehension,
' lou kii o.-ther-e are;
Dpi whom tieirojw rip our
e and most of us-. g0 through IIIe
a&era to tkose who think :th
havefallen from their high estate. And there,
=is aviti• ta'"1340-40-0-14- ` h t be-
trkfl•, u P. ould loo .very
weak, a lla;, t ie.4#'00ic,.t ai31 , s
a nature an`£his-is gtute 'it i pre1ie si
To therentempteriit;iaso-easy tobe_strong
tothe; mild, so easy -to be virteens The con-
quest of self seems •so possible when you
have not to countthe cost: To yourself ? ah
no, not -to -yourself, but to one ,other who is
MAIM world to you, and whose pairs and
sorrow intensify yougio wn till the _ agony
grows too much for human strength to bear.
Lady Etwynde had napersonal experience
to guide her through this maze of-cenclu-
sions ; but she had an immense , amount of
sympathy, and.: an infinite tenderness of
nature. It pleased her to veil and deny this
to the world at large, but it made her all the
more beloved by the .chosen few whom she
neither could nor would deceive.
For Lauraine she had conceived a strong
liking, not the mere pretty, gushing fancy
that stands in lieu of friendship with so
many women of the world but an earnest
and appreciative affection that would serve
and stand by her all her life She had a
shrewd suspicion that all was not right
with .her; -some care, ,some secret trouble,
was preying on her mind, she felt assured.
" Perhaps, in time, she will tell me," she
thinks to herself. "I hope she may. I
might help her. Bret -tiling over these things
with one's self always makes them worse.
What a woman can't talk of is bad for her.
It eats into her heart and life, and absorbs
all that is best in both. There is a disdain,
a weariness about Lauraine unnatural in
one so young. She loves 'her child, that
one can see ; but apart and aside from him
she seems to have no life, no interest.
Apathy, indifference, despair ; those are not
things that should be about her 'yet; but I
know they are. And why?"
The dinner -bell sounds, and puts an end
to her reflections, 'and she goes down the
great oak staircase in her floating, artistic
draperies, and despite her beauty and her
picturesquenessactuallyhas the bad taste
to murmur, " W hat a comfort there are no
men here !"
CHAPTER XIV.
nassionatef .with thetabsortion of -herself.
intct b i sly angeroua ea
"ARMS EMPTY OF HER CHILD SITE LIFTS."
The storm that threatened at sunset ful-
fils its prediction as night draws on. Laur=
aine, lying awake in her bed, hears the
howling of the wind, the fierce rush and
sweep of the rain, the far-off roar of angry
waves that dash against the dreary iron-
bound cliffa.
Once, suddenly, amid the_ noise -of the
elements.,:elle fancies she hears a strange
sound from the adjoining room, the room
that she has turned into a night nursery,
that herchild may bees near heraspossible. '
She sits up and listens ; but all is still.
Again she lies down, bat a restless, troubl-
ed feeling is on- her. Sleep seems impossi-
ble. She rises and puts on a loose white
dressing -robe, and, softly opening the door
of communication, steps into the nursery.
A night -light is burning dimly, the fire
in the grate throws a fitful blaze around.
She moves swiftly to the little lace -curtain-
ed cot, and bends over the child.
W#at is it she hears that blanches her
face with terror;. that strikes cold and chill
to,her heart?
Her arms are round the little figure ; a
cry arouses the sleeping woman in her bedbaby ;and she is young, she will have
sees her mistress, and in an instant is byplenty more. But I never knew any one so
changed as Lauraine since she married. She
her side. ais not a bit like the same girl.
Too well she knows the meaning.of that „Marraige does change people, you
hoarse, strange sound. The cold and cruel know," answers Lady Etwynde, looking
wind has done its work. In another mo- calmly back at Mrs. Douglas's petulant
meat the household is aroused: The still- face. " And I never thought Lauarine was
Om of and feet�enight lEtw ndetumult
startled the ha" Ha !" '.
Lady' y by Hippy echoes Mrs. Douglas; scorn
noise, goes straight to Lauraine's room, and fully. " What in heaven's name does she
finds it untenanted ;but there in the nurse- want? - She has everything that could
ry, with a face whit,e.vith despair,.& vague, satisfy a woman, 1 am sure, and it was quite
pitiful terror Ira file ages thdt;♦tlurn.from the a—a love -match.
little figure in her arms to the pitying faces_ "s Indeed !" says Lady Etwynde, arching
around; sits the poor young mother._, f' her delicate eyebrows. "On whose side?"
The struggles for breath, the hoarse, 'Mrs. Douglas passes by this question
horrible cry that once heard is never for- loftily. "She is of a cold nature, and
gotten, tell Lady Etwynde their -own tale. utterly different to me. I am sure if she
Someone hastaken a horse and gone fora had had to bear all the troubles and worries
doctor. The usual remedies of .hot bath at
I have put up with during my life she might
steam have been applied. They can only talk of unhappiness. Lauraine's unhappi-
wait, wait in that agony of suspense which ness must be something like a crumpled
is the cruellest suffering of life. Weep- rose -leaf, I imagine."
ing, frightened, the, little crowd fill the Lady Etwynde only looks quietly at her
room. The mother alone is dry-eyed fora moment. " I don't think you quite
and calm. Her voice from time to time understand her," sbe says " There may be
wakes the silence with all the fond and natures that cannot find happiness in posi-
tender, words the baby -,ears have grown tion, society, and—d
familiariamonds. Of course
with. Sometimes a quiver of agony it is very odd that should not do so,
passes over her face as she sees the terrible some sense of faculty must be wanting; but
suffering, as the lovely star -like eyes gaze all the same they do exist now and then "
up at her- in a wondering; imploring way, " I hope she is not going to begin one of
seeming. to beseech help'and ease from her lectures on culture," thinks Mrs. Doug -
one whit- loves him'so.. las in inward perturbation. Aloud she says:
The nightwears on.. The leaden•footed " It is veru awkward, Sir Francis not being
hours drag their way wearily towards the here. And yatehing about, like he is doing,
dawn. slowly the wind dies away in sob -perhaps he won't get the news for ever ea
bing sighs ; slowly the silver streak of long. Who has made all the arrangements?"
coming day,peints all the black and lower- '• Lauraine," answered Lady Etwynde.
ingclodde that roll stormily aside.: • "But how odd, how cold. Why does she
And then at last the doctor comes, and not have someone—the clergyman or the
the little figure is taken from its mother's doctor ?"
arms. Another hour goes on tojoie the « ' don't think it is out of a mother's
rank of those so weighted with agony snd province to . act as Lauraine is doing,"
fear. And with it goes on suspense ; with answered Lady Etwynde, composedly.
it flickers the little life in those cruel spasms ss i y only regret is that she is so calm, so
of pain ;flickers more and more faintly, self-controlled. If she could only cry !"
watched' with hope- that only.fades into " Ah !" murmurs Mrs. Douglas, plaintive -
despair. ly. . "I told you she was so cold and hard.
The dawn breaks, the brightness of the Even 04 a child she seldom cried."
new day bursts upon a waking world that "Tears are no sign of deep feeling," says
welcomes it with life. But the brightness Lady Etwynde, sternly; "far otherwise.
of the golden sun shines upon a baby face, Some of the shallowest and most selfish
that leans white and still and painless now people I have known, can cry for the least
upon its mother's breast, and something thing. Lauraine's grief is very terrible to
that is not the chillness of the morning me,.because she will not give it natural out-
strikestto his heart; - stilling its =throbs, let. I know what the child was to her."
stifling its agony of dread.. Mrs. Douglas looks at the fire, and is
Her child is hers no conger t silent. -
With getle-touelt with pityt fig words, She. feels irritated, annoyed with Laur-
her friend- strivea=t-o•'draw herdfrom that. sine. Annoyed because she lets peoplesee
room. In vain. , her unhappiness in the life chosen for her ;
She kneels beside the litt'e cot where= the annoyed because of -her coldness and indiaer-
tiny figure lies so still,, so calm now -; her a see towards iieerself. They have never had
tearless . eyes riveted on the, lovely Tittle much in common ; but since her marriage,
faces; ' eyes =so wild,'40 `passionate;--so=en- sinew-`tliwsuppression of that letter from
treating,, that none dare meet their gaze.: -_: Keith Athelstone, -Lauraine. has never been
• 'He is only asleep, lie has not=1eftijne,'. the same to her mother.
she cries ; , and weep_ing.,, they stand aside " So ridiculous notto make the best of
and know not what to da , - - • , - • . -- her' position," : she thinks, impatiently.
The* Lady`Et'wyt de;Bade them all go out, C' What on earth, is,: the use of pretending
_and'knelt-down by Lauraine's, side. The CO be a martyr"? Perhaps now that she has
tears din}ined her_eyres,'her gentlee heart"Was lost the child she 'will think more of the
wrung atthesightof this -mute, blanksuffer- father:
g..- x - =:... The father -1 -
'• ' - Moment Stretched on a pile
Tjear, do try slid realise it, , slie�wllis He is at that mo
eyed tending. "It -is hay i, terribly aid, of cushions Mr -the deck of his yacht, the
Z-- `dor im . dou 'li -s, a -." bIue-'ri h" Tin waters turned to silver in
know K _ .$u� li , ,. t isez� � Pl? g
` .lest !" 'tone " ose e't, aif d the moonrays, ^and his eyes gazing up at the
lookedblankly `.around. The hath, the liquid; brimming orbs hof the -=Lady Jean.
blan ,, a p- phernalia of brief : Tired-- thyon.- _hemur-murs. Tha
illness; th nus. streaint-.to,.through rigid never be t" _:>
t, l fi -o --stands broken ,hearted iy
the window;; i ��t,3 -tee so stili; so >�_�d3hi$ w; ��ta,
' 1 allstruek�cn et i "of t Iittle�dead child .1i
�gey stti , with;mak. the side Their � ,,�,.,, �® �,..
d . :. n_RTIIv`UED
►ojieless gain, as of s metkpig sing ---
e,
) .
e,out ot her. life:
en. a low moan -broke from her hpa.
'1i;'0O41.1.161 int die too?"
That awful slay of pain and grief rolls on.
To<=Iady Etwyndeit seems the most terrible
she has ever known. Lauraine has passed
from -one fit of unconsciousness into another.
They watch and tend her in ever-increasing
fear. -Lady Etwynde has telegraphed to
London for a physician, and also to Mrs.
Douglas and Sir Francis, though she fears
the latter will not receive her message
without considerable delay, owing to the
uncertainty of his movements.
In the darkened house they all move with
hushed steps ; and in one room, where noise
and merriment had been so rife but yester-
day, there is something lying white and
still, with flowers piled high upon its snowy
covering. Something from whose angelic.
beauty all trace of earth has passed, some-
thing in whose presence all grief is stilled,
and tears forget to flow.
Again and again does Lady Etwynde steal
into that room and gaze on the exquisite
face on which death has left no shadow of
dread, no trace of pain. It seems as if
only the mystery of sleep had sealed the
marble lids, and left that strange, soft
t ance-like calm upon the once restless
body.
The little sinless soul must be happy now,
she thinks ; but, oh ! the agony that is left,
the awful sense of loss, loneliness, despair,
through which that robbed and paralysed
motherhood must, wade . the deep
waters ere comfort is reached . . when
every sight and sound will bring back the
memory of loss, when every child's voice
will strike sharp as a knife to the aching
heart that holds the echo of but one. Alas,
alas ! for the desolation of this sad young
life, that, clinging but to one joy amidst all
the storms and sorrows and weariness
around, sees it snatched suddenly from its
hold, and looks out on a future blank and
desolate as a starless night, where all is
shrouded from sight and touch, and every
landmark obliterated.
Another day comes to replace the wretch-
edness of this. Lauraine rises white and
calm from her bed, and still dry-eyedand
tearless, takes up life with its new burden
of sorrow Arrangements, orders, all de-
volve upon her. No word has come
from Sir Francis, but a telegram announces
that her mother will be there that night.
Lady Etwynde watches her in the deepest
distress. This cold, strange, tearless grief
is worse than the most frantic sorrow. It
seems to chill all sympathies, to harden her
as it were, from all offers of consolation
When Mrs. Douglas arrives it is just the
same. Her reception of her mother is al-
most cold,_and, pleading fatigue as an ex-
cuse, she retires to her own rooms leaving
Lady Ewtynde to do the entertaining.
Mrs. Douglas, who dislikes Lady Etwynde,
grumbles openly at her daughter's strange
behavior.
" So odd, so cold, so unfeeling, as if I
could not sympathise with her loss—I, who
have lost two children of my own, And to
shut herself apart from everyone like that,
it is positively unnatural.
" It has been an awful shock to ht r," says
-Lady Etwynde gravely.
" Of course, of course ; but then such a
beside thelittle cot. She 'springs up and
Spallameheen -8ac"gelora Looking to ing
` and=:fbr. flerpnif
The been Iors of Cana -d a wamooR
e from.
cry out _for helpmeets dui of one
girls of England. Here is the P�
of them settled in the Spell*. Valley.
British Columbia. The settlers -here anre
(he says) aiutost without, eanepfrom E
lishmen, many of theta e0mjng s: Old
ilies of good social standing in the
Country Most of them have got eth neat
the rough parts of their labors,
lar -work," and are jest about to real. h t htoe
fruits of their industry.
behey tter f wts. tuts
build good houses and g
and to get married. They are unable, how-
ever, tleave their farms to go to England
to get wives, and there are no before them
and so they have no -prospect
of attaining the refinements and the com-
forts of the homes for which they leave been
so long working. In England, or: the other
hand, there are many more women than
men, employment is difficult to obtain, and
parents arer dauataghteloss -
to know what to do
with thei
"Now," adds this practical minded Brit-
ish Columbian, "it would be an unspeakable
blessing to the girls and greatly to the ad-
vantage of the settlers here if some means
could be found of bringing the two together,
so that the giris become the happy, eon,
tented wives of well to do fanners, who own
the land they till and have a stake in the
country, and mothers of healthy children,
who will have a fair chance in the struggle
for existence." He then suggests to the
Self Help Emigration Society the following
lines of action : "There are no servantsain
this country, all persons being y
equal. There are, however', scores of re;
specable families in which companions
and ' helpers' would be eagerly welcomed
and paid veryhigh wages. If .you like I
will send yon the names of clergymen and
ministers in this immediate vicinity who
will be willing to communicate to you the
addresses of a number of persons wanting
helpers, and who will guarantee the respec-
tability of such persons . The society might
then arrange for the first party -of, say,
twelve young women to be sent out ; and,
if satisfactorily settled, more might follow.
The scheme might be varied or altered in
some particulars to make it workable. For
ins tance,settl ers who obtained wives through
the society would be willing—if need be—to
pay the society the money expended in send-
ing them out. The whole" question is one
of distribution, such parties at the present
time going through to Vancouver and Vic-
toria—where there are too many women—
and never reaching the interior of the coun-
try, where there are none. I should be glad
to bear from you that the scheme is feasible,
as its operation would give a great impetus
to trade in this valley."
Extraordinary Occurrence.
The African Co.'s steamer Oil Rivers,
Capt. F. W. Clarke, with media and pas-
sengers from the West and South-West
shores of Africa, arrived in the Mersey on
Monday. The Oil Rivers brings dates from
Lagos to the 1st ult., - at which time the
details of a most extraordinary occurrence
at the French colony of Gaboon had reached
Lagos. According to these a French trader
at baboon had some transaction with four
natives inland of the place. The natives had.
got into the trader's debt and he went up
theriver to the place where the natives were
settled and demanded payment. An alter-
cation ensued, during which it is alleged
the, Frenchman drew his revolver and ;shot
one of them dead. The other three then
disarmed the man and thrashed him. The
trader returned- and complained to the
authorities of the outrage. A force of police
was sent up the river, and -the. three natives
being arrested were brought to Gaboon for
trial. At the trial the Frenchman. -com-
plained of the flogging he bad received, but
admitted having shot one of the four men.
The court decided against the natives, and
the three poor fellows were sentenced to be
shot. The execution took place on the fol-
lowing day, and was witnessed, it is said,
by some passengers from one of the English
mail steamers, who had heard of the extra-
ordinary affair, and landed especially to see
if the sentence would be carried out. The
despatch states that the three men were --
carried from their prison and tied to trees&
when a posse of 12 soldiers were told t,
oarry out the order The affair is so singu-
lar that it can scarcely be credited, but the
report received from Liverpool says thatthe
account given to the Lagos authorities was
by an eye -witness of the occurrence.
file
J!h
ti
The Months and the Flowers. _
A charming occupation for the minds
and eyes of all who love flowers is eugeest-
ed by a recent; investigation made in Can-
ada concerning the relation of floral colors
to the time of flowering. Mr. A. T. Drum-
mond announces as the result of his obser-
vations on this subject that April, May and
June, and to some extent 714; are remark-
able for the prevalence of white flowers.
In July the yellow flowers begin to pre-
vail and their reign- seems to culminate in
August, which is the month par excellence
of golden hues. In September and October
the ascendancy passes to blue and purple
blossoms.
One cannot help noticing that this march
of color among the flowers; carrying them •
from white in the spring to blue in the aut- -
umn, recalls. the supposed progression of
age among the stars as indicated by their ;
colors.
It has generally been thought, although
the fact has not yet` been finally demon-
strated, that the white Stars -ar-ethe young-
est, that the yellow. stars : represent the
mid-season of solar life, and'that the deeply
colored stars, red, purple and blue, are -
those which are fast passing into decadence, -
If this is true, then in the_heaven% also we
may say white is the color of s'pringti1me
and purple the badge of theseasoitof'decay.
But Mr. _Drumniond's observntions:on the,
flowers pertain only to those Which fioiuiati
in the provinces of Quebee'end Ontario.
There is need of additional rntrestigation of
this interesting • subject, •andd every one
who has sufficient love for the beautifuiol
jects of nature should observe and import
the results. _ ,
Enough diamonds le -104 tWir large - -teal -
000 carats and - Vitriatimy-of.',-:135%-000300.,
haw been tak, but Of: .,VapCiliaMood
fields since theatalitamaeret. in113677,:z-,
.three of whom are .80 age; 4..)